The Red Keep.
The afternoon sunlight slanted through the high windows of the Queen's chambers in the Red Keep, laying itself across the thick Myrish carpet.
In the air drifted the faint scent of milk, lavender oil, and a trace not easily ignored—the sulfurous tang that belonged to hatchling dragons.
Aemond stood beside the cradle in the Queen's chamber.
He gazed at the two small creatures wriggling restlessly by the cradle's edge.
The grey dragon "Rockfang" and the white dragon "Ymir."
These were the names bestowed by King Viserys upon the pair of bonded hatchlings.
It had been over two months since the two dragons had fully broken free from their eggs. Their bodies were now near the size of small hounds, their scales not yet fully hardened, carrying the damp sheen peculiar to young beasts.
Rockfang's scales were dark grey, with several coarse ridges rising along his spine. Ymir was white from head to tail, save for ice-blue eyes, the membranes of his wings pale as snow.
They ought to have remained at their young masters' sides without straying a step.
And indeed they did so now, the two hatchlings pressed close within the ornate cradles set side by side.
Yet both their heads were turned toward Aemond, low, almost plaintive rumbles sounding in their throats, the tips of their tails flicking lightly.
In the cradles, the half-year-old Jaehaerys and Ysera were awake.
The two babes had already grown strands of soft silver hair, and great violet eyes that wandered in bewilderment.
Ysera showed no fear of the hatchling Ymir beside her. She even stretched out her small hand, attempting to grasp the white dragon's dangling tail-tip.
Aemond watched.
These infants and their dragons were bound by nature…
He had already determined that his blood could not only awaken petrified dragon eggs, but during the hatching it seemed able to brand some deeper mark into a hatchling's very bloodline.
Dragons roused by his blood would form with him an attachment near akin to that of chicks to the first sight they beheld—an instinctive closeness, a ready obedience.
Rockfang and Ymir were no different.
Though they kept constant watch beside the babes and guarded their little masters as nest-kin of the same brood, whenever Aemond appeared, that call born of the very source of their blood would stir them, and they could not help but draw nearer.
Mother of dragons? Father of dragons?
He curved his lips in a faint smile.
Upon the table, within a silver platter, lay fresh mutton sliced into thin strips, still streaked with blood, prepared earlier by the cooks of the Red Keep.
Aemond took one strip and held it to Rockfang's mouth. The grey dragon at once stretched his neck and seized the meat with a precision at odds with his tender appearance, swallowing it whole. His cool snout even brushed against Aemond's fingers in something like a fawning nudge.
At the sight, Ymir gave a more urgent, low cry, ice-blue eyes fixed upon Aemond.
He took another strip and fed the white dragon, watching as it swallowed with quick, restrained grace.
He had not fed them with his own blood. If any were to be given it, it would be Lothorne and Vhagar.
Just then, Ysera let out a babbling cry.
She seemed to have taken a keen interest in Ymir's eating. Her small hands flailed—and she suddenly seized the edge of Ymir's wing, which had not yet fully folded.
The white dragon stiffened slightly, yet did not pull free. He merely turned his head and looked curiously at his little mistress.
Then, under Aemond's faintly surprised gaze, Ysera bared her gums, where two rice-grain milk teeth had just begun to show. Waving her limbs, she opened her pink mouth and, with a small "aowu," bit down upon Ymir's forelimb.
"Hiss!" Ymir recoiled in pain, his wings jerking as he wrenched himself from Ysera's grasp.
Ice-blue eyes flared at once with offended anger, fine sharp teeth bared.
Yet he plainly restrained the instinct to strike. Instead of biting back, he gave a short, vexed hiss, beat his wings, and his small body lifted into the air—and then—
With precise aim, he delivered a light headbutt to Ysera's chest.
The force was well measured. It did no more than knock the unguarded babe backward, tipping her into the soft swaddling.
After a stunned heartbeat, Ysera, hurt and startled, burst into tears with a loud wail, her little face flushing red.
Aemond raised a brow as he looked upon his audacious young sister.
To dare challenge a true dragon with milk teeth—even if only a hatchling—such ignorant fearlessness held a faint shadow of their Targaryen forebears when they first sought to tame dragons.
He turned his head—and beheld another sight.
At some point, Rockfang had taken a strip of meat in his jaws and was now edging close to Jaehaerys's face, as though wishing to feed it to his little master.
Jaehaerys stared with vacant violet eyes at the strip of fresh red meat swaying before him, and his small mouth even opened unconsciously.
"Stop!" Aemond reacted at once, seizing Rockfang's lower jaw and forcing him to release the meat.
The strip fell to the floor.
At that moment, the door was pushed open.
Alicent entered, two nursemaids following behind her with heads bowed.
She had plainly just withdrawn from the small council, still clad in her formal dark green gown, weariness and worry set between her brows.
Seeing the nursemaids standing respectfully at the doorway, she already knew Aemond was within.
Yet when her gaze swept into the chamber, what she beheld made her heart tighten—
Her daughter Ysera weeping in the cradle; her son Jaehaerys beside her; and Aemond standing at the cradle's edge, something like a strip of meat still in his hand, bending near her children.
"Aemond!" Alicent's voice rose sharply, edged with alarm and anger. "What are you doing?"
Aemond turned calmly to face his mother. "Not I, Mother."
He pointed toward Ymir and Rockfang. "They."
Only then did Alicent give her full attention to the two hatchlings.
Rockfang had resumed eating the meat, while Ymir had settled beside Ysera, nudging the crying babe's cheek with his snout.
She looked upon the two young dragons—already grown a full measure larger than hounds, their scales thickening, their claws sharpening.
Alicent felt a familiar ache rise in her head. Since their hatching, the peace of the Red Keep had been broken.
Whenever she tried to take her children into her arms, the two little dragons would give low, threatening growls, the scales along their necks bristling.
Even the two nursemaids had been bitten before.
They were gentle only toward the babes themselves and toward Aemond.
"They are growing too quickly," Alicent said, rubbing her brow.
"They can no longer remain in the chambers. It is too dangerous."
Aemond nodded.
"I was thinking the same."
"Tomorrow I shall take them back to the Dragonpit. Let them stay with Dreamfyre."
He cast a glance at Ymir, who was attempting to wipe Ysera's tears with a wing and only making a greater mess of it.
Alicent let out a quiet breath of relief and stepped to the cradle, lifting the crying Ysera into her arms and soothing her softly.
Aemond's gaze shifted toward the two hatchlings just as they were about to bare their teeth. The pair fell silent at once.
Afterward, Alicent checked Jaehaerys as well, making certain he was unharmed.
The nursemaids stepped forward to take charge of the children, carefully coaxing the two hatchlings—who snapped at them—slightly aside.
"There is another matter," Alicent said, handing Ysera to a nursemaid before turning back to Aemond, her expression growing stern once more.
"At the small council today, Lord Tyland Lannister spoke of you."
"He was… concerned about your actions in Flea Bottom."
Tyland, brother to the Lord of Casterly Rock, former Master of Ships, had been appointed Hand of the King after Otto's dismissal—Viserys, bedridden, had personally given assent, allowing the seasoned noble of the westerlands to assume the office in name, to aid the Queen Regent in handling the daily governance of the realm.
Alicent continued gravely: "He said that last night you executed more than a hundred men in Flea Bottom."
"Without trial. Without writ from the Master of Laws or the Hand."
Aemond listened quietly, offering no defense upon his face.
Only when the Queen had finished did he speak, his voice measured: "A few days ago, three militiamen I had sent to patrol Flea Bottom had their throats cut. Two were stripped and thrown out of Flea Bottom naked."
"That was a provocation."
"What is Flea Bottom, Mother?"
"It is the festering sore of King's Landing. Bandits wanted across the Seven Kingdoms, murderers, child traffickers, and the refuse cast out by lords from every corner of the realm—they all burrow there like rats."
"It has existed for over a hundred years. Every king has sought to cleanse it."
Aemond said steadily, "In one month, the tourney we hold to form the royal host will begin."
"By then, great and lesser lords from across the Seven Kingdoms will come, with their households, retainers, bannermen, and common folk. Countless numbers will flood into King's Landing."
"And when that time comes—if some lord's daughter is seized in the streets, if some lord's son has his throat cut for coin—"
"Mother, do you think those lords will blame Flea Bottom… or the Queen Regent who failed to cleanse the capital beforehand?"
Alicent pressed her lips together.
Aemond continued: "They no longer fear even my men."
"Then they are no ordinary smallfolk of King's Landing."
"A heavy hand is required."
Alicent fell into hesitation.
Aemond looked at his mother and said earnestly, "Mother, trust me. In one month, all of King's Landing will be renewed."
At last, Alicent gave a nod. She would support Aemond in carrying this through.
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