Lady Laena Velaryon
From the summit of the Kingspyre, the Gods Eye seemed as boundless as it did from the water's edge. The creeping evening fog had hidden even the faintly discernible outlines of the Isle of Faces, which always seemed to appear to those who sought it. Marissa Butterwell, the daughter of Lord Benedict who had remained with her as a lady-in-waiting, said the locals were accustomed to the elusive presence of the mysterious island where no one could land. Laena had only laughed then and said that perhaps no man could land, but a dragon cares not where it sets down; though, truth be told, she had never directed Silverwing that way since.
The careless expanse of the lake stretched out like a grey mirror reflecting the grey sky with its low, heavy clouds slowly crawling across it, gradually dissolving into the gloom that erased the horizon line and even the nearer shores. There was neither the splash of waves nor the howl of wind; even the birds had fallen silent. Yet this in no way resembled the sea by which she had grown up.
For as long as Laena could remember, the sea had always helped her find calm, offered her solace, accepted a girl's tears as if dissolving them within itself, listened to grievances and angry words, carrying them away with the swift wind somewhere further into the Gullet and the Narrow Sea. Gods, how much this sea had heard, time and again accepting the confession of one who was not permitted to saddle a dragon, though she had every right to do so! Laenor, as she knew, was the same. Father spoke with pride that thus the blood of the Velaryons, half-diluted with seawater, manifested in his children; Mother usually snorted at this and shook her head, but at the slightest provocation, she would take to the sky on Meleys.
The Gods Eye was not the sea, and never would be, even if one closed one's eyes and imagined the salty wind and the roar of the surf. However, Father was evidently right, and the sea flowed in her veins—Laena was able to master herself rather quickly and think soberly.
This, too, was considered an ancestral quality of the Velaryons. The Targaryens could afford fiery fury and dragon wrath, but the Velaryons had always been cooler-headed than their more powerful neighbors. At sea, fickle and ever-changing, one must always keep a clear mind, for any false move could turn into lost lives, missed profit, and sunken ships. Moreover, when your nearest neighbors can bring down a miniature Doom of Valyria upon the disgruntled, one learns restraint unwittingly.
Mother would sometimes erupt like the Dragonmont, screaming at Father for another drinking bout with his captains, and he would listen to it all, only to flee the castle for the shipyards again half a day later. That a sailor cannot be mended, and the sea can neither be boiled away nor bent to one's will, the Princess seemed to have learned to understand after many years, but understanding did not mean accepting. Therefore, time and again, dragon fire stirred her blood, and screams rang out at home once more. Laena did not know how to be like that, nor did she wish to learn, even when she was as angry as she was today.
It all began simply and, as happens with every misfortune, suddenly. They were both sitting at the immense table in the solar, each sorting through their letters brought by Maester Nestor, sent to assist old Norbert. Aegon was written to by his brothers, his uncle, the King's councilors, bannermen, some maesters, the Castellan of the Smoky Tower, and other lords; she heard from Rhaenyra, Bethany Strong, her parents, her grandmother, and other numerous kin from Driftmark, the Claw, and Estermont. She did not like the letter from her princess-friend: a couple of weeks ago, the maesters had confirmed that Rhaenyra was with child; her first missives had been enthusiastically joyful, but a suspicious discontent had crept into this one. Of course, pregnant women could change their mood fourteen times a day, but a vague unease would not let Laena be. She was reading the lines again, trying to understand what was the matter, when Aegon leaned back in his chair with a disappointed sigh and wearily rubbed his face with his palms.
"Has something happened?" Laena clarified. The Prince did not answer immediately.
"You remember," he began in a strangely hollow voice, "when I flew to Driftmark to formally ask for your hand, we swore to be honest with one another."
"I remember."
"When I spoke of my life in Volantis, I mentioned that I had a romance with Cousin Viserra."
"Brief, but fiery," Laena nodded.
Her then-fiancé had spoken very briefly of that part, evidently sparing her feelings. Though she herself had nothing to boast of, she had taken this confession then as a gesture of trust and soon buried it somewhere in the back of her memory: why worry about what happened several years ago, and on foreign shores at that, and would not happen again?
"Yes. Jaegaer writes that she and her mother have moved to Tyrosh. Viserra gave birth to a child, a boy. If she is to be believed, by me."
Laena blinked and stared at her husband in bewilderment.
"Four years later?"
"The child is about that age. He has white-gold hair, green eyes—she thinks this is enough, but I do not believe her. When Jaegaer and I left Volantis, she was to marry the cousin of his dead friend... But I told that story too, did I not? In any case, the child could have been born of anyone, be it Old Blood or a bed slave—Viserra was no paragon of virtue before me and surely did not become one after. Read."
With these words, he handed her the letter from the Warden of the Stepstones. The handwriting was calligraphically perfect, the Valyrian glyphs formed even lines, but the general tone was as if guilty, as if Cousin Jaegaer were apologizing for dirty news. Prodigal relatives, a possible bastard, ambitious plans, notifying the crowned brothers...
Laena's heart skipped a beat. The court surely already knew and was eagerly chewing over the new gossip—they cared not if it was true or false, but the Targaryens of Dragon's Heart had already managed to stain their name with scandal. A bastard of royal blood, a great-grandson of the Old King by both parents! After the first shock came the realization of the threat the child carried, and in its place came that very dragon wrath. She wanted to run down, saddle Silverwing, and burn everything around first, and then commit all of Tyrosh to the fire, burn out the infection root and branch, as the Conqueror had burned it out, so that no one would know of the shame, so that no one would dare throw it in her face, so that no one would threaten her with it...
She did not want to make a disgusting scene with screaming throughout the tower, as her mother often did, so Laena closed her eyes, exhaled slowly (at what point had she held her breath?), then stood up and silently walked out, still clutching the ill-fated letter in her fist. Aegon did not call out to her.
The crumpled missive was still in her hand. Laena reread it again—calmly now—but found and felt nothing new. The letter ought to be burned, she thought, but on the roof of the leaning tower, there was neither flint nor candle. In the end, the poor paper was not to blame for what was written on it, and this impotent vengeance would bring no real satisfaction.
When her inner sea overcame the raging dragon, the woman began to think.
To blame Aegon for fathering a child on his cousin some years ago on another continent was foolish. They were then acquainted exactly to the degree befitting relatives, descendants of dragon kings, and barely noticed each other at court. Of what jealousy, of what trampled duty, of what defiled marriage bed could one speak, if the very thought of such a union had occurred neither to the King, nor to her parents, nor even less to themselves? Even her mother, with all her temper, had managed to leave in the past the numerous women Father had known before their marriage and surely impregnated. Laena decided to do the same.
However, this gave no answers as to what to do now with Viserra and her bastard. If the cousin truly bore a child by Aegon, she would try to force the child on his father. If he was gotten of a slave or another Volantene, it changed nothing: the two fugitives had few ways to regain their old place at court, and the attempt to bind themselves to the King's younger brother through his bastard, real or imagined, was the best of options. Laena herself, at least, would have acted the same in their place. She would press on pity, responsibility for the honor of the house, dragon blood...
The danger lay in the fact that the latter was no empty sound for Aegon. Now he did not believe paper and ink, but what and how would he speak if—no, when!—he saw the child, his son, his firstborn? If the resemblance was as obvious as Lord Ilyleon wrote, everyone would notice it. Aegon was lame, not blind; what would he do when backed into a corner?
Of course, the father of a bastard might not acknowledge him; many, she heard, did just that—put the woman outside the castle walls with the child if not in her skirt, then in her womb, and promptly forgot them. Some, like her uncles, acknowledged their bastards indirectly: on Uncle Malentine's ship, every cabin boy resembled the captain in his own way, and Uncle Rogar's natural daughters worked as maids at High Tide. How her father cared for his bastards Laena preferred not to think; she desperately did not want to learn how her husband would do it.
Laena shivered, whether from the cold or from another thought that surfaced like a drowned man in the harbor. Why did she decide the matter would end with mere acknowledgment? A bastard could be legitimized! Viserra, or rather her mother, could ask the King for this herself, even were Aegon not the putative father of the child—King Jaehaerys's great-grandson could not grow up like some baseborn Waters.
Sailor curses taught to her by Laenor crept into her mind again. It all came down to two whores, old and young, may they both be fucked in the Seven Hells (Peklo). The accursed dragon blood complicated the situation significantly. Even were Viserra from some noble Andal house, even the daughter of one of the paramount lords, everything would be simpler: the child would be given to a wet nurse, and the disgraced daughter to the septas or the Silent Sisters. But the hell-born bitch was half Targaryen, and her son three-quarters so. If the right to the surname and family sigil were recognized for him, which could not be excluded, then the firstborn and legitimized son of the Prince would bypass her own children.
"My lady?" a voice was heard.
Laena turned from the melted parapet. For a moment, it seemed to her that Bethany Strong stood at the exit to the tower roof in a simple black-and-white maid's dress, but as soon as she blinked, the illusion vanished. It was that very servant, Lord Lyonel's bastard. Unlike her half-sister, her face was longer, and her eyes were not bright hazel, but dark, like coals. In her hands, she held a bundle of some fabric.
"Your name is Alys, is it not?" Laena clarified.
"It is, my lady."
"Have you been standing here long?"
"No, my lady. I heard from the servants that you had gone up to the roof and decided to check if you were here. You should not stand here."
"And why is that?" the woman frowned. Servants did not yet tell her where to walk in her own home.
"In autumn, the wind at the top is very unkind, my lady. I fear you will catch a chill, and that is harmful for the children."
"I am not..." Laena wanted to say she had long outgrown childhood, when she suddenly cut herself off. A simple maid could not know what she had told only the maester? Noticing her confusion, Alys allowed herself a small, indulgent smile. "How do you know that I am..."
"With child? I sense it, my lady. It has always been so with everyone. And besides, I change the linens and take your night shifts, and in all this time I have not seen blood on them."
"But why do you say 'children'?"
"Because there are two of them, my lady," the maid explained to her as if to a child and held out the bundle, which proved to be a shawl. "Take this, my lady, there is no need to freeze."
Laena recognized the pattern of intertwining fruit branches—the shawl was Myrish, though very simple. Such were sold in Spicetown and Hull, and townsfolk usually bought them as gifts for their women when they wanted to make a first impression. Laenor had told her about it once, not understanding such a whim. As befitted a Myrish shawl, it proved light and warm; only after draping it over her shoulders did Laena realize she had grown chilled.
"Thank you," she thanked her. "Two, you say?"
"Two, my lady," Alys nodded. "Ask the old servants, I have never been mistaken."
"So you are a midwife here?"
"Yes, my lady. The castle is large, the old maester lives high up; by the time one runs to him, by the time he crawls there—some managed to give birth already. And he does not like to associate with servants, our maester: they do not go to him unnecessarily."
"Prince Aegon said he accepts your help."
"He accepts it, where would he go," Alys shrugged. "I bring him herbs for medicines, he told me some things. At first, he supervised, then he began to send me to birthing mothers instead of himself, so as not to walk unnecessarily. And they go to me first themselves anyway."
"I understand."
Laena involuntarily lowered her hands to her belly, which still kept its secret. The news of twins surprised her: such things happened sometimes among the Velaryons, but she had never imagined herself in the place of cousins and other distant relatives. To confess, even after the betrothal, Laena had not thought much about having to fulfill a wife's duty and bear heirs for her spouse. She had spoken cautiously with Aegon about this, probing the ground for the future, but had achieved only an abstract admission:
"Dragon's Heart, of course, needs an heir; the castle must belong to the Targaryens."
After that, her husband had changed the subject as was his custom, but Laena managed to understand that the prospect of becoming a father frightened him. Having questioned Dennis Greyhead, she found out a few things. First, the Prince, having three silver links in his unfinished chain, was not too good at helping women in labor. Second, the circumstances of his own birth, the death of Princess Calla and Queen Aemma clearly weighed upon him. That was why, when her first doubts appeared, she did not share them with her husband, but now that suspicions were confirmed, she needed to tell him.
Then Laena remembered why she was on the roof of the Kingspyre. Aegon's bastard. A threat to their children. Her children.
Something had to be done about this. Say it now? Aegon might take it for a ploy, a cheap trick to keep him. Perhaps it should not be she who speaks, but the maester? Himself, of his own accord. In any case, there was little time for explanations; this had to be said before they left for King's Landing. No one had said a word about them going to the capital, but Laena did not doubt that if the Prince did not fly himself, the King would summon him: the appearance of a bastard of such high birth could not remain without his attention.
Frowning, Laena walked to the melted opening of the entrance to the spiral staircase leading down and began to descend. The patch of light behind flickered and vanished—Alys followed her mistress. With every new step downward, confidence grew within Laena, and a plan for the conversation took shape; by the time she stood again before the heavy double doors of her husband's solar, she already imagined what and how needed to be said.
Aegon was a good man and, according to Father, a counselor wise beyond his years and an experienced courtier who had reconciled brothers more than once, yet everyone has their vulnerable spots. The weak spot of the Prince of Dragon's Heart lay in the fact that sometimes politics ceased to interest him, and then the maester came to the fore. Like any flame, Aegon needed someone to constantly fan the smoldering embers, to remind him that a dragon, whatever his interests, must remain a dragon.
Nodding to herself, Laena entered the door thrown open by Ser Dennis. Her husband sat in an armchair by the fireplace, staring intently into the fire burning within, his legs stretched out to the very grate. The creak and slam of the door did not disturb him, nor did Laena's steps. Only when she touched his shoulder did the Prince start in surprise and raise an astonished gaze to her.
"What do you intend to do?"
"What, pray?" By the Seven Hells (Peklo), was he asleep?
"What do you intend to do with the bastard?" Laena repeated.
"If it is my bastard..."
"Let us assume the worst, it is your bastard. Will he be legitimized?"
Aegon shifted in the chair and sat up straight, as if he were a novice at an examination again. In another situation, the lady would not have missed the opportunity to tease her spouse, but now was no time for jests. Clasping his long, ring-bedecked fingers together, the Prince spoke in an utterly serious tone:
"The King can legitimize a bastard, but Viserys will never agree to it. At the Great Council, we had to refute the origins of bastards attempting to claim the Iron Throne. If one is legitimized, it creates a precedent, and a rotten one at that: if the son of a younger prince is legitimized today, who knows, perhaps tomorrow the King's natural son will have to be legitimized. So, acknowledge his right to the throne? No, that is utterly out of the question; legitimization cannot even be discussed."
Such a strict position surprised Laena somewhat. Evidently, the maester in her spouse perceived this problem as a particularly interesting legal case and was now trying to solve it. Well, so much the better; the main thing was to guide him in the right direction and ensure their own interests were observed.
"Of course, King Jaehaerys's great-grandson cannot be considered a commoner," Aegon continued to reason. "After all, dragon blood is not water, yet this does not give him the right to be considered a Targaryen. Most likely, upon being knighted, he will be granted his own surname and the right to his own sigil, like Jaegaer and Orys Baratheon."
"And for all twelve years until his first tournament, he will live comfortably in the Red Keep. Or will you invite him here along with his mother?"
Aegon stared up at her; anger and resentment burned in his green eyes (if Cousin Jaegaer was to be believed, the child had the same). Besides, even without sarcasm, she needed to know the answer to the question, and preferably before flying to the capital. Meanwhile, her husband, curling his lips contemptuously, turned back to the fire.
"On my last night in Volantis, the very last, when we brought Maerys's ashes to his mother, I offered Viserra to return to Westeros with me. I offered her a dragon, a title, my house, but she threw it all back in my face—her position among the Old Blood proved more important to her. I do not intend to humiliate myself, and I do not intend to forgive a rejected gift."
"He who sows the wind shall reap the whirlwind," Laena repeated one of her grandmother's sayings with grim satisfaction. Such could only have been born on the shores of Shipbreaker Bay, but at High Tide, they had grown fond of it too. "Well, and the boy?"
"And what of the boy?"
"What will you do with him?"
Aegon did not answer immediately:
"Nothing."
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