"The best revenge is to be unlike him who performed the injury."
Marcus Aurelius
—•—•—•—
The celebrations ended not with a bang, but with a yawn.
Seven days of music, wine, silk, and banners fluttering like bright tongues in the wind and then, as if the Red Keep itself had grown tired of pretending to be joyful, the noise folded in on itself. The torches were extinguished. The musicians dismissed. The smell of excess roasted meats faded from the corridors.
And the boys learned what silence felt like.
Valaena had not spoken to them in three days.
Not when they hovered at the entrance of her chamber. Not when they lingered outside her lessons. Not even when one of them—she refused to look at which—attempted to tie a gold ribbon carefully around her door handle as a peace offering to a dragon.
She had walked past them as though they were tapestries.
It was astonishing how quickly princes unraveled when ignored. It was remarkably effective. She had not known ignoring someone could feel so powerful.
At first, they had protested.
"You are being ridiculous," Aerion had insisted, affronted and pink-cheeked as he planted himself in her path with all the indignation of a boy who had never been dismissed in his life.
She had blinked at him, serene as still water, and walked around him without a word.
They had tried apologies next. Explanations. Justifications.
"We were protecting you," Daeron had said quietly, his sandy hair falling into his face the way it always did when he couldn't be bothered to brush it back when other things preoccupied his mind.
"We thought it best," Valarr had added, earnest and sincere, his eyes—so like his father's—one indigo, one dark brown.
"We are your brothers," Aerion had finished, as if this were an argument that could not be refuted.
Yes, she knew that. And they were fools. Not cruel fools. Not malicious. Just children who thought loyalty meant action, who believed that shouting a secret made it somehow more true.
They had gone to the small council without her consent. Without her permission. About her egg.
She had stood in that chamber days ago, small and pale between towering carved dragons, her hands folded neatly in front of her skirts while her egg—warm, alive, pulsing with a heartbeat that matched her own—had rested back inside her arms. The council had smiled. Too much.
And when they were dismissed, she had felt it.
A shift. Though her physical body was five, she understood with the weary wisdom of someone who had died once and remembered enough to fear dying again.
Dragons were not toys. Dragons were inheritance. Power. Succession. Weapons in a game she had not asked to play.
And her brothers—sweet, foolish boys—had delivered that knowledge like an offering to men who hungered for such things.
She did not blame the boys entirely. She wasn't even truly angry. She was going to reveal the egg's awakening sooner or later, only on her terms, when she was ready, when she had some measure of control over what came next. She was honestly just delaying the inevitable, hoarding these last quiet moments like a dragon hoarding gold.
Was it fear? Was it cowardice?
Both. It was both.
Susan Bones had already died once, burned by green light and war and the kind of terror that stole your breath before it stole your life. And she wasn't a Gryffindor. She wasn't brave enough or courageous enough to face the unknown especially in a different world where the rules were written in blood and fire.
Maybe it is why she avoided practicing her magical powers. Maybe it is why she hid herself behind the mask of a pretty, docile princess.
Now it seems, she can't run away from it anymore.
The boys could not have known the weight of what they placed on the table when they spoke. They did not understand that information was power. And power, once spoken aloud in the wrong room, could not be taken back.
But that was precisely why she must teach them.
A dragon did not roar at every slight. It watched. It waited. And it reminded others that it had teeth.
So she ignored them.
It was, she decided, brilliant.
They hovered like uncertain courtiers outside her chamber door now, whispering urgently. She could hear them through the wood, their voices carrying the particular pitch of children who were beginning to realize that their actions had consequences.
"She cannot be angry still."
"She is."
"She is Valaena."
That last one pleased her immensely. It was Daeron, she thought, though she couldn't be certain. There was something almost reverent and knowing in the way he said her name.
She smiled and snorted into her pillow so they would not hear.
>~>~>~>~>~>
Without them barging into her rooms uninvited, the days grew... quiet. Lonely, perhaps. But useful.
She sat cross-legged before the hearth, her egg resting carefully in her lap. Its shell gleamed white with veins of gold and ice-blue curling across the surface like frozen lightning, like a captured dawn.
She traced one of those pale streaks gently, feeling the warmth beneath her fingertips, the faint thrum of life that responded to her touch.
"You see?" she murmured. "They meant well. But meaning well is not the same as being wise."
The egg did not answer. It pulsed faintly with warmth against her palms, a steady rhythm like a second heartbeat, like promise. The warmth steadied her.
She raised her hand, palm up, fingers open wide.
"Lumos."
Nothing.
She frowned. She could feel it. The magic. Like a muscle she had once known how to flex but now could not fully command, like trying to speak a language she'd half-forgotten.
She tried again, softer, focusing on the image of light, of floating candles in the Great Hall, of the warm glow of the Hufflepuff common room.
"Lumos."
A small spark flickered at her fingertip. Barely visible. Like a firefly struggling against wind, like a star trying to be born.
It vanished.
She exhaled slowly. She sagged back onto her hands, heart racing as though she had run a mile, her small chest heaving with the effort.
Wandless magic was different. Wilder. Less obedient. Back then—before—she had never been extraordinary without a wand. With a wand, she was competent, yes. Hardworking, certainly. But not extraordinary.
Now it felt like trying to scoop water with bare fingers, like trying to weave fog into rope.
"Alohomora," she whispered next, turning her attention to the small traveling chest across the room where she kept her few private treasures.
The latch trembled.
Once.
Then stilled.
She grinned despite herself. Weak. Pathetically weak. But it was working. The magic was there, sleeping beneath her skin, waiting to be awakened.
She placed her palm back over the egg, feeling its warmth seep into her skin, feeling the connection between them like a thread of silver light.
"I will be stronger," she promised quietly. "For my family. For myself. For you."
If they ever tried to take her egg from her—if politics grew sharper than smiles, if the council decided that a princess was too young to hold such power—she would not be helpless. She would not be only a princess, only a pretty thing to be moved about like a chess piece.
She would be a witch.
>~>~>~>~>~>
On the second day of her silence, her father visited.
He did not knock. He never did. Prince Maekar Targaryen did not knock for anyone, except for the King. He simply appeared in doorways like a storm cloud that had decided to be inconvenient.
Valaena was sitting by the window when he entered, her legs swinging beneath the stone seat, her egg cradled carefully in her lap. She looked up, and her face transformed.
"Father!"
She scrambled down from the window seat, nearly tripping over her skirts in her haste, and ran to him with all the unselfconscious joy of a child who had not yet learned to be proper. She crashed into his legs, wrapping her small arms around him as far as they would go, pressing her face against the rough wool of his tunic.
Maekar stiffened. For a moment, he simply stood there, arms half-raised, looking down at the small blonde head attached to his leg with the expression of a man who had been ambushed by affection.
"Valaena," he said gruffly. "What is this?"
"I missed you," she mumbled into his tunic, her voice muffled but sincere. "You've been busy with the council and I haven't seen you and I thought you might be angry too but you're not angry are you Father?"
She looked up at him with her golden eyes wide and hopeful, and something in Maekar's expression cracked. He let out a breath that might have been a sigh, and his hand came down to rest on her head, his fingers threading through her pale hair with surprising gentleness.
"I am not angry," he said, his voice softer than she'd ever heard it. "Though perhaps I should be. Your brothers are miserable, you know."
"That is unfortunate," she replied, but she was smiling as she said it, her cheek still pressed against him.
Maekar's mouth twitched. He extracted her from his legs and crouched down so they were eye to eye, his large hands settling on her shoulders.
"Unfortunate," he repeated. "Iksis bona mirre emā naejot ivestragon? Three days of silence and 'unfortunate' is your verdict?"
"Skoros kessa emā nyke gaomagon, Kepa?" she asked, tilting her head. "That I forgive them? I will. In time."
"In time," he echoed, one eyebrow arching. "How very... calculated of you."
"I learned from the best."
That almost-smile again, there and gone like lightning. He straightened, crossing his arms over his chest, looking down at her with something like pride warring with exasperation. "Your mother thinks you're being cruel."
"My mother thinks I'm being wise."
"Your mother thinks you're being both." He paused.
"She also thinks you get your stubbornness from me."
"Issa drēje."
Maekar studied her for a long moment, his eyes sharp but not unkind. Then he reached into the folds of his tunic and produced something that made Valaena's breath catch.
A dragon egg.
Its shell was the color of old blood and sunset, deep crimson veined with darker threads like dried wine. It was stone and waiting.
Valaena's eyes went wide. "Father! Is that—?"
"Take it," Maekar said, thrusting it toward her with all the grace of a man handing off a hot potato.
He coughed. "For safekeeping," he said, as though discussing weather.
She stared at him.
"Father."
He avoided her gaze.
"You're giving it to me?"
"I am not giving it to you," he corrected sharply. "You are… holding it. Temporarily."
She took the egg carefully, cradling it against her chest.
"I haven't the patience for... hope. Never did." Maekar stated, already turning toward the door with suspicious haste.
"The thing's been cluttering up my solar for eight and twenty years, gathering dust and attracting maesters who want to 'study' it." He made the word sound like a curse. "You're the only one with a warm egg these days. Might as well add another to your collection."
"But—"
"Don't make it into something it's not," he said gruffly, his back to her. "I will take it back someday. For now, do as you will."
Valaena stared at his retreating figure, then down at the red egg in her arms, then back at her father. A slow smile spread across her face.
"Of course, Father," she agreed solemnly, though her eyes were dancing. "Thank you for the... clutter."
He turned just enough to glare at her, but there was no heat in it. "Impudent child," he muttered, though it sounded almost fond.
Before her father could take his leave—this time, there was a knock—two sharp raps followed by the entrance of Uncle Baelor, who moved with far lighter steps than her father, though his presence filled a room just as easily. He wore his usual easy smile, but there were shadows beneath his heterochromatic eyes, evidence of too many late nights at the small council table.
"Kepa!" Valaena brightened, scrambling up from where she'd been examining her father's egg. She ran to him just as she had to her father, though this time she remembered to stop before impact, catching his hand instead of his legs.
"You're here! I thought you were too busy being important to visit."
Baelor laughed, the sound warm and genuine, and scooped her up with one arm as if she weighed nothing at all. "Never too busy for you, Valaena."
It was then that Maekar, who stood frozen in the doorway, addressed his brother.
"Brother," he said, his voice carrying sudden suspicion. "What are you doing here?"
Baelor turned to face him gracefully, inclining his head to his brother. "The same thing you were doing, I suspect." He looked between them, then at the egg in Valaena's arms, smiling faintly.
"Am I interrupting a negotiation?"
"No," Maekar said at once.
"Yes," Valaena said at the same time.
Baelor chuckled. "I see I've arrived at the perfect moment."
Maekar moved aside, crossing his arms once more, rolling his eyes. "You may speak."
"I come bearing news of a certain boy who has been moping about the training yard like a kicked dog."
Valaena's expression shifted—surprise, then a tiny guilt. "Valarr?"
"The very same." Baelor settled her back down. "He believes you are displeased with him."
"He said," Baelor continued, amused warmth flickering in his eyes, "that you no longer sit beside him at supper. Nor ask about his training. Nor scold him when he boasts."
She blinked. "He likes when I scold him?"
Maekar snorted quietly from the doorway.
"He finds it reassuring," Baelor said solemnly. "Boys are strange, I'll grant you. But he loves you. They all do."
Valaena was quiet for a moment. "I'm not truly angry, Uncle. I'm just... playing a prank on them. Teaching them a lesson. I plan to forgive them soon."
"Do you, now?" Baelor's smile softened. "Well, I can't fault our dear princess for that. You are allowed that much."
He paused, studying her face. "But don't let them suffer too long, Valaena. Guilt is a heavy weight for children to carry."
"I won't," she promised. "Tomorrow, perhaps. Or the day after."
Baelor chuckled. "Your father's daughter indeed."
Then, with a sigh almost theatrical, Baelor too reached within his robes.
"However," he added lightly, "since your father has begun distributing treasures without ceremony..."
He placed a second egg beside the red one.
Dark blue.
Deep as midnight waters, with faint silver streaks spiraling across its shell.
"For safekeeping," Baelor said calmly. "I trust you more than the hatchery."
Maekar glanced at him sharply. "You are copying me."
"I am improving upon you," Baelor replied without missing a beat.
Valaena stared at both eggs, overwhelmed. "You don't have to—"
"We know," Baelor said gently.
"But we wish to," Maekar added, and there was something almost soft in his voice.
Silence wrapped around them, warm and familiar.
Two eggs now rested before her.
She touched each one.
"I will keep them safe," she whispered.
Maekar looked almost proud.
Baelor looked entirely so.
Then her father cleared his throat, suddenly businesslike again. "Well. That's settled. Baelor, the council meets in an hour. We should go."
"Of course," Baelor agreed, straightening. But as he turned to leave, he winked at Valaena—a quick, conspiratorial gesture that made her grin.
Maekar paused at the door, looking back at her. For a moment, his expression was unreadable. Then: "Your brothers are idiots, Valaena. But they're loyal idiots. Don't break them too badly."
And then they were gone.
>~>~>~>~>~>
The boys attempted to deliver theirs as well, flushed with determination and clutching their own eggs like offerings to an angry goddess.
Valaena did not allow them entry.
She heard them through the door—Aerion's loud protests, Valarr's pleading, Daeron's quiet attempts at reason. She heard the guards inform them that "the princess is not receiving visitors—or princes," and she heard the silence that followed, heavy with wounded pride and confusion.
The look on their faces when they were turned away nearly broke her composure.
Nearly.
It was for their own good. They must learn restraint. That not all information was meant for rooms filled with old men. That secrets were currency, and they had spent hers without asking.
She would forgive them tomorrow.
She had decided.
After one more day.
Just to ensure the lesson had settled properly.
>~>~>~>~>~>
Dyanna came on the fourth day, when the afternoon light was turning gold and the Red Keep was settling into its evening routine.
Valaena was singing when her mother entered. Not a Dayne lullaby, not the songs of Westeros with their blood and glory and tragic endings. She was singing something else, something from Before, from a life where music didn't require a harp and where songs could be silly and sweet without needing to mean anything at all. She enjoyed muggle music then.
"Lavender's blue, dilly dilly, lavender's green," she sang softly, her voice high and clear, rocking her baby brother Aemon in her arms. The babe stared up at her with wide lavender eyes, his small hands clutching at her hair.
"When I am queen, dilly dilly, you shall be king."
Dyanna paused in the doorway, listening, her dark hair loose around her shoulders, her violet eyes—so like Maekar's, so like all her children's but Valaena's was soft with something like wonder.
"Who told you so, dilly, dilly
Who told you so?
'Twas mine own heart, dilly, dilly
That told me so
Call up your men, dilly dilly, set them to work."
Valaena continued, not noticing her mother, lost in the simple melody.
"Some to the plough, dilly dilly, some to the fork
Some to make hay, dilly dilly, some to reap corn
While you and I, dilly dilly, keep ourselves war
Roses are red, dilly dilly, Voilets are blue
Because you love me, dilly dilly, I will love you
Let the birds sing, dilly dilly, And the lambs play
We shall be safe, dilly dilly, Out of harm's way…"
"What is that song?" Dyanna asked gently.
Valaena started, nearly dropping Aemon. "Mother! I didn't hear you come in."
"Clearly, dear." Dyanna crossed the room and settled onto the bed beside her, reaching out to stroke Aemon's fine silver hair. "It's beautiful. I've never heard it before."
Valaena felt heat rise to her cheeks. "I... I made it up."
"Did you, now? The same with your other 'creations', I take it?" Dyanna's smile was knowing but not unkind. "You're full of surprises, my little star."
"It's just... the songs here are all so sad. Or they're about battles. Or people dying." Valaena shifted Aemon to her other arm, grateful for something to do with her hands. Her 'creations' or inventions are just things she stole from her life as Susan. "I wanted something happy. Something simple."
"Lavender's blue," Dyanna repeated, testing the words. "It's a strange image. Lavender is purple, isn't it?"
"In the song, it can be whatever color you want it to be."
Dyanna laughed, a warm sound like honey and home. "I see. A very practical song, then."
She reached out and tucked a strand of Valaena's pale hair behind her ear. "You cannot ignore them forever."
"I can," Valaena replied, but there was less certainty in it now.
"You can," Dyanna agreed. "But should you?" She was quiet for a moment, her hand resting on Valaena's shoulder, warm and steady. "You guide them as though you are eldest."
Valaena considered that. "I am."
In the ways that mattered.
Dyanna studied her with that look mothers had—one that seemed to see too much and choose not to ask. "The realm shifts," she said quietly. "Men grow nervous when power changes shape."
Valaena's hand rested over her first egg, where it sat on her bedside table. "I did not ask to change its shape."
"No," her mother agreed. "But you were born with it."
They sat in companionable quiet for a moment, Aemon cooing softly between them. Valaena knows Dyanna has seen enough strange things happening around her only daughter. But she never questioned Valaena about it. And appreciated it because if her mother ever asked about it, she wouldn't know what to say.
Dyanna pulled her and kissed her forehead. "Teach them the lesson. Make them understand. But don't let them think you've stopped loving them. That kind of wound doesn't heal cleanly."
Valaena leaned into her mother's embrace, feeling the warmth and safety of it, the unconditional love that asked nothing in return. "I was going to forgive them tomorrow," she admitted.
"Were you?"
"I wanted them to suffer a little longer."
Dyanna laughed, the sound warm and full of love. She stood, smoothing her skirts. "Sing that song again. The one about lavender. I like it as much as Aemon likes it."
Dyanna pressed one kiss to Aemon's head and moved toward the door. "Forgive them when you're ready, my star. But remember—forgiveness isn't weakness. It's choosing to value the future more than the past."
She left, and Valaena was alone with her brother and her eggs and her thoughts.
She sang again, softer this time, for Aemon's ears alone.
"Lavender's blue, dilly dilly, lavender's green.
When I am king, dilly dilly, you shall be queen."
Aemon gurgled, his small hand patting her cheek, and Valaena felt something loosen in her chest.
Tonight.
She would forgive them tonight.
>~>~>~>~>~>~>
That night, after she had sung Aemon to sleep and handed him off to a nursemaid with instructions to wake her if he fussed, Valaena descended to the great hall for supper. Uncle Baelor's family ate their supper early so they wouldn't be joining them that evening.
The long table was laden with the usual evening fare—roasted capon, stewed apples, bread still warm from the ovens. Her father sat at his customary place, her mother beside him, and her brothers arranged according to age along the bench. Valaena took her seat between Dyanna and Daeron, folding her hands in her lap as a servant filled her cup with lemon water she requested.
She felt their eyes on her immediately.
Aerion, across the table, was staring with the subtlety of a hammer. His silver-gold brows were drawn together in a fierce scowl that might have been intimidating if he weren't six and currently wearing a smear of gravy on his chin. He kicked his legs against the bench in a restless rhythm, his gaze never leaving her face.
Daeron, beside her, was more subtle—but only just.
He kept glancing at her from beneath his lashes, his head tilted at an angle that suggested he was trying to read something in her expression. Every few bites, he would pause, fork halfway to his mouth, and stare.
Even Aemon's empty high wooden chair—another one of her 'inventions'—seemed to accuse her, though that was probably her imagination.
Valaena ate her supper with deliberate calm, ignoring them completely. She commented on the blue dress her mother had made. She asked her father about their soon return to Summerhall in the coming moon. She accepted a second helping of stewed apples and pronounced them delicious.
Not once did she look at her brothers.
"Valaena," Aerion said finally, his voice carrying that particular whine of a child who has been ignored too long. "Valaena, are you—"
"Pass the salt, please, Mother?" Valaena asked, her voice light and pleasant.
Dyanna handed her the salt cellar, her lips twitching in a way that suggested she was enjoying this far more than she should. Maekar, at the head of the table, made a sound that might have been a cough or might have been suppressed laughter.
Aerion's face turned an interesting shade of red.
Valaena serenely salted her apples.
After supper, as the servants cleared the plates and her parents withdrew to their solar, Valaena stood and stretched with theatrical casualness. She made sure her voice carried clearly as she announced to the room at large: "I believe I shall take a walk in the courtyard. The evening air is quite pleasant."
She did not look at her brothers.
She did not need to.
>~>~>~>~>~>
The courtyard was quiet at this hour, the day's bustle faded to a few lingering servants and the occasional guards at their station and those making their rounds. Torches flickered along the walls, casting long shadows across the cobblestones. Above, the sky was deepening from violet to indigo, the first stars beginning to prick through the darkness.
Valaena walked slowly, her small hand trailing along the rough stone of the inner wall, her ears tuned for footsteps behind her.
They came sooner than she expected.
"Valaena! Sister!" Aerion's voice, loud and urgent and utterly lacking in stealth. "Wait!"
She did not wait. She continued walking, her pace unhurried, her eyes fixed on the fountain ahead where water spilled from a stone dragon's mouth into a shallow basin.
Footsteps pounded behind her—Aerion's heavy tread, Daeron's steady step, and then a third set, more hesitant. Valarr. Good. They had recruited their cousin.
"Valaena, please!" That was Daeron, his voice carrying a note of genuine pleading that made something in her chest tighten. "We're sorry!"
She stopped at the fountain and turned.
The three boys stood in a ragged line, slightly out of breath. Aerion's face was flushed from running, his hair sticking up in wild directions. Daeron looked more composed, but his eyes were wide and earnest. Valarr, at the end, was shifting his weight from foot to foot, a section of his white hair shone stark against the rest of his dark hair, falling into his eyes.
"Sorry for what?" Valaena asked, her voice cool.
"For telling the council about your egg," Daeron said quickly. "We shouldn't have done that."
"We were excited, it was important for them to know," Aerion added, his chin lifting in a gesture that was half-defiance, half-desperation. "We didn't think—"
"No," Valaena agreed. "You didn't."
She turned back to the fountain, letting the silence stretch between them. The water trickled musically into the basin, a soothing counterpoint to the tension humming in the air.
She had heard the whispers.
She caught only fragments, but they were enough.
"—the princess's egg, they say it's not stone any longer—"
"From the beginning—golden eyes, marked by the gods—"
"—dragons returning, can you imagine—"
The news had spread faster than she'd feared. Of course it had. Servants talked. Guards talked. The small council itself was a sieve of information, each member with their own network of spies and informants.
She walked on, her brothers trailing behind her like ducklings, and everywhere she looked she saw the evidence of it. A guard who stared too long. A kitchen maid who crossed herself as Valaena passed, her eyes wide with something that might have been awe or might have been fear. A lordling she didn't recognize, leaning against a pillar, watching her with calculating interest, searching for a sign.
The whispers followed her like ghosts.
"—blessing from the Seven, surely—"
"—or a curse, mark my words—"
"—the Blackfyres are still out there, you know, they'd kill for a dragon—"
Valaena kept her chin high, but inside she was weary. So weary. She had known, intellectually, that the secret would not keep. But some foolish part of her—the Susan part, perhaps, still clinging to the notion that magic could be private and precious—had hoped.
Surely, she told herself, most people would choose not to believe it. Her egg hadn't even hatched. It was only warm. That alone should not be enough to draw so much attention, to spark so many rumors.
But she was wrong, and some part of her knew it.
Dragons were not ordinary things. Even the possibility of a dragon was enough to shift the balance of power, to make people afraid or hopeful or greedy. And after the recent Blackfyre rebellion, the realm was already on edge. Any news of Targaryen power, any hint that the dragons might return, would be seized upon and examined and twisted into a hundred different shapes.
She reached the far end of the courtyard, where a small garden struggled against the encroaching darkness, and finally stopped.
The boys caught up to her, breathing hard. Valarr stepped forward, grabbing her hands hurriedly, as though she would turn back and leave them once more.
"Valaena," he said, his voice a bit high but serious. "We're really sorry. We didn't mean to hurt your feelings. Don't ignore us anymore, okay?"
She turned to look him in the eyes. She felt his hands tighten around hers. Then she looked towards her brothers. Three boys all staring at her with varying degrees of anxiety and hope.
"You want my forgiveness?" she asked.
They nodded eagerly, like puppies hoping for a treat.
She was about to forgive them and make up but then suddenly, a wicked thought came through her head. Both mischievous and petty.
"Very well," Valaena said, her voice imperious, trying to hide a growing sly smile.
She pointed to the ground before her. "You will carry me to the kitchens. Together. Using your arms as my chair."
They blinked at her.
"What?" Aerion exclaimed blankly, looking like someone had just knocked him over the head.
"You heard me," Valaena said, folding her arms.
"You will link your arms together, forming a seat, and you will carry me all the way to the kitchens. There, you will politely request lemon cakes for me. And if you do this without complaint, I will consider forgiving you."
Silence reigned for a few seconds as the boys exchanged glances.
"That is..." Valarr began.
"Humiliating?" Aerion finished, his face shocked with disbelief at her audacity.
"Educational," Valaena corrected. "You will learn what it means to serve someone you have wronged. And perhaps, while you are carrying me, you will have time to reflect on the importance of asking for permission and keeping secrets."
Daeron was the first to move. He stepped forward, clapped his hands together, his expression resigned but willing. "Very well."
Aerion and Valarr followed, muttering under their breaths. They arranged themselves, agruing with each other as they failed to get it right, over and over again until they finally got it the correct way as she had instructed, linking arms to form a makeshift seat. Valaena climbed aboard with all the dignity of a queen mounting her palanquin, settling herself across their joined arms.
"Off we go," she commanded. Her smile pronounced and wide.
They began to walk.
It was, Valaena had to admit, rather amusing.
The three boys staggered beneath her weight, their faces screwed up in concentration, their steps uneven and uncoordinated. Aerion kept trying to adjust his grip, which made the whole structure wobble. Valarr was breathing hard within minutes, his thin arms trembling. Only Daeron seemed to have any sense of balance as he tried to keep them moving in a straight line.
They attracted attention immediately.
A guard near the gate did a double-take, his mouth falling open. A passing servant stopped mid-step, her basket of linens forgotten as she stared. Somewhere above them, Valaena heard a snort of laughter from a window.
By the time they reached the middle of the courtyard, they had acquired an audience. Servants paused in their work to watch, snickering behind their hands. Guards leaned on their spears, grinning. Even a few courtiers had emerged from the shadows, drawn by the spectacle with smiles on their faces.
They almost tilted and collapsed to the hard ground so many times that Daeron had to keep reminding the boys to stay still.
"Steady," Daeron snapped to the others. "Don't drop her!"
"What do you think I've been doing?! I'm trying," Aerion hissed back. "She's heavier than—Ow!"
Aerion cringed his face as their cousin stepped on his foot to shut him up.
"Aerion is tired after a long day! You are as light as a feather, Valaena! Don't mind him. We shall rob the royal kitchens of all their desserts and feed them to you! I worry for your health!" Valarr said quickly with a voice too loud, giving Aerion his most vicious glare in warning.
Her brother rolled his eyes in disgust. While in the back, Daeron tilted his head up to the heavens and muttered prayers for patience he didn't have.
Valaena snorted and 'hmphed' haughty.
It was then that they encountered Jena Dondarrion.
The young woman—Prince Baelor's wife and Valarr's mother, already rounding with a second pregnancy—was walking with Aelinor Penrose, the new bride of Uncle Aerys. The two women stopped as the bizarre procession approached, their eyes widening in identical expressions of astonishment.
"Well," Jena said, one hand going to her belly in a gesture that was becoming habitual. "I have seen many strange things in this castle, but this may be the strangest."
"Princess Valaena," Aelinor said, her voice carrying a hint of laughter. "Are you in need of assistance?"
"Not at all, Aunt," Valaena replied with perfect composure, as if being carried through the castle by three struggling boys was the most natural thing in the world.
"My brothers and cousin are simply... helping me reach the kitchens."
"Helping," Jena repeated, her lips twitching. "Is that what they're calling it?"
"They were very eager to assist," Valaena said.
"Weren't you, brothers?"
"Yes," they chorused, though their strained smiles suggested otherwise.
Aelinor laughed, a bright sound that seemed to echo off the stones. "I see. Well, carry on then. And do save some lemon cakes for the rest of us."
"I make no promises," Valaena said gravely, and the two women dissolved into chuckles as the procession staggered onward.
The kitchens were in an uproar by the time they arrived.
Word had apparently traveled faster than they had, and the entire staff seemed to be waiting for them. Cooks paused in their chopping. Scullery maids peeked from behind barrels. Even the head cook, a formidable woman named Olenna who had served three kings, emerged from her private domain to witness the spectacle.
"My brothers have a request." Valaena announced, as the boys finally set her down with mutual groans of relief.
She turned to look at Aerion, Daeron, and Valarr, her eyebrows raised in expectation.
The boys exchanged glances. Aerion opened his mouth, probably to demand the cakes in his usual imperious manner, but Daeron elbowed him sharply.
"Please," Daeron said, stepping forward. "If it wouldn't be too much trouble, we would be grateful for some lemon cakes. For our dear sister."
Olenna's stern expression softened almost imperceptibly from her surprise. "Of course, my princes'. For you, and for the little princess."
She turned to one of the kitchen maids. "Fetch the lemon cakes. And mind you, give them the fresh ones, not this morning's."
As the maid hurried off, Valaena felt a tug at her sleeve. She looked behind her to find one of the younger scullery girls—perhaps seven or eight years old—staring at her with wide eyes.
"Is it true, my princess?" the girl whispered. "About… about your egg?"
Valaena heard a gasp and another scullery girl appeared as she pulled the girl in front of her back away.
"Sara! Stop—where are your manners?! We are sorry Princess, we beg your pardon. Sara is new here—"
Valaena waved her off kindly, "it's alright, I don't mind."
She hesitated. "It's warm," she said quietly.
"It is not stone any longer."
The girl's eyes grew even wider. She looked like she wanted to ask more but was unable to.
The lemon cakes arrived, arranged on a silver platter that seemed far too fine for the kitchens. Valaena accepted one and bit into it, savoring the sharp sweetness of the lemon against the buttery pastry.
It was then that she remembered.
Oatmeal cookies.
Susan Bones had loved oatmeal cookies—the chewy kind, with cinnamon and raisins and just a hint of brown sugar. Her aunt had made them for her amidst her busy schedule, back when summers were long and the world was simple.
She gets this weird sense of hollowness inside her when she tries to remember her name.
Her aunt's. Her mum's. Her dad's.
She can't remember their names at all.
Why? Why is that? Why can she recall her own name, her friends, her classmates and professors' names but theirs?
Why are her memories of them mostly missing and fuzzy? Like something was blocking it from her mind.
Why can she remember bits of facts about them, but not their actual appearance, voice, or name?
She had not thought of them in years. She tried to avoid it. But now, standing in the kitchens of the Red Keep with a lemon cake in her hand and her brothers watching her with hopeful eyes, the thought came rushing back.
"Do you have a piece of parchment?" she asked Olenna. "And a quill?"
The cook frowned but gestured to one of the maids, who hurried outside the kitchen and returned minutes later to produce both. Valaena took them and moved to a nearby table, climbing onto a stool so she could write properly.
She wrote carefully, translating the recipe from her memory into terms the cooks would understand. Oats. Butter. Brown sugar. Cinnamon. Raisins. She described the method as best she could—creaming the butter and sugar, mixing the dry ingredients, baking until golden.
When she finished, she handed the parchment to Olenna. "Could you make these?" she asked. "From time to time? I... I want to eat them."
Olenna read the recipe, her eyebrows rising higher with each line. "Oatmeal... cookies?" she said, as if the words were foreign. "I've never heard of such a thing."
"They're from... far away," Valaena said.
The cook studied her for a long moment, then folded the parchment carefully and tucked it into her apron. "I'll try, little princess. No promises. But I'll try."
"Thank you," Valaena smiled gratefully.
She turned back to her brothers, who were still standing awkwardly near the door, their lemon cakes untouched.
"Well," she said. "I suppose you've earned it."
"Earned what?" Aerion asked suspiciously.
"My forgiveness."
She set down her lemon cake and crossed to them, opening her arms. "Come here. All of you."
They hesitated, then stepped forward. Valaena hugged each of them in turn—Daeron first, who hugged back with surprising fierceness; then Valarr, who went stiff as a board before relaxing slightly and hugging her back more firmly; and finally Aerion, who squirmed and complained but didn't pull away.
"There," she said, stepping back. "You're forgiven. But don't ever do that again."
"We won't," Daeron promised.
"We might," Aerion admitted, which was at least honest.
Valarr said nothing, but his ears were red, and he wouldn't meet her eyes.
As they made their way back through the castle, the boys walking close beside her like ducklings following their mother, Valaena felt a strange contentment. The lesson had been taught. The forgiveness had been given. And perhaps, just perhaps, they had all learned something.
"Sister?" Aerion said, as they reached the corridor that led to their respective chambers.
"Yes?"
"Will you... will you take our eggs too? For safekeeping?"
That word again. Safekeeping. Even though the implications were clear: keep the eggs and warm them the same way.
They don't know how exactly Valaena revived her own dragon egg, but they trust her to do the exact same to theirs.
She stopped and turned to look at him. Daeron and Valarr had stopped as well, their expressions hopeful.
"Please," Valarr added. "If yours is warm... maybe you could wake ours too."
Valaena considered them for a long moment. Three boys, each clutching at hope, each wanting to believe that they too might have a dragon someday.
"I'll think about it," she said finally. "As I watch your behavior."
"That's not a yes," Aerion complained.
"It's not a no either," Valaena replied. "Goodnight, brothers. Goodnight, Val."
She turned and walked toward her chamber, leaving them standing in the corridor.
Later, when the castle was quiet and Valaena was preparing for bed, there was a soft knock at her door.
She opened it to find Daeron standing in the corridor, his sandy hair disheveled, his eyes unusually serious.
"Brother?" she asked. "Is something wrong?"
He shook his head. "Can I come in? Just for a moment?"
She stepped aside, letting him enter. He moved to the window, staring out at the night sky.
"I've been having a dream," he said quietly. "The same dream. For the past few days. Over and over."
"Tell me," she said.
He turned to look at her, his eyes dark and distant. "I see a red star falling from the sky. It strikes the earth, and the ground shakes. The sea rises up like a wall, and then—" He paused, swallowing.
"Then I see a dragon. Not like the ones in the tapestries. This one is gold. Pure gold. It soars through the sky above the fallen star, and its wings block out the sun."
Valaena stared at him. "A gold dragon?"
"Yes." Daeron's voice was barely a whisper. "And in the dream, I know—I don't know how, but I know—that everything is about to change. That the world will never be the same after that star falls."
He looked at her, his eyes suddenly sharp and focused. "I don't know what it means, Valaena. But I thought you should know."
Valaena was silent for a long moment, her mind racing. A red falling star. A gold dragon. Change.
She thought of her own dreams, the fragments of memory that came to her in sleep. Hogwarts. The war. Green light and falling bodies.
She thought of her egg, warm and alive beneath her hands.
"Thank you for telling me," she said finally.
He shrugged and moved toward the door, then paused. "Valaena?"
"Yes?"
"Do you think... do you think your dragon will be gold?"
She looked at her egg, sitting on her bedside table, its shell gleamed in pure white and a hint of gold and ice-blue in the candlelight.
"I don't know," she admitted. "But I suppose we'll find out."