Dragonlance, Chapter 6: West’ros’ Greatest Love Machine

Eleventh Moon, 169 AC

The Most Devout

“I’m sorry? Did I hear that right?” Raynard of the Most Devout couldn’t help but exclaim in shock.

The Hand, Prince Viserys, was as stern as ever but even Raynard could see that he wanted to be anywhere else but here. His niece and grandson however, had a firm and demanding look on their faces as they nodded.

“You did, Excellency. What do you say Your Holiness? Do we have your blessing?” Princess Daena said.

“I see no reason to refuse!” the High Septon replied eagerly in a high-pitched boyish voice.

‘Of course you don’t,’ Raynard couldn’t help but think derisively. ‘You’re a child. They just needed to flatter you a bit and give you some toys and you were all for it.’

The eight-year-old street urchin that King Baelor had elevated to the holiest seat in Andaldom was far from qualified for his position and at times like this, it fell to the actual clergy around the boy to step in.

“If I may interject, Your Holiness,” Raynard asked.

“Of course, Septon Raynard, go ahead,” the boy said.

Turning to address their royal guests, Raynard continued. “Prince Daeron, Princess Daena, you must understand that what you request is… extreme at best. This concept of co-rulership is uncommon but not unheard of and more than that besides, it is the business of your own house how you internally handle the matter of your succession. The Faith has little reason to refuse you a dual coronation and anointing.

“This proposal to have a triple wedding not just for yourselves but for Princess Rhaena and Princess Elaena as well to Prince Daeron, however, is not something the Faith can abide by. It is not a ceremony we can officiate, nor is it a union we can bless. It is polygamy, trigamy, adultery, and fornication! It is among the greatest sins for our Faith and, forgive my offense, it is deeply concerning that you even ask this.”

Raynard was self-aware enough to know that he wasn’t nearly as pious nor zealous as the late King Baelor and many of his associates had been, and he was more closely aligned with the more pragmatic and politically minded members of the Most Devout, but this was too much even for him.

“Forgive my assumptions, Your Excellency, but I was of the understanding that the Doctrine of Exceptionalism made it clear that House Targaryen may maintain its own marriage customs,” Prince Daeron replied.

“For incest, my prince. Not for polygamy. That was the agreement made between the Faith and King Jaehaerys after the tyranny of Maegor the Cruel.”

“Was it? No such agreement was ever put into writing. I made sure to check. The Doctrine of Exceptionalism makes no such distinction. It explicitly stresses the unique, Valyrian, marriage customs of House Targaryen. Those customs include both incest and polygamy. As we are already exempt from incest being considered a sin by the Faith by the Doctrine, surely polygamy is too? Surely incest is much stranger to the Faith’s sensibilities? Yet if it can be accepted, why not polygamy also?”

Raynard couldn’t help but smile, a little impressed. “King Baelor taught you well my prince. An astute observation. The theology is sound, in theory at least, but in practice the Faith has always been hesitant to bless polygamy in addition to incest out of fear it will spread. Forgive my saying this, but House Targaryen is unique in its incestuous… predilections. The Faith has not often had much reason to fear that either the lords or the smallfolk would pursue it.

“Yet polygamy? Many men are greedy and lustful. Give them an example of their king taking many wives and they will begin to question why they cannot do the same. What will be done when a lord dares to take two wives or more now? The Faith has no more Militant with which to enforce its will and punish them.”

“And that is where the Iron Throne will step in, as was agreed by King Jaehaerys. Our swords are your swords, Excellency, as the Defenders of the Faith. The lords can cry about the unfairness all they want; it will not change the truth of the matter. House Targaryen is set apart. We may marry our sisters and take as many wives as we please. Those of different dispositions, the Andals and First Men and the rest, they may not. It is not hypocrisy, but exceptionalism,” came Prince Daeron’s reply.

“Of course, we understand the difficulties that the Faith will have in making this distinction, and we are prepared to help… smoothen any ruffled feathers,” Prince Viserys added.

Raynard couldn’t help but suppress a smirk. Of course, the age-old tradition. Though he prided himself on not being nearly as corrupt as many of his colleagues, one didn’t reach the Most Devout and stay there very long without accepting at least a few gifts to help weigh in on particular issues and speed along certain dispensations.

Baelor had tried to stop it of course, but the institution was far, far older than Baelor. All Baelor had ultimately achieved was making it subtler than ever before. He might have been popular and saintly enough for them to not defy him or his appointed High Septons openly, but not even he could replace the entire Most Devout.

“I’m sure that many of our brethren on the Most Devout would certainly be open to considering the possibilities so long as certain guarantees were made,” Raynard said, expecting to negotiate with the stalwart and experienced Prince Hand.

To his surprise however, the aspiring king proved to be as deft with politics as he was with theology, taking the lead in all the negotations.

“Of course, Septon Raynard. The Iron Throne is ready and prepared to not just continue but double its obligations to the Faith. The Great Sept of Baelor will be completed, ahead of schedule, with even more funding than before, and we look forward to providing a cherished home for the Most Devout and the High Septon for many centuries to come, right here in King’s Landing.

“In addition, the alms and other charitable initiatives begun by Baelor will continue under the management of my mother, Princess Naerys, and my soon to be second wife, Princess Rhaena. And of course, Baelor himself will continue to be sanctified. The late king did so many great things for our kingdom and for the Faith, why it was even upon his own blessed pyre that dragons were brought forth into the world once more!” Daeron said.

“That is, a good start Your Grace, but I feel there must be something a little more convincing than just that,” Raynard said with a careful smile. He had noticed the subtle warnings mixed in that others may not have. Still, it was his duty to try and get something more for the Faith.

It was not like this was an unfamiliar game to them anyway. They had long since learned to navigate the struggles of dwelling in a city that was not truly theirs and since the reign of Maegor, without a Militant of their own. Part of the reason why the Faith had been so eager to move to King’s Landing anyway had been the sour memories of Lyonel Hightower and his stepmother-turned-wife, Samantha Tarly, and all the pressure they had placed upon the Faith to legitimize their marriage and children.

“As you say Septon Raynard, the Iron Throne is prepared to right the mistakes of King Aenys and offer the Faith the chance to return to the Iron Islands and continue proselytizing. New septs and motherhouses, new septons and septas. All beneath the protection and formal sponsorship of the Iron Throne,” Daeron said with a smile.

To Raynard’s pleasant surprise, the would-be king had dangled a prize before them that he would never have expected in his wildest dreams.

“And what if the ironmen try to make trouble? Try to attack our septs and clergy? Many innocent lives could be at stake here.”

“Agreed. Which is why you will have the full protection and formal sponsorship of the Iron Throne for the endeavor. Let the whole realm know that you return to the Iron Isles with the blessing of the Iron Throne, and with armed men and guards paid for the Crown. And if the ironmen still dare to attack, they will have committed blasphemy and treason both and they shall feel the full fury of dragonfire for it,” Daeron replied, a determined glare upon his face.

“And the Prince Hand approves of this? It was my understanding that he convinced King Baelor not to proceed with similar endeavors for fear of war,” Raynard said, looking over to the aged and experienced Prince Viserys with caution.

“As I convinced Baelor, so have I been convinced in turn by my grandson of the merits of this idea. You may rest assured, Your Excellency, that you will have the full and undivided backing of House Targaryen for this initiative,” Viserys said, stern and unreadable as always but Raynard took him at his word. The Prince Hand had never been known for a liar.

His mind raced as the weight of the Targaryens’ proposal sank in. This was not an offer the Faith could refuse. So what if the Targaryens wanted to stretch Exceptionalism to the utmost limits and risk the eternal damnation of their souls for it? It was not their problem. And for the low, low cost of permitting what they had, by technicality at least, already allowed, they were being given another chance to have the Iron Islands? To finally bring it under their light? It was something they had dreamed of for millennia, something they had been denied by Aenys’ foolishness and now Aenys’ descendant was offering it back to them for a pittance.

Doing his best to not sound too eager, Raynard spoke. “The High Septon and I will speak to our colleagues about your proposal, Your Grace, but I’m sure it will be no trouble. As you say, Exceptionalism does allow it and clearly the Seven have shown favor upon this polygamous union by birthing dragons from the ashes of Blessed Baelor precisely for you and your wives to be.”

Daeron smiled. “I’m glad to hear it, Your Excellency. I look forward to the Iron Throne and the Faith continuing to work together closely under mine and Daena’s reign. To enduring friendships and new initiatives,” he said, offering his arm.

Raynard took it gladly with a smirk of his own. “Agreed, Your Grace.”

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Twelfth Moon, 169 AC

The Spurned Dornishwoman

“So it is confirmed then,” Myriah said once they had finished reading the announcement from King’s Landing that unceremoniously brought an end to her impending marriage to Daeron Targaryen. She felt more conflicted than she could ever recall in her life.

“A thousand poxes on those blasted, lying, dishonorable dragonspawn!” her father, Prince Marence Martell, cursed. He was clearly angry and her brother Maron had a similar anger tinged with some fear.

Myriah would say she felt the same but in truth, her own anger was rather muted. In all honesty this outcome had been very much expected.

Ever since they had learned that her betrothed had impregnated all three of his cousins and ended up inadvertently killing Baelor in the process as he had fasted himself to death from shame, Myriah had been expecting word would come any day that her betrothal was at an end. Why would Daeron, now in line to be King, ever choose her above three Targaryen Princesses? Targaryens who now laid claim to living, breathing dragons just as he did?

It was utterly absurd. It hadn’t stopped her father from coping to himself and pretending that the betrothal would be honored, that perhaps Myriah might even be able to claim a dragon herself through the distant dragonblood of his father, Drazenko Rogare, the short-lived consort of her grandmother, Princess Aliandra.

Yet now they had the final confirmation and Myriah felt conflicted. Part of her knew she should feel hurt and angry, and she did. She had been writing to Daeron for years and she had thought she had known him, she had thought she might even have grown to love him, for the person he had seemed to be in his letters had been so sweet and kind, so curious to learn more of her people and ensure a lasting peace between them.

Had it all been a ruse? Some kind of sick game he had been playing with her? Had he laughed about her foolishness with his new lovers all the while? Because the real Daeron was nothing like the shy bookish boy in her letters.

He was an aspiring knight and warrior, a scoundrel who had broken his betrothal and seduced and impregnated all three of his King’s sisters. And even worse for Dorne, he had hatched four dragons upon said King’s pyre and claimed them for himself and his lovers. At least one of them, Daena, had never forgiven Myriah’s people for what they had done to her brother, Daeron’s namesake, and now she was set to become Daeron’s Queen and co-ruler.

Her father could not stop himself from pacing around the room worriedly, even in his old age and weakening health, as he tried to think of a way out for them. Myriah’s own fear grew as she watched the man who had outsmarted the Young Dragon at a loss.

With her brother and father seemingly speechless, Myriah stepped in, putting to use training she had almost forgotten after years of disuse.

“We have to take steps immediately Father. To protect Dorne from what is now inevitable. Now that I am your heir again and my betrothed has spurned me, my marriage must be used for Dorne’s security. I heard that Lord Yronwood’s eldest son and heir is unwed and it would ensure Dorne is united for the war to come. Maron should marry into another similarly powerful house. Fowler perhaps, or better yet Dayne.”

Maron looked stunned as he realized that she was right, with her marriage to Daeron – who they had always predicted would be King one day with Baelor’s celibacy – now cancelled, there was no longer any justification for Myriah not to be the heir.

It gave Myriah rather mixed feelings. She had never really been happy knowing that marrying Daeron would have her lose Dorne, her home, and the rule of which was rightfully hers. Yet in time she had grown accustomed and even accepting of the loss as her relationship with Daeron through the letters had deepened. Now with the rug pulled out from under her, Daeron proving faithless and a future enemy, and Dorne back in her hands, she really didn’t know how to feel about it all.

Was she happy that the heirship of Dorne was hers again? Was she enraged that she was spurned by her betrothed? Was she slighted that her own wedding ceremony had been stolen and repurposed for Daeron’s polygamous marriage to his new lovers? Was she fearful of what the future would hold now that the Targaryens had dragons again and a woman who possessed the deepest enmity for them was now set to become Queen?

She could tell that her brother similarly looked rather conflicted or even upset about the loss of the heirship before he put it aside to focus on what was more important. He turned to their reeling father with a firm expression on his face.

“Myriah is right Father. Now is not the time for Dorne to be divided. Let Myriah have Sunspear, it is hers by right. If Lord Dayne is amenable, I will marry his daughter and serve as her consort. I will also make sure to befriend her brother Ulrick. We will need the Sword of the Morning’s strength for the troubles ahead.”

As his two children planned and schemed for their survival, it breathed new life into their panicking father as he steeled his gaze.

“Very well then. It shall be so. I will reach out to all our old allies across the sea, especially those who helped us against the Young Dragon. I am certain the Free Cities will not be pleased by this Targaryen resurgence. The watch on our borders will be doubled, and all the fortifications repaired. And we will open up the history books to study and reuse the tactics our great foremother Meria successfully employed against Aegon the Conqueror.

“Let the Targaryens come. Let them see that even against the restored might of their dragons, Dorne will never bow, bend, or break!” Prince Marence Martell declared.

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Twelfth Moon, 169 AC

The Other Rhaena

“What do you think Rhaena? Your namesake got married. She’s got a husband now and two co-wives to boot! Are you proud?” her twin poked teasingly before coughing furiously.

Baela could not stop finding the whole thing amusing. Ever since the news had spread across the realm that their brother’s grandson had seduced their nieces, Baela had almost died laughing every day.

Rhaena didn’t find it nearly as funny but she didn’t ruin her sister’s good mood. It wasn’t often that Baela was in high spirits these days, what with her failing health. Besides her twin, her goodbrother, Alyn Oakenfist, had a similar smirk as he looked at their grandnephew dancing with each of his three new wives in turn upon the dance floor of the Red Keep. Each of them was visibly pregnant and quite heavily so yet they still moved with elegant grace on the dance floor, especially her namesake.

“Daeron is a lucky bastard. Almost all the men in the Seven Kingdoms would kill to be in his place,” he observed.

“Including you?” Baela asked. Her tone was teasing but there was a dangerous glint in her eyes.

Neither their father Daemon nor their grandfather Corlys had been faithful men. And though they had never been able to prove it, both Baela and Rhaena had long suspected that Alyn had been much the same. Even after all these years, there were still bawdy rumors of his entanglement with the late Princess Aliandra of Dorne.

“I would be a liar if I said a part of me doesn’t envy him. But that’s the jealousy of a young, unattached man and I haven’t been that man for many decades. I have you, my dear Baela,” Alyn responded smoothly.

Despite herself, Baela flushed beneath her husband’s words. Alyn and Baela knew each other too well for a blatant lie that he wasn’t at least partly envious to be believed but he had played it off well.

Before long, Alyn was coaxing Baela to dance with him and despite her increasing frailty, Baela still had all the fiery passion and exuberance of their youth as she rose to her feet and followed her husband to the dance floor. No doubt they were intent on mingling and teasing the newly wed groom and brides too, in the way only a mischievous aunt and uncle could do.

For her part, Rhaena remained seated at the table without anyone to dance with, feeling a pang of loneliness.

She had loved and lost thrice in her life. Lucerys, her betrothed, had perished to the One-Eye above Storm’s End decades ago and many argued that it was the true beginning of the Dance. Her first husband, Corwyn Corbray, had died barely four years into their marriage and she had miscarried their only babe.

After Corwyn, Rhaena had just been so spent and exhausted. Almost her entire family was dead and she had lost both her first love and her first husband already. She had been certain that she would never find love again, intent on remaining widowed and childless for the rest of her days.

Yet fate it seemed had a sense of humor as she had eventually found love again in the last person she would have ever expected. Garmund Hightower, the third son of the late Lord Ormund Hightower, nephew to none other than Ser Otto Hightower himself, her father’s archnemesis and the patriarch of the Greens that had so destroyed Rhaena’s family.

It was an absurd pairing, a match that would have made her parents and grandparents red in the face with fury, yet they were all dead and Rhaena had been left alone with siblings too busy for her and a dead husband she was still mourning.

Like something out of a song, Garmund and her had found each other. Enemies to lovers, the singers would say. For they had hated and mistrusted each other at first yet in time as they had continued to encounter each other and their mutual interests and passions had drawn them together, there had been a great love indeed.

Perhaps the greatest love of all, the fruit of decades of marriage and six daughters. Yet just like all her other loves, it had not lasted. Garmund had passed from a weakness of the heart, or so the Maester had said, some seven years past, and Rhaena had been left all alone again.

Ever since, she had spent much of her time on Driftmark, where her twin and cousin (likely uncle in all honesty) ruled. Two of her girls were there, as they had wed their cousins Corlys and Addam, Baela’s boys, and another was nearby in the Stormlands, having married Lord Penrose.

Her youngest three girls were scattered across the realm, each married into powerful houses in their own right. One was even married to her cousin from her father’s side, Lord Jon Hightower, the son of Rhaena’s goodsiblings, Lyonel and Samantha. Though Garmund had been but the third son, Rhaena had been the sister of a King and that had made their daughters’ hands highly prized. She was proud of what each of her daughters had made of themselves in their new houses but it still saddened her that she couldn’t see her younger three as often as she would like as a result.

Long gone were the days when Rhaena had ridden a dragon. Her dear Morning had sickened and died in Oldtown a few years after she had married Garmund and no one, not even the Maesters had been able to tell why. It had been one of the darkest days in her life and Rhaena had lived a life full of them as it was.

She had been inconsolable at the time and even now the memory still stung. It was as if a curse had befallen House Targaryen after the Dance, a curse that had slowly stripped away all their dragons from them.

A mutated horrible wyrm had hatched in her niece Laena’s cradle and almost killed her before Alyn had slain it. Then barely a year after Aegon had come of age and ended the regency, before Viserys was old enough to claim Silverwing (for Aegon had become terrified of dragons after the way Rhaenyra had died and would not give him leave until he was also of age), Silverwing and Sheepstealer had both returned to Dragonstone and the Cannibal, having grown desperate and starved for its favorite meat, had hunted them both, resulting in the death of all three dragons.

The following years had seen only the birth of twisted and stunted hatchlings, several of whom perished before even growing larger than a dog and none at all had hatched after Morning had fallen sick and died. The last dragon had been the healthiest of the lot and even she had been partially deformed; Aegon had done the worst thing imaginable and chained her to die, twisted and stunted, in the dungeons beneath the Red Keep instead of letting her grow free and strong on Dragonstone, much to the protests of herself, Baela, and Viserys. And ever since her death, no dragons had ever hatched again.

Until now.

She looked back up at the dance floor where her namesake was now in the arms of the husband she shared with her sisters. Her niece was different from her in a lot of ways, much more pious and meeker than Rhaena could ever remember being, yet she and her sisters and their husband had now been blessed with a gift that Rhaena and her twin had had and lost.

The privilege of being a dragonrider. Of seeing all the world beneath you like a board to be played.

The dragons were young still, barely even hatchlings, but they would not always be. In just a few years, they would be large enough to ride, and in a decade or two, they would be fit for war, and when they were, they would change the world.

Her brother Viserys had truly outdone himself with the coronation and wedding planning because every inch of those ceremonies had been designed to reinforce that fact to any who might gainsay the polygamous union or think Baelor’s misrule had made House Targaryen weak.

The pageantry had been impressive, even to her and Baela, but what had really stood out had been the well-timed moments when the hatchling dragons would fly up to their bonded riders to be and rest on their shoulders. Making it clear for all the realm to see that the announcement of dragons had been no lie and that House Targaryen was once again on the ascent.

Rhaena would admit, the sight of living dragons after so many decades had made her cry. And Baela would punch her if she brought it up, but she had cried too.

But while she and her sister were among those overjoyed to see dragons returning, she knew many wouldn’t be. Some of the lords had grown far too accustomed to a dragonless House Targaryen and the free rein it had given them, and while the Great Sept here in King’s Landing had approved of the polygamous union, her nephew and goodson, Lord Jon Hightower had told her that there was some grumbling from the more conservative voices at the Starry Sept.

They were at a dangerous crossroads, Rhaena thought. Though the Faith Militant was long gone, the memories of what it had done had been seared into the minds of all Westerosi and if grandnephew and nieces weren’t careful and they didn’t manage their reputation carefully among the smallfolk, the lords, and the clergy, there would be trouble ahead.

She was broken from her thoughts as she saw Alyn leading Baela back to their table.

“Had enough for the night?” she asked them.

“I’ve gotten too old for this,” Baela complained while Rhaena and Alyn chuckled.

From the corner of her eye, she noticed her namesake being led away from the wedding feast by her sisters and new husband and raised an eyebrow.

Baela, having followed her glance, laughed uproariously. “Well, I suppose they don’t really need a bedding ceremony now do they?” she said while crudely gesturing towards her belly.

Despite herself, Rhaena couldn’t help but laugh at the crass joke. She was sure many others in the room were doing the same.

Perhaps that might be the trick, she thought. Make all the lords and smallfolk find enjoyment and humor in the story, even if it was at the expense of the new King and his wives. What was funny was not offensive, what was humorous was not worth fighting a religious war for.

It felt as if her nephew had read her mind when he stepped up and began to speak, though she doubted he was actually thinking along the same lines as he was clearly drunk.

“My lords and ladies!” Aegon shouted out, drawing the attention of the room as he slurred his words. “We gather here today to celebrate the coronation of my son as our King and his marriage to his three new wives!”

“Hear hear!” the room all clamored, eager to not look treasonous.

“I call a toast! To my son! I wish him a long and happy life! He will definitely need it since he has three women to appease,” Aegon japed and the room laughed uproariously at his jest.

“I’ve never been prouder of my son than I am today,” Aegon continued. “And never more jealous either! Let’s be frank. Every single man of this room wishes he could be in my son’s place and I don’t blame you! I feel the same!” Aegon laughed at his own joke and many more crude lords laughed alongside him.

“So in honor of my son’s great achievements, I have commissioned a great song that will lighten up the kingdoms for centuries to come!” Aegon said as a troupe of reluctant bards and minstrels marched onto the dance floor behind him.

They all looked very nervous and Rhaena felt her heart sank as she wondered what kind of absurd song her errant nephew had commissioned. She could hear him lecturing drunkenly to the troupe from here.

“No need to be shy! Play the song damn it! Your prince commands you!”

Despite the clearly worried looks on their faces, the troupe obeyed, unwilling to openly defy a Targaryen prince.

The lutes and the harps strummed and Aegon began stomping his feet to the rhythm and clapping his hands. The tune was catchy, Rhaena would give it to her nephew, and when the chanting ‘heys’ started, she couldn’t resist joining in.

Aegon himself began the first verse, alternating the lines with the backup singers from the troupe. His voice sounded far better than she would have thought. He had never struck her as the musical type but clearly this song had his passion and she soon realized why as the lyrics of the first stanza and chorus sunk in.

There lived a certain man in Westeros long ago

He was big and strong, in his eyes a flaming glow

The Dornish look at him with terror and with fear

But to Targaryen girls, he was such a lovely dear

He could preach the Faith like a preacher

Full of ecstasy and fire

But he also was the kind of teacher

Women would desire

Dra-Dra-Dragonlance, lover of the Dragon Queen,

There was a cat that really was gone

Dra-Dra-Dragonlance, West’ros’ greatest love machine

It was a joy how he carried on

Alyn and Baela had lost all control of their composure, laughing uproariously and cheering in their seats as Aegon began to dance around furiously. Soon a huge crowd joined him on the dance floor, going around in circles as they danced along and sang to the song, following Aegon’s lead as he began the second verse.

He ruled the Maidenvault and never mind Baelor

Though the princesses were under lock and key

To the three caged girls he was a savior

And he handled them with Valyrian glee

Then he did something a little clever

Took the sisters to bed

And the realm would alter forever

When the rumors spread

Dra-Dra-Dragonlance, lover of the Dragon Queen,

There was a cat that really was gone

Dra-Dra-Dragonlance, West’ros’ greatest love machine

It was a joy how he carried on

Then as the second verse ended and the song’s rhythm continued, Aegon began a speaking interlude, sounding prouder than he ever had before as the interlude gave way to a new round of chants that built the song back up.

But when his training, and his lusting, and his hunger for

vengeance became known to more and more Dornish,

The demands to do something about this warrior prince

became louder and louder

Hey hey hey

Hey hey hey

Hey hey hey

Then at last Aegon and the troupe began the final verse and chorus.

“This man’s just got to go!” declared his enemies

And Myriah begged “You must try to do it, please!”

No doubt this Dragonlance, had angered many foes

Though he was not one that would care about their woes

Then he threw four eggs into the fire

Settled down to pray

While his need was very great and dire

They did come what may

Dra-Dra-Dragonlance, lover of the Dragon Queen,

The Faith thus let him marry three wives!

Dra-Dra-Dragonlance, West’ros’ greatest love machine

He is the legend of our lives!

Dra-Dra-Dragonlance, lover of the Dragon Queen

So he now reigns, long live our king!

Dra-Dra-Dragonlance, West’ros’ greatest love machine

To him we all now drink and sing!

Oh, that Dragonlance

As the song ended, the hall was left completely stunned and divided between the drunk and laughing who had enjoyed the bawdy song and those that were scandalized and horrified by its lyrics. If anyone but the King’s own father had commissioned and sung the song, it might have even been grounds for an arrest and execution.

As it was her brother and other nephew, Viserys and Aemon thundered onto the scene, breaking up the crowd as they dragged the drunk Aegon away by his ears, no doubt to give him an intense lecture, but the damage had already been done.

Rhaena looked around the room and knew that no one would ever forget this song. Amused, she hoped that her grandnephew liked his new moniker as it was likely all that he would ever be known as in the realm.

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Author’s Note: Hi everyone! Sorry for the delay for this chapter! Lots of things IRL like work making me busy, my cousin getting married, familial obligations, and even the TFSFM chapter slowed me down, but it’s here at last and in time before month’s end!

Hope you all enjoyed it even though there was no smut this time lel!

Please let me know your thoughts, suggestions, and questions in the comments below or over on Discord!