Dance of The Dragonwolf

A Crown for a Cradle

Viserys Targaryen gazed down at the tiny bundle nestled in the ornate cradle, its silver-and-ruby dragons coiling protectively around the velvet cushions. His son—his son—lay sleeping peacefully, tiny fists occasionally twitching as he dreamed whatever dreams visited week-old infants. Even in slumber, Aegon Targaryen looked every inch the prince he was born to be, with wispy strands of silver-blonde hair and eyes that had already revealed themselves to be the deep purple of Old Valyria.

A proper boy at last, Viserys thought, immediately feeling a pang of guilt at the unbidden thought. Rhaenyra is still my firstborn, my heir... but a son. Gods, a son.

"He has your nose," Alicent observed softly from her seat by the window. Sunlight illuminated her features, making her look almost ethereal in her green silk robe. For someone who had given birth merely a week ago, she appeared remarkably recovered—her color good, her movements graceful as she rose to join him at the cradle.

"Do you think so?" Viserys smiled, tilting his head to better examine the sleeping infant. "I rather thought he resembled my brother at this age. Daemon was a handsome babe, before he learned to scowl."

Alicent laid a delicate hand on his arm. "Let's pray he inherits nothing else from your brother."

Viserys chuckled, though it died quickly at the thought of Daemon. How long had it been since they'd spoken without barbs or politics between them? Too long. Far too long.

"He's perfect," Viserys declared, pushing aside thoughts of his fractured family. "A proper Prince of House Targaryen."

From her cushioned chair on the opposite side of the nursery, Queen Alysanne observed the scene with keen eyes that missed nothing despite her advanced years. Though she did not join in the effusive praise, occasional smiles crossed her face when the baby's tiny fingers flexed or his lips pursed in sleep.

"The Citadel predicted a harsh winter," Alysanne remarked, seemingly apropos of nothing. "But this child was born under a summer sky. Perhaps the maesters' predictions are not always to be trusted."

"Summer or winter, he is a dragon," Viserys replied firmly. "Fire made flesh."

Alicent's fingers brushed against the embroidered dragons on Aegon's blanket. "Speaking of dragons, I've been meaning to ask... are the preparations underway for the feast? And the tourney?" Her voice took on a careful neutrality. "Have you sent out the invitations yet?"

"Indeed. The tourney will be the grandest." Viserys replied, his enthusiasm genuine. "Gold cloaks are already clearing the tourney grounds, and I've commissioned new grandstands to be built. The greatest knights in the realm will compete for a prize of ten thousand gold dragons."

Alicent nodded approvingly, but her eyes held a question. "And... you've sent word to Dragonstone?"

Viserys squared his shoulders.

"Yes, I've invited Rhaenyra and the others," he confirmed. "A raven was sent yesterday."

"Others?" Alicent prompted, her voice maintaining its careful composure though her fingers tightened slightly on the cradle's edge. "Does that include Prince Aenar?"

The nursery suddenly felt smaller, the air thicker. Viserys frowned momentarily before nodding.

"It's been thirteen months since Aenar left King's Landing," he said, trying to keep his tone light. "I understand your... reservations. But he is family, Alicent. They all are—Aenar, Daemon, Rhaenyra, the Velaryons. I want my entire family here to celebrate Aegon's birth."

"Family," Alicent repeated, the word tinged with something unreadable. She looked as if she wanted to object further, but instead, her gaze dropped to the sleeping infant. Her expression softened as she reached down to brush a finger against Aegon's cheek, eliciting a small, gurgling noise of contentment.