Chapter 21: A Crack in the Silence
The peace of the river lingered for days, a soft afterglow that made the stone halls feel less rigid. Naerys found herself humming, a habit from childhood she’d thought the war had burned out of her. She’d catch Gwayne’s eye over Baelon’s head at supper and see her own quiet contentment reflected back, a silent acknowledgment of their shared, stolen afternoon.
It was on one of those mornings, in the lord’s bedchamber, that the world shifted again.
They had slept later than usual, the sea-mist beyond the windows muffling the dawn bells. Naerys woke first to a bar of pale light cutting across the bed. Gwayne was on his back, one arm flung over his eyes, his breathing deep and even. In the fragile stillness, she studied him. The scar on his shoulder from a long-ago tourney mishap. The faint frown line between his brows, even in sleep. The absolute safety of his presence beside her.
She shifted, turning onto her side to face him. The movement woke him. His hazel eyes opened, blurred with sleep, and found hers. He didn’t startle, didn’t pull away. He just looked at her, and a slow, soft smile touched his mouth.
“Morning,” he rasped, his voice gravelly.
“Morning.” She smiled back.
He lifted the arm from his eyes and brought his hand up to her face, his thumb stroking her cheekbone. It was a tender, unhurried gesture. He leaned in and she met him halfway. The kiss was lazy, sun-warmed, a gentle exploration without demand. It tasted of sleep and shared silence. His other hand came to rest on her hip, over the linen of her shift, a solid, comforting weight.
They broke apart, staying close, foreheads nearly touching. His breath was warm on her lips. This was their territory now, this quiet affection. It was not the stormy passion of songs, but it was real. It was a choice.
Another kiss, deeper this time. Her hand slid into his chestnut hair. His palm smoothed down her back, pulling her just a fraction closer.
Crack.
It was a sound like a rock splitting, sharp and final. It wasn’t loud, but it was utterly wrong in the soft room.
They froze.
Their eyes locked, wide with identical, uncomprehending alarm. It had come from the adjoining nursery.
Crick-crack.
Another snap, followed by a faint, skittering scrape.
Gwayne was out of the bed first, moving with a knight’s swiftness, snatching his robe from a chair. Naerys was half a breath behind, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs. Visions of collapsed stone, of a falling beam, of some Green assassin’s plot, flashed through her mind.
They burst through the open archway into the nursery.
The room was washed in misty grey light. Nothing was out of place. The toys were neatly stacked. The tapestry of the Seven Pointed Star hung undisturbed. Visenya, in her smaller crib by the fireplace, slept on, a tiny fist curled by her cheek.
The sound came from Baelon’s bed.
He was sitting bolt upright, his silver-gold hair a wild halo. He wasn’t crying. He was staring, utterly mesmerized, at the mound of blankets in his lap.
The dragon egg.
It had sat for months on the hearth, a beautiful, dormant paperweight. A gift from Daeron. It was pale cream streaked with gold, cold as stone to the touch. Baelon had adopted it, dragging it to his bed each night, talking to it, promising it honey cakes and river swims.
Now, it was moving.
A web of fractures crazed its surface. A piece of shell, no bigger than a coin, popped free and clattered onto the wool blanket. From within came a faint, phlegmy chirp. A tiny, pale-gold snout, blunt and wet, poked through the hole, sniffing the air.
Naerys’s hand flew to her mouth.
Gwayne stopped dead in the center of the room. All the color drained from his face. He looked not at the egg, but at Baelon. His son’s expression was one of pure, unblemished wonder.
“I told you,” Baelon whispered, not to them, but to the egg. “I told you it was time.”
Crack-crick-CRACK.
The egg sundered. Shards of cream and gold shell fell away into the blankets. And there it was.
The creature was smaller than a cat, all writhing limbs and whipping tail. Its wings were damp crumpled leather, glued to its sides. Its scales were the color of fresh cream, gleaming with fluid, and along its spine ran a delicate line of gold, bright as a new coin. It let out a weak, rasping cry and floundered, its claws catching in the wool.
Baelon didn’t hesitate. He scooped the struggling thing up with both hands, ignoring the warmth, the strange texture, the slight smokey smell. He brought it against his small nightshirt, cradling it to his chest. “Shhh,” he cooed, his voice high and soft. “Shhh, it’s dark no more.”
The dragon stilled. It nudged its head into the hollow of Baelon’s throat, its tiny nostrils flaring. A thin wisp of grey smoke, sweet and acrid, curled from its nostrils. Then it made a sound—a deep, vibrating purr that rattled in its tiny chest.
Naerys felt the laughter bubble up from a place deeper than joy, a place of sheer, primal recognition. It burst from her, a breathless, tear-filled sound. She sank to her knees beside the bed, her eyes drinking in the sight: her son, her beautiful, strange son, holding a newborn dragon as if it were a kitten.
“Gods be good,” Gwayne breathed. He hadn’t moved. His knuckles were white where he gripped his robe. His face was a storm of conflicting tides—awe, terror, a dawning, devastating understanding.
This changed everything. This was not a hidden riverbank peace. This was fire made flesh in his son’s arms. This was the very symbol of the power that had shattered his family, that had cost his brother his life. This was Targaryen legacy, hatching in a Hightower nursery.
Baelon looked up, his violet eyes blazing with triumph. “See, Papa? I told you he was listening. His name is Sunny.”
The dragon—Sunny—opened its mouth. A tiny, forked tongue, pink as a blossom, flicked out and touched Baelon’s chin. Then it tucked its head back down and sighed, the purr deepening.
The sound broke Gwayne’s paralysis. He crossed the room in three long strides. He didn’t reach for Baelon. He knelt, bringing himself level with the bed, his gaze fixed on the creature. He slowly, slowly extended a hand.
“Gwayne,” Naerys said, her voice gentle. A warning? An encouragement? She wasn’t sure.
He paused, his hand hovering an inch from the dragon’s side. He looked at Baelon. “May I?”
Baelon nodded solemnly. “Be soft. He’s new.”
Gwayne’s finger, calloused from sword and quill, touched a scale on the dragon’s flank.
It was warmer than he expected. Not burning, but alive with a fierce, inner heat. The scale was smoother than stone, with a texture like the finest enamelled leather. Beneath it, he felt the rapid, thrumming beat of a second, fiercer heart. His own heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic counter-rhythm.
The dragon didn’t flinch. It opened one eye—a slit of molten gold—looked at the large, trembling man, and then closed it again, snuggling deeper into Baelon.
The trust was absolute. From both of them.
Gwayne’s breath left him in a rush. The fear didn’t vanish, but it was joined by something else, something that felt suspiciously like reverence. This was not the monster from the stories. This was a fragile, living thing that had chosen his son. This was a part of Naerys, a part of her blood, now knitting itself into the fabric of his own house.
He looked from the dragon to Baelon’s radiant face, to Naerys’s tear-streaked, joyful one.
“Sunny,” he repeated, his voice rough. He left his finger on the warm scale, feeling the pulse of this new, impossible life. The world outside this room, with all its politics and old hatreds, seemed to recede, muted by the sound of that deep, rattling purr.
He was still kneeling when Visenya, disturbed by the strange sounds, began to fuss in her crib. The newborn dragon’s head snapped up at the noise. It let out a tiny, inquisitive peep.
Baelon giggled. “That’s Vis’nya. She’s little too.”
Naerys rose, wiping her cheeks, and went to her daughter. She lifted Visenya, shushing her, and turned back to the extraordinary scene at the bed. A man of the Hightower, kneeling in devotion before a Targaryen dragon hatched in his own keep. Her son, a king of ruins and riverbanks, holding his crown of flesh and fire.
Gwayne finally pulled his hand back. He looked up at Naerys, holding their daughter. His expression was raw, stripped bare. “What do we do?” he asked quietly. It wasn’t a question of logistics—how to feed it, where to house it. It was a question of fate. Of how they would live now, with this in their home.
Naerys crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed beside Baelon. She leaned over, her silver-gold hair mixing with his, and pressed a kiss to his temple. She looked at Gwayne, her violet eyes clear and certain.
“We trust it,” she said softly, echoing his lesson by the river. “We just have to trust it.”
Outside, the mist began to burn away, revealing a hard, blue sky. In the room, the dragon exhaled, and a perfect, miniature ring of smoke drifted upward, dissolving in the morning light.
In the room, the dragon exhaled, and a perfect, miniature ring of smoke drifted upward, dissolving in the morning light.
The following weeks were a fever dream of careful adaptation. Sunny grew with a terrifying, voracious speed. He was the size of a hunting hound within a fortnight, his cream-and-gold scales hardening like ceramic plate. The purring stopped, replaced by curious chirps and the dry, rustling sound of his wings stretching against new muscle.
He ate scrap meat from the kitchens, charred black in the hearth fire first. Baelon insisted on doing the feeding himself, his small hands steady as he offered chunks on a long iron fork. “He likes the crispy bits,” the boy explained, solemn as a maester.
“He’ll like your fingers if you’re not careful,” Gwayne said, watching every interaction from a few feet away, his body perpetually taut.
But the dragon was gentle, almost fastidious. He would take the meat delicately, his molten gold eyes fixed on Baelon’s face. After eating, he’d nudge Baelon’s hand with his snout until the boy scratched the ridge above his eyes. Then he’d slump before the fire, a contented heap of warmth, and nap.
The tower adapted around him. A old, disused guard post atop the battlements was cleared out, its roof partially removed to become a makeshift eyrie. It was Gwayne’s idea. “He needs the sky. He needs to see it, or he’ll fret and start chewing through the stone.” He said it practically, but Naerys heard the undertone of fascination. Her husband was studying the dragon like one of his agricultural treaties, learning its rhythms, anticipating its needs.
The maids whispered, of course. The guards stared. Rumors slithered down to the city below, growing teeth and wings of their own. A dragon in the Hightower. A Targaryen dragon. Gwayne dealt with it through silent, unwavering example. He would walk with Baelon to the eyrie, Sunny scrambling at their heels like a bizarre, scaled pup. He stood beside his son as the dragon first managed a clumsy, hopping flight from the parapet to the courtyard below.
Gwayne didn’t flinch. He just watched, his hand on Baelon’s shoulder. His acceptance was a shield none of the whispers could penetrate.
His acceptance was a shield none of the whispers could penetrate. It forged a new, private world within their walls, one measured in the pound of Sunny’s growth and Visenya’s first giggle. Naerys felt that world solidifying around her each night she fell asleep to the rhythm of Gwayne’s breath, each morning she woke to find his hand seeking hers beneath the sheets.
She woke one morning to a different sensation entirely—a slow, warm ache between her thighs, a restless fullness that had her shifting against the linen. Dawn was a grey suggestion at the window. Gwayne slept deeply beside her, his face turned into the pillow. The memory of his hands guiding Baelon in the river, of his awe-touched face in the nursery, swam in her mind not as thoughts but as a physical pull.
She turned into him, closing the last inch of space. She kissed the corner of his mouth, then the line of his jaw. Her tongue touched the stubble on his cheek. “Gwayne,” she murmured against his skin.
He stirred with a soft groan, his body responding before his mind. His arms came around her, pulling her flush against the heat of his chest. His mouth found hers in the half-light, sleep-slack but quickly warming. “Naerys,” he sighed into the kiss, his hands sliding down to cup her backside through her shift.
The ache in her deepened, turned liquid. She rocked against him, feeling the hard line of his cock already straining against his smallclothes. “Need you,” she whispered, the words frank and hungry. It was a need stripped of ceremony, born from shared sun on water and shared fire in a cradle.
He understood. He rolled, his weight settling over her, a welcome anchor. He kissed her deeply, his tongue stroking hers as he rucked her thin shift up to her waist. He fumbled with the ties of his own linen trousers, freeing himself. He was already slick at the tip, eager. She guided him to her, her fingers wrapping his shaft, and he hissed at the contact.
“Fuck,” he breathed, and he pushed inside her with a single, smooth stroke.
She was wet and ready, her body opening for him without hesitation. She gasped, her head falling back, her hips lifting to take him deeper. He began to move, a slow, deep rhythm that made her claws dig into his shoulders. The feeling was exquisite, a raw, frictioning fullness that promised release.
He quickened, his breaths coming in sharp pants against her neck. “Gods, you feel… I can’t…”
His rhythm faltered. His thrusts became short, frantic jerks. A broken sound tore from his throat, and he went rigid above her, spilling inside her with a warmth that pulsed through her core. It was over in moments.
He collapsed, his weight heavy and still. His face was buried in her hair. “Oh, fuck. Naerys. I’m sorry.” The apology was a laugh, breathless and embarrassed. “That was… pathetic.”
She laughed too, the sound low and genuinely amused. Her inner muscles clenched softly around his softening length, making him twitch. “It’s not a tourney,” she said, her fingers carding through his hair. “No points for endurance.”
He lifted his head, his hazel eyes crinkled with chagrin. “Give me a minute. Just… stay right there.” He didn’t withdraw. He kept himself sheathed inside her, leaning down to kiss her. It started as a soft apology against her lips but deepened into something hungry and searching. His hands cradled her face, his thumbs stroking her cheeks as his tongue explored her mouth.
She kissed him back, pouring her own building frustration into it. She rocked her hips, a subtle, grinding motion. He groaned into her mouth. She felt him. Inside her, he began to swell again, thickening, lengthening, filling her once more.
“There,” she smiled against his lips.
“Cheat,” he whispered, but he was already moving. He pulled almost all the way out and slid back in with a deliberate, grinding slowness that made her eyes roll back. “This time,” he vowed, his voice gritty with renewed intent, “is for you.”
He set a different pace, not the frantic race of before but a deep, rolling cadence that touched something essential within her. Each drag of his cock stoked a tightening coil. He braced himself on one elbow, his other hand sliding between their bodies. His fingers found her clit, wet from their joining, and began to rub tight, knowing circles.
“Right there,” she chanted, her hips meeting his thrust for thrust. “Don’t stop, Gwayne, please don’t fucking stop.”
The crude words sparked something in him. He drove into her harder, his own control fraying. “Come for me,” he growled, his voice unfamiliar, dark with want. “Let me feel it, Naerys. Now.”
The command, the friction, the perfect pressure of his fingers shattered her. Her climax ripped through her without warning, a blinding, violent wave that clenched around him, milking his length. She cried out, a raw, throaty sound muffled against his shoulder.
Feeling her convulse around him broke his last restraint. With three more ragged, driving thrusts, he followed her over, his own release a hot, pulse deep inside her. He shuddered through it, his whole body trembling with the force.
He stayed inside her as they both drifted back, their sweat-slick skin cooling in the dawn air. Slowly, gently, he withdrew and gathered her against him. He placed soft, open-mouthed kisses along the curve of her breast, over her pounding heart, up to the join of her neck and shoulder. His lips were tender where his rhythm had been demanding.
“Alright?” he murmured into her skin.
“Mm.” She traced the scar on his shoulder. “Better than alright.”
A sharp, inquisitive cry echoed down from the battlements—Sunny, greeting the sun. The sound was followed by the familiar, rapid patter of Baelon’s feet in the corridor, presumably racing to join his dragon.
Gwayne listened, his body relaxing further. He kissed her shoulder again. “The dragon needs the boy. The boy needs breakfast. The lord needs to adjudicate a dispute about three stolen chickens.” He sighed, but it was a contented sound.
“And the lady?” she asked, stretching against him.
“The lady,” he said, his hand smoothing down the plane of her stomach, “has already conquered her morning.” He smiled, a real, easy thing. “We should get up before they send a search party.”
But they didn’t move, not yet. They lay entangled, listening to their strange, burgeoning world wake around them. The citrus seeds from the Summer Isles, Gwayne’s quiet project of hope, would be waiting in their little clay pots on the south-facing balcony. The dragon was shrieking on the roof. Their daughter would soon call for them. Their peace was not a quiet one, but it was theirs, forged in these tangled sheets and this unwavering, chosen trust.