TGW: Chapter Fifty: Coda(Pt. 2)

Chapter Fifty: Coda(Pt. 2)

Present Day

Rowenna felt the salt wind whip her hair as Vhagar descended through ragged clouds, vast wings beating thunder from the sky. Beneath her, the old beast’s scales were rough as river-stone, her hide gleaming slate-gray in the half-light. Rowenna’s heart battered against her ribs, not from fear—after five years in Prince Aemond’s orbit, she had learned to master that—but from the overwhelming presence of the ancient dragon beneath her.

She huddled close to the prince’s chest, the front of her cloak warm from the hatchlings she carried. Seven of them, skittish and fitful in her arms, their tiny claws scraping at the fabric. One let out a thin, piping squawk, flaring delicate wings no bigger than a huntsman’s glove.

Dragonstone rose from the sea ahead: black towers against a slate sky, the fortress perched on basalt cliffs as though the entire island had sprouted from some volcanic dream. Once, it had teemed with men-at-arms and banners of black and red. Now, the ramparts were eerily still. Rhaenyra was gone; word said she had fled for Essos barely a week ago with her sons and her loyal retinue.

Vhagar let out a rumbling growl as she alit on the outer courtyard. The stone yard was near empty but for a handful of smallfolk who gaped at the arriving dragons with equal parts awe and dread. Nettles and Garren, came fluttering down on the leathery wings of Sheepstealer, that flame-scarred brute who hissed at the sea wind. Daeron settled Tessarion with a deft hand, while Addam guided Seasmoke in a graceful spiral.

Rowenna gingerly slid from Vhagar’s saddle, mindful of the hatchlings in her arms. She glanced around. No sign of guards anywhere. Only a few ragged fisherfolk and a scattering of wide-eyed stewards. She caught Garren’s eye; he shrugged, as if to say, We expected as much.

Aemond wasted no time. He strode across the courtyard, his cloak snapping behind him, offering no comment on the deserted fortress. Rowenna followed, keeping pace on long legs, the warm squirming dragons cradled carefully. In the Great Hall, the echoes of their boots rang hollow. Where once the Targaryen queen’s supporters had feasted or held councils, now only silence reigned, broken by the rasp of wind through the rocks and the occasional hatchling peep.

They were not alone. At the hall’s far end, a cadre of Dragonkeepers stood in a wary half-circle. Their leader stepped forth—a tall, austere man whose hair was white as foam. When he inclined his head, Rowenna saw a liveliness in his gaze that belied his years.

“Prince Aemond,” he greeted with a bow, voice resonant in the chilly space. His eyes danced to Rowenna’s arms, and for an instant, naked wonder flashed in them. Seven new hatchlings, each scale reflecting faint torchlight in metallic sheens of copper, silver, emerald… The man almost forgot himself, so evident was his fascination—but he wrestled it back into composure, and bowed more formally. “My lord. Welcome.”

Aemond inclined his head in return. “Vezhof. You have managed the isle since Rhaenyra quit this place, I presume?”

Vezhof nodded. “We do what we can, my prince. Many shops and storehouses stand empty, with no coin or commerce. Rhaenyra—when she was here—had purchased our provisions in Pentos. Since her departure however, the shipments had ceased altogether. Our stores are near spent.”

Aemond’s thin lips tightened. Rowenna had learned to read his moods well enough. Annoyance? She could not be completely certain. “You need not worry on that count,” he said at last. “I have lifted the embargo. Ships will come from the mainland now that the war’s tide has turned. You will not starve.”

Vezhof relaxed fractionally, though his gaze flitted again to the hatchlings. “I am pleased to hear it, my prince. We have many smallfolk here who deserve better than an empty larder.”

“Indeed.” Aemond turned to Rowenna and gestured her over. That was her cue. She carefully walked forward, each of the seven hatchlings clutched in a makeshift sling. Their tiny eyes, some gold, some green, glittered with bright curiosity.

Aemond gestured. “They are called Aenara, Vaelion, Rhogar, Meraxes—named anew in honor of my ancestors—along with Gaemith, Baerion, and Xyrella.” He rattled them off the names. “They are newly hatched, as you can plainly see. Rowenna—hand them over.”

With delicate caution, Rowenna transferred the wriggling brood to the Dragonkeepers. Vezhof cradled one, his stern face nearly alight with reverence. Another keeper assisted, layering thick cloth to keep the hatchlings warm. She heard them chirr in protest, and she felt oddly bereft to see them leaving her arms. They are safer with the keepers, she reminded herself. They are meant for greater tasks than my trembling embrace.

Aemond’s eye found Vezhof’s. “Tend them well,” he said, “and see they are fed. I’ve not brought them here to let them languish.”

Vezhof bowed. “Of course, my prince.” He looked up, no longer able to hide his delight. “We will show them every courtesy. I swear it by all the old laws.”

“Good.” Aemond nodded curtly, his voice softened by faint approval. “And the others—Vermithor and Silverwing? How fare they?”

At that, Vezhof’s spine straightened. “Hale as ever. They wait in the lower cavern, well-fed and restless. Rhaenyra sought to bind new riders to them… to no avail.” His lips tightened, as if recalling some unpleasantness.

Aemond inclined his head. “I suspected as much. In truth, I had the same intention.”

Vezhof’s expression chilled as quickly as it had brightened over the hatchlings. “No, my prince. I shall not help you see it done. Rhaenyra tried to make mongrels of our proud beasts. The attempt failed—some died for it. We shall not condone such irreverence again.”

Though Rowenna expected an chilly outburst (Aemond’s patience with defiance was typically short), the prince merely gave a measured nod. “I see your position, Torch Holder. I will not force you. Take your keepers and the dragons you watch—and step aside. I shall manage the matter myself.”

A small hush fell. Rowenna could see Vezhof wrestling between old devotion and new wonder, but in the end, the man bowed low. He turned to gather his subordinates, carefully bearing the seven hatchlings. “As you command, my prince,” he said, voice hardening with resolve. “We will do our duty to them. And you may do what you will with the others… so long as no keeper is forced to take part.”

Aemond half-smiled, though the scarred side of his face made the expression harsh. “I shall remember that.”

With that, the dragonkeepers filed out with the new brood. The Great Hall’s doors boomed shut behind them, leaving only Rowenna, Garren, Nettles, Daeron, and Addam in the echoing hush.

Rowenna shifted, unsettled by a sense that something momentous was about to transpire. Nettles stroked Garren’s arm in a nervous gesture, while Daeron merely frowned at the empty air. Even Addam pressed his lips tight, as if remembering his own brush with Seasmoke.

Aemond’s gaze swept them all, lingering on Rowenna and Garren in particular. “You two,” he said, his voice resonant. “Come.”

Rowenna’s heart fluttered, though not entirely in surprise. She sensed Garren stiffen beside her.

“You would have us…?” she began.

Aemond’s single eye narrowed. “Vermithor and Silverwing are old, grand beasts that deserve riders worthy of them. Rhaenyra’s attempts failed, but that need not doom ours. You’ve seen how I treat mine. Addam and Nettles, too. They have served me—and the realm—well. You shall do the same. Come.”

Rowenna swallowed, glancing at Garren. His face was pale beneath his freckles, but he nodded once, determined.

Aemond turned on his heel, leading them from the hall toward the bowels of Dragonstone.

Rowenna followed, each step echoing in that dread, hollow keep. A swirl of conflicting feelings coursed through her: fear, excitement, and the memory of five years past, when she had first been taken from one life and thrust into another. She squared her shoulders, forcing herself to step forward.

No—this time, she would choose to be brave. If the gods truly smiled on her, perhaps she would not be afraid.