Chapter Text
The morning air was rich with the scent of jasmine and damp earth, a soft, almost haunting fragrance that drifted in through the open windows of Princess Gael’s chamber. The palace gardens stretched beneath her like a tapestry of silken greens and dark shadows, the faint rustle of leaves accompanying the distant murmur of the city beyond the ancient stone walls. The soft chirping of birds and the gentle rustling of leaves added a serene soundtrack to her thoughts. Yet, as always, the peace felt distant to her.
The world beyond the palace walls seemed so far removed from her reality, and the thoughts that had been gnawing at her mind for days, no, for weeks, clung to her, refusing to be shaken. The dreams were more persistent than ever, coming in waves of vivid color and sound, wrapping themselves around her consciousness even in the waking world. They had begun as fleeting glimpses, harmless and vague, but now they felt more like a warning, something dark and ominous that lurked just beyond the edge of her understanding.
Gael's eyes fluttered shut for a moment, and her confusion over the vague dreams that had persistently shown themselves night after night only heightened her anxiety. Her thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock on her door. Gael turned around and saw one of her mother’s ladies-in-waiting, Lady Elira, standing in the doorway.
"Your Highness," Elira said, her voice soft but firm. "The Queen wishes for you to break your fast with the King. They are waiting in His Grace's solar."
Gael blinked, schooling her face to a neutral expression at the mention of her mother. "Thank you, Lady Elira. I will be there shortly."
She straightened her back, smoothing the fabric of her gown as she slowly stood up from her chair. Lady Elira bowed respectfully before departing, leaving Gael alone with her thoughts once more. The princess stood for a moment longer, her eyes turning to the mirror near her.
Her reflection was as it always had been: the epitome of Valyrian beauty. Silver hair that gleamed in the morning light, falling in soft waves down her back. Her pale skin, delicate and flawless, seemed to glow with an inner light, a remnant of the ancient bloodline that flowed through her veins. Her violet eyes, those eyes that marked her as the daughter of a people who had once commanded the world, met her own gaze with an intensity that made her feel as though she were looking into a stranger’s eyes. There was a coolness in her expression, a regal distance that Gael had learned to maintain throughout her life. It was the mask she wore in public, the face of the perfect princess. Truly befitting her sobriquet, "Winter’s Child."
Resigning herself to meet her parents, the princess walked toward the door, despite being weary from the dreams that continued to plague her nights. As she walked down the halls, she felt the cold stone floors beneath her feet, and the bustling sounds of the servants attending to their duties for the day. Maegor Holdfast, with its towering columns and ornate decorations, was a constant reminder of her family’s power, but also of her confinement. Every step she took felt like a step toward a future she could not escape.
When she reached her father’s solar, the two Kingsguard stationed at the door bowed before announcing her arrival to the King and Queen. Gael took a deep breath before stepping inside once the door opened. To her surprise, she saw her older brother Baelon, the Prince of Dragonstone, sitting opposite the King. His posture was relaxed, but his gaze was fixed on Gael as she entered. He offered her a knowing smile, though it was the kind of smile that seemed to hold more questions than answers. Baelon, ever the free spirit, had always been the one to press her on matters she wasn’t ready to confront, though his intentions were never cruel.
Masking her surprise, Gael greeted them with a slight smile. "Good morrow, Father, Mother." Her eyes then shifted to her older brother. "And to you too, lēkia (older brother)."
Baelon looked up at his younger sister, a wry smile tugging at his lips. His short, silver-gold hair glimmered as the morning sun hit it, and his violet eyes met hers with a familiar, teasing glint. He was dressed in his usual noble garb, the tunic of a prince adorned with the sigil of House Targaryen embroidered in gold. His presence, as always, felt confident and commanding, a stark contrast to Gael’s more reserved demeanor.
"Ah, hāedar (little sister)," Baelon said with a grin. "I was wondering when you’d finally grace us with your presence. I thought you had gotten lost on your way again."
Gael resisted the urge to roll her eyes but allowed her lips to curve into a small smile. "That was one time, brother," she said, taking a seat beside him at the table.
"Good morrow, sweetling." Queen Alysanne, a woman of striking beauty and regal bearing, looked up from her morning tea as Gael entered. Her silver-gold hair was meticulously arranged, and her purple eyes held a sharpness that matched her intelligence. Queen Alysanne had always been the picture of grace, poised and unyielding in her role as consort to the king and mother to their children. She smiled at her daughter, though quickly looked her over after noticing her pale complexion.
"Gael, dear," the Queen said, her voice smooth but laced with worry. "Have you slept well? You’ve been looking a bit pale as of late."
Gael forced herself to smile, though the mention of her lack of sleep only made the anxiety gnaw at her more. The dreams, the visions, had left her feeling drained, like she was on the edge of something she couldn’t understand. Yet, she was the princess, and the expectations that came with her role required a mask of poise.
"I slept as well as any princess can," Gael replied, her voice steady but laced with an undercurrent of tension. "The morning light is always welcome."
Her mother regarded her with a worried gaze, studying her movements and body for any signs of illness. Knowing her daughter’s dislike of being pressed, Alysanne moved on to another topic.
"Daemon is nearing six-and-ten, and it is nigh time to select his bride."
Gael’s eyes flicked toward her mother, surprised by the subject. Daemon? Her wild, rebellious nephew, whose dragon blood burned hot compared to the rest of the family?
Baelon turned to his mother skeptically, "Daemon is still but a young boy who was only knighted recently. What brought this on?"
Alysanne sat up straighter, her hands folded elegantly in front of her. "I believe a betrothal could serve both him and us well. He’s growing older, and a marriage might help tame his wild spirit, redirect his energies toward something constructive. It would also strengthen our ties with the Vale."
"A betrothal? Mother, surely you jest." Baelon’s earlier playfulness gave way to a more serious expression as he glanced between his parents, his gaze lingering longer toward his father. "Viserys is already married to Aemma."
Gael nodded in agreement. "An Arryn lady has already wed a prince of the realm, the heir of the Prince of Dragonstone at that. Marrying another lady from the Vale to Daemon may send the wrong message to the other lords that we are favoring the Vale." She slowly took a sip of her tea, eyeing the frown that was forming on her mother's face.
"Daemon is also a dragon rider. Are you certain that it’s wise to have him marry outside of the family? The Seven Kingdoms know that Daemon greatly desires a Valyrian bride. Daemon would not accept such a betrothal, and it would only serve to make him more reckless. He would rather burn down the world than be forced into a role he does not desire." Baelon argued.
Alysanne looked at her son coolly. "He has a duty as a prince of the realm, Baelon. It is nigh time for him to remember that." The Good Queen gracefully picked up a piece of cheese and bread.
"Duty or are you still holding a grudge that father named me heir instead of Rhaenys? Do not include my son in your misplace grudge. " Baelon coldly rebutted against his mother's sentence. The food in front of him remained untouched, appetite lost due to the conversation.
Gael fidgeted in her seat and slightly pursed her lips. She eyed her father, who remained silent.
"Whatever do you mean?" The Queen feigned ignorance. "I am only looking after the best interests of my grandson. Is that not my duty as his grandmother?"
"Oh, please," Baelon scoffed. "Stop this charade, mother. The whole keep knows that you harbor resentment after father passed over Rhaenys as heir in favor of me."
He looked elsewhere. "Do you truly think that I am happy being named heir instead of my niece? My brother's only child?" Baelon looked back toward his mother, then to his father, who only sipped his wine.
Queen Alysanne’s lips tightened slightly, but she didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she turned to her husband, her violet eyes seeking his judgment. "Jaehaerys, you must see the logic in this. Daemon’s wildness may be his greatest asset in some ways, but it’s also his greatest weakness. He’s too unpredictable, too impulsive. A marriage to Lady Rhea Royce would help temper him, bring him into the fold, and bind the Vale to House Targaryen more securely."
King Jaehaerys, who had been quietly considering the matter, looked over at Baelon and Gael with a measured expression. His gaze shifted between his children and his wife, as though weighing their arguments carefully.
"I hear you, all of you," he said slowly. "But this is not a decision that can be made lightly. Perhaps... we will give Daemon time. Time to reflect, to come to terms with his role in this family and in the realm. A betrothal may not be the answer now, but I cannot ignore the need for a solution. We will discuss this again when the time is right."
Baelon, though still uneasy, gave a small nod, as if acknowledging the King’s authority on the matter. Gael remained quiet, though a sense of unease settled in her chest. She couldn’t help but feel that deciding someone's future like this was wrong. Her eyes turned to her mother, and she couldn’t stop thinking of her own future. She was nearing eight-and-ten, still unwed, still shadowed by her mother. Gael couldn't stop the feeling of envy and resentment that began to fester in her heart. Her sisters had been married off at her age, yet here she was, a dragon trapped in a golden cage by her own mother, who had decided she would remain by her side and perhaps never marry.
The garden of Maegor’s Holdfast was a masterpiece of careful design and natural beauty, a place where the raw splendor of nature met the deliberate hand of man. The air was sweet with the perfume of blooming lilacs, roses, and jasmine, their heady fragrance mingling with the earthy scent of freshly turned soil. Gnarled weirwood trees, their white bark and blood-red leaves lending a hint of eerie majesty, stood sentinel at the edges of the space. A stone-paved path wound through the garden, lined with hedges trimmed into elaborate shapes, while fountains carved in the likeness of dragons poured crystal-clear water into basins below.
The sunlight filtered through a trellis overgrown with creeping vines of pale blue morning glories, casting dappled shadows on the ground. Birds trilled softly, their song weaving with the faint hum of bees flitting from flower to flower. Beyond the garden’s high stone walls, the Red Keep loomed, its crimson towers piercing the sky like the talons of a great beast.
Gael’s attention snapped back to reality at the sound of her nephew’s voice. She turned to see Viserys Targaryen, his expression a mixture of concern and curiosity as he leaned forward slightly in his chair.
“Are you well, Aunt? You have been quiet since this morn.”
Gael’s violet eyes flickered around the garden, as though grounding herself in the present. She offered a faint smile, her tone measured and calm. “I am well, nephew. Merely lost in thought.”
She realized where she was—seated at a marble table under the shade of an arbor, sharing tea with Viserys and his wife, Aemma Arryn. The delicate porcelain teacups before them bore intricate designs of dragons in flight, their rims gilded with gold.
Viserys exchanged a look with Aemma before continuing. “As I was saying, I think we should host a tourney for the babe.”
Gael frowned slightly. She caught the subtle tremor in Aemma’s hand as the younger woman reached for her cup, though she quickly masked it with a serene smile.
“I do not think that would be wise,” Gael said, her voice gentle but firm. “Aemma is in her seventh moon. This is a delicate stage of her pregnancy, one where undue stress or pressure could bring about early labor.”
Aemma’s smile turned grateful, but Viserys bristled, his hand instinctively resting on his wife’s swollen belly.
As the eldest son of the Prince of Dragonstone, Viserys was unaccustomed to being gainsaid. Few dared to counter his words save for his father, Prince Baelon, or his grandsire, King Jaehaerys. Yet, even he could not ignore the weight of Gael’s words.
For all his father’s station and his own presumed importance, Viserys knew that Princess Gael’s voice carried more power than his own. The youngest daughter of the King and Queen, Gael had been cherished from the moment her existence was known. Any slight against her was met with swift and harsh reprisal from the King himself.
The Princess’s intelligence and many talents only deepened her influence. Even the King often heeded her advice, going so far as to request her presence at Small Council meetings.
Before Viserys could respond, another voice cut through the garden.
“My, aren’t you a vision, Aunt?”
Gael turned to see Daemon Targaryen, his steps confident as he strolled into the garden. Despite his nonchalant demeanor, the young prince’s breath caught for a moment as he took in his aunt’s appearance.
Gael’s silver hair was styled into an intricate crown braid, interwoven with black silk ribbons and adorned with ruby pins that gleamed like drops of blood in the sunlight. Her gown, a masterpiece of Valyrian artistry, blended crimson and black in a design reminiscent of dragon scales. The bodice was adorned with black gemstones, and the billowing skirt shimmered with flame-like embroidery that seemed to dance with every step.
“Daemon,” Gael said coolly, her violet eyes sweeping over her nephew’s form.
Daemon smirked, clearly aware of her gaze. He was dressed in a black tunic with red accents, the fabric clinging to his muscular frame. As he approached, he cast a glance at Viserys and Aemma. “I trust I am not interrupting?”
“Not at all, cousin,” Aemma replied, her tone polite but subdued. “We were just wondering where you had gone this fine morning.”
Viserys eyed his brother warily. “I was suggesting the crown should host a tourney for my son.”
Daemon’s eyes flicked to Aemma, noting her discomfort, then to Gael, whose expression was as calm as it was cold. He chuckled softly. “What son? I was not aware you had a bastard, brother.”
Viserys’s face reddened. “I speak of my child with Aemma.”
Daemon rolled his violet eyes and seated himself beside Gael, reaching for a slice of lemon from the table. “Ah, the unborn babe. A tourney, so close to confinement? An excellent idea. Nothing stirs gossip quite like lords and ladies gathered in one place, especially with a delicate pregnancy to discuss. What could possibly go wrong?”
Gael’s voice, soft yet firm, interrupted the rising tension. “You do not know if the babe is a boy or girl, nephew.”
Viserys’s jaw tightened. “It is a boy. I feel it, I know it.”
“And if it is not?” Gael asked, raising a single brow in challenge.
Viserys faltered, his confidence wavering under her steady gaze.
“Your father, Baelon, is in his prime. Your grandsire, the King, is still strong. The Iron Throne is not as near as you might believe,” Gael said coldly. “Aemma is but four-and-ten. A child who has endured three pregnancies already. Her body is not yet ready to endure more. Are we, Targaryen women, to be no more than vessels for your heirs?”
Viserys stammered, “Of course not, Aunt—”
“Then remember that,” Gael cut him off. “We are the blood of Old Valyria. We do not bend to the whims of lesser men.”
She stood, her movements fluid and graceful. “Enjoy your tea, Aemma. Nephew.”
Turning to Daemon, she extended her hand. “Come, Daemon. I have need of company in the skies.”
Daemon’s smirk widened as he took her hand, barely hiding his delight. “It would be my pleasure, Aunt.”
Together, they left the garden, their silver hair gleaming in the sunlight as they made their way to the dragonpit, leaving Viserys to stew in silence and Aemma to marvel at the Princess.