Chapter Text
The Prologue: The Dragon and the Crab
The moon hung high over the Red Keep, a silver eye gazing down upon the darkened halls where history was being shaped in whispered voices and hushed steps. The great hall, usually alive with the murmurs of courtiers and the flickering glow of torches, was eerily silent.
Within the royal chambers, Jaehaerys I Targaryen sat rigid upon his chair, his fingers steepled, his expression carved from stone. The air was thick with the scent of burning tallow and the distant brine of Blackwater Bay, but all Gael Targaryen could smell was her own fear. She stayed by the side of her mother, queen Alysanne, silver-golden hair veiling her tear-streaked face, her frail shoulders trembling beneath the weight of her disgrace, the hand of her mother resting lightly on Gael’s shoulder, the queen’s face schooled into an expression of calm control, but her blue eyes gleamed with sorrow. Baelon the Brave stood by the side of his father, below the iron throne, his stance a warrior’s, broad and immovable, his jaw clenched as if he longed to unsheathe his sword and carve away the shame festering in the room.
Only the cold gaze of her father, King Jaehaerys, and the piercing glint of the Iron Throne loomed over the small gathering. The air was thick with the scent of burning wax and the metallic tang of blood yet to be spilled.
The singer, whose name they never cared to ask for, knelt before the throne, his wrists bound, his face pale and bruised but defiant. The flickering torchlight cast long, wavering shadows across his features, while his blood dripped into the pristine floor.
The only other witnesses to this secret judgment were the three Kingsguard standing around the accused man, in silent vigilance waiting for the command to end it all: Ser Ryam Redwyne, Ser Clement Crabb, and Ser Robin Shaw. Their white cloaks seemed to glow in the dim torchlight, spectral and unyielding.
Gael’s breath hitched as her father finally spoke, his voice a blade cutting through the silence.
“You have defiled what is sacred. You sought to stain my daughter’s honor and bring shame upon this house.” Said the old King, with a stern expression that barely hided his fury.
“I love her,” The singer whispered, his voice raw. He lifted his head, his eyes searching, pleading—whether for mercy or understanding, Gael could not tell.
Jaehaerys’ expression did not waver.
“Your love means nothing in the face of duty and honor. Both values that were smeared by thy actions” Said the King, furious, with blood in his eyes. He gestured slightly, and Ser Ryam stepped forward, drawing his sword with a slow, deliberate scrape of steel against leather.
“No,” Gael gasped, stepping forward before Alysanne caught her wrist, stopping her. Her mother’s grip was firm, her eyes filled with sorrow but unwavering. “Please, Father, don’t…” Gael choked, her vision blurring with tears. But it was already decided. Ser Ryam raised his sword. The singer closed his eyes. Gael could not look away, even as the blade descended with a sickening finality.
A sharp gasp echoed through the chamber—her own. A spray of crimson marred the cold stone floor, and the singer collapsed, lifeless. Silence swallowed the room once more, save for the dull ringing in Gael’s ears. The warmth of her mother’s hand vanished, and she staggered forward, sinking to her knees beside the lifeless body.
A sob tore through her as she reached out, her fingers hovering over his cooling skin. This was her fault. If only she had been stronger, if only she had been wiser, if only she had hidden her love better.
“Come, Gael.” A heavy hand settled on her shoulder. Baelon. Her brother's voice was quiet but firm. She did not move, not until her father spoke one last time.
“This never happened. Do you understand?” Jaehaerys spoke with an expression of disgust and a look that said the matter was over.
Gael looked up through tear-clouded eyes. Jaehaerys’ face was as unreadable as ever, but there was something else there, deep beneath the surface—regret, perhaps, or merely the weight of kingship. The Kingsguard remained impassive, but Baelon’s grip tightened on her shoulder. Even her mother, so strong, turned away.
This never happened.
As Ser Clement and Ser Robin moved to drag the body away, Gael swallowed a sob and let Baelon guide her into the shadows, leaving behind the memory of love lost to duty, honor, and the will of the Iron Throne.
Her lover was dead. Her singer. Her Jon, whose name they didn’t ever ask…
…
Jaehaerys, still on the iron throne, exhaled, long and slow.
“No one speaks of this. Ever. If a whisper escapes, if tongues wag, I will have them torn from their mouths” His voice was not raised, but it carried all the weight of his reign.
The three Kingsguard in attendance—Ryam Redwyne, Clement Crabb, and Robin Shaw—bowed their heads in solemn acknowledgement. They would keep their vows. The court would not know of the shame that had nearly stained the royal line.
The King turned his gaze upon Alysanne, his face softening for a moment before hardening again. “This… will not ruin her, I promise." His voice, a mix of a warmth promise and a cold king’s decree.
“Do you mean…” Alysanne started to formulate a question that she already had an answer for.
“Yes, the girl must be married.” Said Jaehaerys, sadness and worry finally trespassing in his voice.
Alysanne squeezed her eyes shut, while breathing, before opening them with a determined and fierce look.
“We need a husband who will protect her, honor her and that can be under our eyes ” Her voice was fierce and serious, but sorrow laced her words.
“A house in the crowlands, prestigious enough so that it can be awarded a royal marriage, yet not strong or prestigious enough that would demand a traditional royal marriage, with many celebrations and a proper bedding ceremony” Spoke Jaehaerys, while deep in thought.
…
The next day, as dawn’s first light spilled over the towers of King’s Landing, a raven flew east to Claw Isle.
Lord Adrian Celtigar read the royal missive with careful eyes, his fingers tightening around the parchment. The words were unmistakable. A royal bride. A daughter of the King. He had expected to marry again someday. His first wife had been taken by the Shivers, leaving him a widower with three daughters and no son. But this… this was beyond anything he had envisioned.
“Father?” Alyssa, his eldest at ten, peered at him from across the chamber, her red curls tumbling over her shoulders. She had inherited his sharp mind and sharper instincts. “What is it?”
Adrian exhaled and folded the parchment. “Pack our things. We sail for King’s Landing.”
…
The wedding was swift. The grand sept within the Red Keep had seen more lavish unions, but this one was draped in an air of urgency. Only those already present in court bore witness—Baelon, Viserys, Daemon, Aemma, a smattering of high lords, and the Celtigar family.
Lord Adrian stood tall beside his young bride, his thick red beard neatly groomed, his fine velvet doublet displaying the sigil of House Celtigar—a crimson crab upon a field of white. He was no princeling; he was past forty, with lines at his eyes and a shrewdness that could cut stone. But there was something else in him too—pride, ambition, and a glint of something softer as he beheld Gael’s trembling form.
She did not look at him. She barely spoke her vows. But she obeyed, and that was all that was required.
“A fat, miserly Celtigar weds our silver-haired cousin. I give it a year before she throws herself from a tower.” Daemon, ever the rogue, leaned to whisper in Viserys’ ear.
Viserys frowned at his brother’s jest, but Aemma caught the glance and gave a slight shake of her head. Now was not the time.
Jaehaerys and Alysanne watched from their seats of honor, their faces unreadable. It was done. The past would be buried.
Gael was now Lady Celtigar of Claw Isle.
…
Gael Targaryen had always felt out of place. Even as a child, she had known she was different—quieter, slower, lost in thoughts that slipped through her fingers like grains of sand. Her mother, Alysanne, had nurtured her with gentle hands and patient words, shielding her from the sharp edges of court life. Her father, Jaehaerys, had been sterner, his love wrapped in duty and expectation. But neither had prepared her for what would come.
Adrian Celtigar was not the husband she would have chosen. She had not chosen at all. The marriage had been arranged in the quiet of a candlelit chamber, whispered between her father and mother, sealed with a letter, and executed with a ceremony that felt more like a funeral than a wedding. Adrian had been polite, even kind, but she had not wanted him. She had not wanted anyone. At first, she resisted. She would flinch from his touch, answer his questions with silence, retreat to the furthest corners of Red Crag Castle, where the wind carried the scent of salt and the sea roared like a dragon caged beneath the cliffs.
Adrian had tried, with patience and awkward attempts at conversation, to bridge the gulf between them. He did not press her, nor did he demand what was expected of a husband. He simply remained, a steady presence, never warm but never cruel. His daughters were a different matter. Alyssa, the eldest at 9 years old, was cautious around Gael, watching her with the wary eyes of a girl who had already learned that mothers could be temporary things. Lynesse, 6 years old, bold and willful, would ask endless questions, many of which Gael did not know how to answer. Aerea, the youngest at only 3 years old, was too small to understand much, but she would tug at Gael’s skirts and climb into her lap, unbothered by the distance Gael tried to maintain.
Time passed. The walls Gael had built did not crumble, but they weathered. Adrian spoke to her of coin and trade, of ships and taxes. She listened, even when she did not understand, and sometimes, when she found the words, she asked questions of her own. He seemed pleased by that. He never said as much, but she saw it in the way his expression softened, in the way his voice lost its usual edge.
Then came Janos.
Janos Celtigar entered the world on a stormy night, red lightning splitting the sky as his first cries echoed through Claw Isle. He bore the pale complexion and violet eyes of the Targaryens, but his father’s crimson hair blazed atop his tiny head. And with him, something else was born. The egg had been a gift—smuggled by Daemon, a jest at his grandfather’s expense. It had lain in Gael’s chambers, dark and silent, until the moment her labor began. Then, as if answering some silent call, it cracked. A dragon hatched with Janos’ birth, its scales black as night, its eyes gleaming red as embers.
The birth had been long, painful. She had screamed until her throat was raw, clutched the sheets until her fingers ached. She had thought, for one terrible moment, that she would die, that the gods would take her as punishment for the things she had done, for the things she had failed to do. But then there was a cry, high and piercing, and they placed him in her arms.
He was small, so small, with pale skin and a head of bright red hair. His eyes, when they finally opened, were purple, a shade so deep they seemed almost unnatural. He did not cry much. He would stare at her with those unnerving eyes, as if he could see straight through her, as if he knew all the things she had never said. And she loved him. Gods help her, she loved him.
Adrian was proud, and why wouldn't he, he finally had an heir and a dragonrider one, the first in his family. He held Janos with careful hands, spoke of his future with a certainty that Gael could not yet bring herself to share. The girls were fascinated by their baby brother and his dragon, though Alyssa maintained a reserved distance fearful of the little creature that always was beside the baby, watching more than touching. Lynesse was bolder, reaching for him whenever she could, even through the hisses of the smaller dragon, whispering secrets into his tiny ears and always trying to make her little brother laugh. Aerea, too young to understand, simply delighted in his presence, laughing whenever he made the smallest noise and always reaching to grab the little winged lizard around her brother for herself whenever she could, much to the despair of Adrian and Gael.
For two months, Red Crag Castle felt different. Softer. The tension that had defined her first years there did not disappear, but it eased. She found herself lingering at the dinner table, listening to Adrian’s discussions of trade routes and tariffs. She let Lynesse drag her into long, meandering conversations about the history of the Celtigars. She allowed Aerea to curl against her side when the nights grew cold.
And Adrian—Adrian watched her. Not with expectation, not with demand, but with something like understanding. He never spoke of love, and she did not either. But there was something between them now, something unspoken but real. They were not husband and wife in the way of songs, but they were not strangers either.
When the summons came from King’s Landing, Gael felt something she had not expected. Not fear. Not reluctance. But a quiet, unfamiliar sense of belonging. Not to the court, not to her father or mother. But to the family she had made, in a castle by the sea, where the waves crashed against the cliffs and a dragon with red eyes slept beside her son.