Chapter 20: The Falcon and the Dragon
The silence Baela left behind was a different creature than the quiet that usually lived in the Hightower. It was abrupt, charged, like the air after a lightning strike. Her departure at dawn had been typically brisk—a hard hug for Naerys, a nod to Gwayne, a raspberry blown onto Baelon’s belly that made him squeal. Then she was gone, her boots echoing on the stone jetty until the sound was swallowed by the cry of gulls and the groan of ship’s timbers.
By mid-morning, the absence had settled into the gardens. Naerys felt it as she walked the paths slowly, her arm linked with Rhaena’s. The maester had finally, grudgingly, permitted gentle strolls. The sun was warm on the back of her neck, the weight of her body still strange and new to her, lighter and yet more grounded.
“She didn’t look back,” Rhaena said. Her voice was flat. She wore a gown of somber grey, her own silver-gold hair bound in a severe braid. She had been the quiet sister, the one who lingered in libraries and shadows, but without Baela’s electric presence, her quiet felt profound, a deep well of unsaid things.
“She never does,” Naerys replied, squeezing her arm. “It’s not her way.”
They paused by a fountain where carved marble seahorses spat water into a basin of green-tinged copper. The sound was cool and consistent. From the terrace above, Naerys could hear Baelon’s chatter as his nursemaid tried to convince him that honey did not belong in his hair.
Gwayne found them there. He came down the tiled steps not in lordly regalia, but in a simple linen shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He carried two peeled oranges on a small clay plate. “A peace offering,” he said, offering the plate. “I’m told the Citadel’s new shipment is surprisingly good. Less sour than last year’s.”
Naerys took a segment, the juice bright on her tongue. Rhaena hesitated, then took one with a murmured thanks. She did not eat it, just held the crescent between her fingers.
“I was about to walk the lower orchard,” Gwayne said, his tone deliberately casual. “To check the apple grafts. It’s quiet work. I wouldn’t mind the company, if either of you…” He let the offer hang, his gaze shifting between them, but resting finally on Rhaena. An invitation, not a demand.
Naerys felt a flutter of anticipation. She caught Gwayne’s eye—a quick, shared understanding. Try, her look said. He gave an almost imperceptible nod. I am.
Rhaena looked from the orange in her hand to Gwayne’s open, unassuming face. A long moment passed. “I have no opinion on apple grafts,” she said finally.
“Neither do I, really. The gardener does all the work. I mostly just stand there and try to look sagacious.” He offered a small, self-deprecating smile. “Baelon’s technique, actually. It’s surprisingly effective.”
A ghost of amusement touched Rhaena’s lips. She nodded. “A short walk, then.”
Naerys watched them go, Gwayne falling into step beside Rhaena, his hands clasped behind his back, his posture relaxed. He was giving her space, both physically and verbally. They disappeared down a leafy path lined with espaliered pear trees. Naerys settled on a stone bench, the sun warming her knees. She could still hear Baelon’s voice, a joyful, relentless stream of consciousness from above. He learns from you, she had said. The truth of it hummed in the air.
The lower orchard was a world of dappled light and the clean, green smell of growing things. The trees were young, their branches braced with twine and wooden supports. Gwayne stopped before one, examining the neat, waxed binding where a slender branch had been joined to the rootstock.
“It looks painful,” Rhaena observed, standing a few feet away.
“It is, I suppose. A violence for a purpose. Cut, bind, wait. Hope it takes.” He ran a thumb over the smooth wax. “My brother—my older brother—he loved this orchard. He planned it. Said a lord should know what grows in his earth, not just what coin is in his vault.” He glanced at her. “I’m sorry. You didn’t come here for a history of Hightower horticulture.”
“It’s as good a topic as any.” She finally ate the orange segment. She looked around, her violet eyes taking in the high walls, the glimpse of the distant sea beyond the battlements. “It’s very contained here. Ordered.”
“Is it so different on Dragonstone? The gardens there are famous.”
“The gardens are stone and wind. The order there is volcanic. It’s baked in, not planted.” She turned her gaze back to him, assessing. “You asked me to walk. Why?”
He met her look squarely. “Because you are my good-sister. Because you are important to Naerys. And because I am tired of being a host who feels like a jailer to his own family.”
The bluntness surprised her. Her shoulders lost a fraction of their stiffness. “You are not what I expected.”
“Neither are you.” He gestured for them to continue walking along the path. “Naerys speaks of you and Baela… she makes you sound like forces of nature. Tidal waves. Wildfires.”
“And I am the still water after the wave? The cold ash?” There was no bitterness in her voice, just a weary curiosity.
“I was going to say the deep current. The one that decides where the wave will break.” He paused. “She told me you claimed a dragon. A hatchling, after the war.”
Rhaena’s face shut down, a portcullis slamming behind her eyes. “Morning. Her name is Morning. She is still small. She resides on Dragonstone.”
“What is it like?” The question was simple, devoid of political calculation, filled only with a genuine, human wonder. “To have that… connection?”
She studied him for a long time, judging his intent. The silence stretched, filled with the buzz of bees and the distant shouts of guards changing watch. “It is like having a second heartbeat,” she said, the words escaping her as if against her will. “Outside your body. A hot, fierce, frantic pulse. When she is angry, my blood feels thin. When she sleeps in the sun, I feel… drowsy. It is not ownership. It is a shared solitude.” She looked at her hands. “People see only the power. The weapon. They don’t see the conversation.”
Gwayne listened, utterly still. He didn’t fill the space with words. He just absorbed them.
“My mother had Syrax,” Rhaena continued, the names falling like stones into the quiet. “My father had Caraxes. Baela had Moondancer. Now they are all… gone. Or lost. It is a chain of silence, breaking. Morning’s pulse is the only one left in my head. Sometimes it is a comfort. Sometimes it is the loudest loneliness in the world.”
“I cannot imagine that silence,” Gwayne said softly. “But I understand the weight of a name. Of being the one who remains, tasked with… continuing something.”
“Do you?” The question was sharp, a probe.
“My father was Hand to two kings. My brother was to be a lord out of song. I was the second son. The reader. The one who preferred the geometry of the Sept. Now I stand in my brother’s planned orchard, speaking to a Targaryen princess about dragons, because the world broke and glued itself back wrong, and this is where the pieces landed.” He exhaled, a long, slow breath. “I spend my days trying to be vigilant against sheep and bargaining for mutton. I try to be a father to a boy who mimics my every move, and I am terrified I will teach him only the performance. So yes, Lady Rhaena. In a much smaller, much plainer way, I think I understand something of the weight.”
Rhaena stopped walking. She looked at him, really looked, not as a Green lord, but as a man standing in his dead brother’s orchard. She saw the lines of care at his eyes, the gentle weariness in his bearing, the absence of any pretense. This was not the posture of a conqueror. It was the posture of a steward. A caretaker.
“Naerys says you are kind,” Rhaena said. “Baela thought you were… acceptable. I did not know what to think.”
“And now?”
She considered. “I think you are as trapped here as she is. Just in a larger cage.”
A faint, sad smile touched his lips. “A cage with very good apples, apparently.”
This time, she did smile back. It was small, a slight upturn at the corners of her mouth, but it was real. It changed her face, softening the sharp vigilance around her eyes. “Tell me about these grafts again. Why this branch and not another?”
They walked and talked for an hour. The conversation meandered from apple varieties to the strange echoes in Dragonstone’s cellars, from the burden of legacy to the simple pleasure of stolen honeycakes. Gwayne told her about the white raven, Silas. Rhaena, her reserve thawing by slow degrees, spoke of a hidden cave on Dragonstone where she’d found fossils of creatures that had never seen the sun.
Naerys, from her bench, saw them return. She saw the difference in their carriage. The space between them was the same, but the tension was gone, replaced by a companionable quiet. Rhaena was speaking, her hands moving in a slight, explanatory gesture. Gwayne was listening, his head tilted.
As they approached the fountain, Gwayne stopped. “I have a proposal. An impertinent one.”
Rhaena raised an eyebrow.
“The library here has a collection of Reach histories. Agricultural treaties, trade compacts, family lineages. Dreadfully dry stuff, mostly. But it’s a particular perspective. One you wouldn’t find on Dragonstone. If you’re staying a while… I could use a reading partner. Someone to help me make sense of the drier bits. In exchange, you have full access. And I can promise no commentary on your reading choices.”
He was offering her a key. Not to her chains, but to his world’s inner logic. A transaction of knowledge, a bridge made of parchment and ink.
Rhaena looked past him, to where Naerys sat watching, hope plain on her face. She looked back at Gwayne. “I find dry things are often where the true roots are,” she said. “I accept. On the condition we start with the agricultural treaties. I have a new curiosity about apple grafts.”
Gwayne’s answering smile was warm, unburdened. “Then we have a bargain.”
He left them then, climbing the steps back toward the beckoning noise of his son. Rhaena came to sit beside Naerys on the bench. For a minute, they sat in silence, listening to the fountain.
“He’s real, isn’t he?” Rhaena said finally, her voice low.
Naerys leaned her head against her sister’s shoulder. “Yes.”
“It would have been easier if he weren’t,” Rhaena mused, almost to herself. “A monster is simple. A man who is kind… that complicates the narrative considerably.”
Naerys laughed, a soft, breathy sound. “He does that.”
Above them, Baelon’ voice erupted in triumphant song, the words entirely his own. “Apple pie! Sky high! Papa’s eye! Bye-bye!”
The two sisters sat together in the sun-dappled garden, the black-and-white dragon-scale tiles cool beneath their feet. The walls were still there, the sea still sighed against them, the future was still a precarious, unknown thing. But in that moment, the cage felt less like a prison and more like a garden someone was patiently, gently, tending.
But in that moment, the cage felt less like a prison and more like a garden someone was patiently, gently, tending. Rhaena stayed another week. She and Gwayne spent their mornings in the library, their voices a low murmur over crinkling parchment. He learned about the volcanic soil of Dragonstone. She learned about the root rot that had plagued the Reach’s wheat yields for a generation. Their conversations were studies in mutual archaeology, digging for foundations without ever mentioning the war that had buried them.
Her departure was quieter than Baela’s. She embraced Naerys tightly, her cheek cool against her sister’s. “The roots are stronger than I thought,” she whispered, words meant only for Naerys. To Gwayne, she offered a firm nod, a scroll on apple-grafting techniques tucked under her arm. “I will expect a report on the Summer Island citrus seeds, Lord Hightower. Do not be lax.”
“I would not dare, Lady Rhaena,” he said, a genuine warmth in his eyes.
Then she was gone, the tower feeling both emptier and somehow more securely occupied. The silence she left was thoughtful, not jagged. Life settled into the rhythm of a healing household. Naerys’s strength returned day by day, measured in laps walked around the garden, in the decreasing ache in her limbs, in the ability to lift Baelon without a wince. She claimed a small solar with a sea-view, filling it with her books, Visenya’s cradle, and the stubborn, scentless sea-grass Baelon picked for her every afternoon. It was not freedom, but it was territory.
A month later, Rhaena had returned to Dragonstone. On a particularly warm day, Gwayne took his family to a bank along the Honeywine.
It was not a grand expedition. Just a cart, a guard, a hamper of food, and the four of them. The spot was downstream from the busy ports, where the water ran clear and shallow over smooth, sun-warmed stones. Willows trailed their fingers in the current, and the air smelled of wet earth and wild mint.
Naerys laid a thick woolen blanket in the grass and sank onto it with a sigh of pure contentment. Visenya, now alert and observing, was placed on her belly, her tiny head wobbling as she tried to focus on a yellow butterfly drifting past. Naerys propped herself on her elbows, the sun kissing her shoulders through the thin linen of her dress. It was a simple pleasure, so profound it felt illicit.
“Right, commander,” Gwayne said, stripping off his own tunic. His torso was pale, lean but defined from years of training. He knelt at the water’s edge, the river curling around his knees. “The objective is buoyancy. Not conquest.”
Baelon stood on the bank, quivering with naked anticipation, his small body already bronzed by the sun. He wore only a linen clout. “I swim! I fly!”
“One miracle at a time,” Gwayne laughed, holding out his arms. “Come on. Slow. The stones are slippery.”
Baelon launched himself. Gwayne caught him easily, a solid splash soaking them both. The boy shrieked, a sound of pure, unadulterated joy that echoed over the water. “Cold! Cold!”
“It’s refreshing,” Gwayne corrected, holding him under the armpits, letting his legs kick in the gentle current. “See? The water holds you. You just have to trust it.”
Naerys watched, her chin in her hand. She watched Gwayne’s hands, sure and steady, his complete focus on their son’s face. He was teaching him to trust the water’s support, a kind and patient instruction she doubted any lord in Westeros had ever received from his father. Baelon’s kicks grew more coordinated, his fear swallowed by glee.
“I’m a fish! A big fish!”
“A very loud fish,” Gwayne said, dipping him a little deeper so the water touched his chin. Baelon squealed, clutching his father’s forearms. “Breathe. Keep kicking.”
From her blanket, Naerys called out, “Don’t let the big fish eat him!”
“No promises!” Gwayne called back, grinning. He looked younger here, the lines of worry smoothed by sunlight and laughter. He glanced at her, at Visenya in the grass, and his expression softened into something so unbearably fond that Naerys had to look away, her throat tight.
She focused on her daughter instead. Visenya had managed to lift her head, her violet eyes wide at the spectacle of her splashing brother. A tiny fist batted at a blade of grass.
“That’s your brother,” Naerys whispered, tracing the downy curve of her cheek. “He’s teaching your father how to be silly. It’s a very important job.”
After a while, Baelon’s energy began to flag. Gwayne carried him, dripping and giggling, back to the blanket. “The fish is exhausted. Requires immediate provisioning.” He tossed a dry cloth at Naerys.
She sat up, pulling Baelon onto her lap and rubbing him briskly. “My brave sailor. You conquered the Honeywine.”
“All mine,” Baelon declared, yawning hugely before collapsing against her, his damp head a weight on her chest. He was asleep in moments, smelling of river and sun.
Quiet fell, broken only by the water’s whisper and the buzz of insects. Gwayne stretched out on the blanket beside her, close but not touching. He plucked a stalk of grass, chewing on the end. “This is nice,” he said, the simplicity of the statement making it profoundly true.
“It is.” She lay back, Visenya cradled on her stomach, Baelon a warm lump against her side. She looked at the blue sky between the willow leaves. “I never thought I’d have this.”
“What? A nap attacked by children on a riverbank?”
“Yes.” She turned her head to look at him. His hazel eyes were watching her, the gold flecks in them bright in the sun. “Precisely that.”
He reached over, not for her hand, but to tuck a strand of silver-gold hair behind her ear. His fingers brushed her skin, a fleeting, sun-warmed touch. “Neither did I.”
They lapsed into silence again, the kind that needed no filling. The guard, Ser Robert, discreetly checked the perimeter and then settled against a tree, his helmet over his eyes. The peace was so complete it felt like a separate world, woven from light and water and breath.
It was Baelon who broke it, stirring with a grumpy murmur. “Thirsty.”
Gwayne sat up, reaching for the waterskin. He helped Baelon drink, then offered it to Naerys. She took it, their fingers brushing. The water was cool, tasting of the leather flask and the mint leaves steeping inside it.
“Papa,” Baelon said, his voice still thick with sleep. He climbed into Gwayne’s lap, studying his face with sudden seriousness. “When I’m big lord… I have a river too?”
Gwayne’s arms tightened around him. “You’ll have this river. It will always be here.”
“And Vis’nya? She swim?”
“When she’s bigger. You can teach her.”
Baelon nodded, satisfied with this future duty. He laid his head back on Gwayne’s shoulder, his thumb finding his mouth.
Naerys watched them, the two dark heads close together. She felt a pang, sharp and sweet. This was the man who feared he was unworthy of love, who carried a secret that made him feel broken. And here he was, building a world of safety for their children out of patience and gentle hands and answered questions about rivers. It was a different kind of dragon, this quiet, steadfast protection. It didn’t burn cities. It built banks where a child could learn to swim.
The sun began its slow decline, painting the river in streaks of copper and amber. Ser Robert cleared his throat softly. “My lord, the light won’t hold forever for the cart track back.”
Gwayne nodded, reluctant. “Time to go, fish-commander.”
The packing was slow, drowsy. Naerys wrapped Visenya, now also sleeping, in a soft shawl. Gwayne carried a sleepy Baelon on one hip and the hamper in his other hand. They walked back to the cart through the long grass, their shadows stretching out ahead of them, tangled together.
As Gwayne helped her into the cart, his hand firm under her elbow, she paused. “Thank you,” she said, quiet, for him alone.
“For what? A picnic?”
“For the river. For the lesson.” She met his gaze, the last of the sun setting his eyes aflame. “For not teaching him to conquer it. For teaching him to trust it.”
He held her look, and in that silent exchange, an entire conversation passed. He understood. She saw him, saw the choice he made every day, the kindness he wielded as deliberately as any sword. He saw her, saw that she cherished it, that she had chosen this fragile, built peace over the ghost of any grand passion.
He simply nodded, his hand squeezing her elbow once more before he turned to settle the children. The cart lurched into motion, the Honeywine fading into a glittering ribbon behind them. The tower would soon rise ahead, a stark silhouette against the twilight. The world of petitions and ledgers and silent, watchful politics awaited.
But for the entire ride home, Naerys held the feeling of the sun on her skin, the sound of her son’s laughter on the water, the image of her husband’s sure hands in the current. It was a memory she could store, a talisman. The walls of the Hightower could not touch this. It was theirs. It was real. And it was, against all odds, enough.