The Dragon of Duskendale -- A Song of Ice and Fire Fanfic

Chapter 27

For Aelor Targaryen it was a time of anger and pain, but for the Seven it was a time of children.

Malessa Rykker's labor had come on quickly in the blackest part of the night one day after Rhaella's death, at the tail end of the storm whose apex had seen Daenerys Stormborn's birth. Aelor had been alerted per his own orders, though he had already been awake when a runner came to rouse him—sleep had been no friend of Aelor's of late. After checking on a sleeping Viserys, the prince had gone to the hall outside the birthing chamber, one door away from where his mother had died.

Rhaella had been near forty, with a history of troubled births behind her and failing health. Malessa was nineteen and with her first child, her build strong and healthy. A boy came into the world at dawn, as big a child as Gorold or the midwife had ever seen, hungry and very vocal about it. His mother, unlike Daenerys', performed beautifully.

Malessa named him Aelor, as Renfred had requested in his final letter before the Trident. Aelor Rykker, Lord of Hollard Hall. The boy's namesake had congratulated Malessa and held the babe, who glared out at him from his swaddles; he had reminded the Dragon of Duskendale so much of Ren it physically hurt. Aelor Targaryen had returned the newborn to his mother's arms, congratulated Lord Donnel on his first grandchild, and returned to his chambers, where he had very nearly fallen apart.

But he did not allow himself to fully; the stitches that had been binding Aelor together since Elia's death continued to hold. They had to, until she was avenged. An hour after dawn found the prince in the Small Council chamber, strengthened by sheer will and black hate.

His sleepless night turned into a long morning.

Maester Gorold, fatigued from his own lack of sleep after overseeing the birth, brought the news. The scroll with the seal of House Velaryon was terse and to the point, Lord Lucerys clearly still bitter about his dismissal as Master of Ships. The Small Council reconvened not long after the raven came, and Lord Manderly was still lowering into his seat when Aelor began.

"Our fleet is gone."

There was a moment of shocked silence, broken by Bronze Yohn Royce. "Gone?" he asked, thick eyebrows furrowing.

Aelor nodded sharply. "Gone. The same storm that saw my sister's birth was particularly savage at Dragonstone, and the entire navy was anchored there. There are a few ships that might be salvageable, but most are sunk or sinking. The Velaryon fleet is in the same straits, and it is reasonable to assume the Redwyne Fleet sieging Storm's End is as well."

Randyll Tarly's voice was, if possible, even more grim than usual. "While the fleet at Lannisport was most likely undamaged, meaning Lannister has superiority at sea."

"No, he won't." Aelor's voice held nothing but confidence, something that was decidedly lacking on the other councilmen's faces, barring Varys. There was silence as they waited for him to continue, but the prince let it linger.

Manderly asked what the others didn't. "I don't see how, Prince Aelor."

Aelor shrugged. "I do, my lords, and it has been taken care of. I won't share more for now for reasons of my own, but the Royal Fleet was never in my plans for Lannisport. It is, however, a main concern moving forward." He turned to Manderly. "Master of Coin?"

Lord Wyman, ever adaptable, didn't ask any follow-up questions. The big northman had a stack of parchment before him, and his chubby fingers were stained black from consistent use of ink and quill over the last few days. "We still have much work to do, my lords, but inquiries have been sent to the Iron Bank of Braavos concerning potential debts. The current vaults in the treasury are still being inventoried, but I can begin arranging the delivery and hiring of necessary materials and craftsmen to the location of your choosing at once."