The first month of Gaemon Targaryen’s life taught me that grandchildren were easier to admire when someone else was responsible for keeping them alive.
I had forgotten how completely an infant could reorganise a household.
The Red Keep did not become quieter because the war had ended, but the nature of its disturbances changed. Ravens still arrived with tax disputes, petitions, and reports from distant castles. Guards still changed watches through the night. Dragons still announced themselves whenever the mood took them. Yet none of those sounds travelled through stone quite as effectively as a hungry newborn.
Gaemon possessed impressive lungs. His chambers were separated from ours by several corridors, two staircases, and enough heavy doors to discourage most ordinary noise. None of it mattered when he decided the night required witnesses. The first time his crying woke me, I assumed something was wrong. By the fourth time, I understood that being alive was sometimes sufficient cause for outrage.
Rhaenyra found the situation far more amusing than I did. "You slept through seven children," she told me one morning while I stood at the window trying to decide whether the headache behind my eyes deserved wine before breakfast. "I remember several nights when Jace screamed beside you, and you did not move until I physically pushed you."
"I was younger then."
"You were also remarkably committed to unconsciousness."
"I had spent the day training soldiers."
"I had spent the day carrying the child who was screaming."
There was no useful answer to that. I drank water instead.
Jace looked worse than either of us. Fatherhood had achieved what battle, diplomacy, and marriage failed to accomplish by making our eldest son visibly uncertain of himself. He could command men and ride Vermax into danger without hesitation. He had negotiated with Cregan Stark, fought in the Riverlands, and stood beside Daemon while armies moved according to decisions made in moments.
A crying infant defeated him regularly. I found him one afternoon pacing Sara’s apartments with Gaemon held awkwardly against his shoulder. The child had been fed, changed, wrapped, unwrapped, carried, and inspected by a maester who found nothing wrong. Gaemon remained furious. Sara lay against a pile of cushions nearby, watching her husband with the tired satisfaction of someone relieved that the problem had temporarily become his.
Jace looked towards me when I entered. "Do you remember what stopped me from crying at this age?"
"No."
"That is not useful."
"I remember that you cried. I remember your mother usually knew why. I remember occasionally pretending to know why after she solved the problem."
Sara smiled from the bed. "At least he admits it now."
Jace shifted Gaemon higher against his shoulder. The child responded by increasing the volume.
"I have fed him twice."
"You did not feed him," Sara said. "I fed him. You held him afterwards and claimed participation."
"I was supporting the process."
"You were staring at him as though he might suddenly stop breathing if you looked away."
Jace ignored that. "The maester says he is healthy. He is dry, warm, and does not appear hungry. I cannot discover what else he wants."
"He may simply want to complain," I said.
My grandson stopped crying for exactly long enough to draw breath and then resumed with renewed commitment. Jace looked down at him. "About what?"
"He has been alive for a month. His grievances are probably broad rather than specific."
Sara pushed herself farther upright. "Give him here before both of you decide to form a council."
Jace crossed the room and placed Gaemon carefully in her arms. The crying softened almost immediately. Not completely. Gaemon had standards. But the screaming became a series of dissatisfied noises as Sara settled him against her chest.
Jace stared at the child with betrayal. "He was comfortable with me."
"He tolerated you," Sara replied. "Those are different things."
"I am his father."
"That does not make your shoulder softer."
He looked towards me as though expecting support. I refused to repeat my earlier mistake. Fatherhood became easier for him as the weeks passed, though not because Gaemon became easier.
Jace learned the differences between his son’s cries. There was hunger, which began with short angry bursts and quickly became a personal accusation against everyone nearby. There was discomfort, usually caused by swaddling Gaemon disliked or a wet cloth no servant had replaced quickly enough.
There was exhaustion, which somehow made the child louder rather than quieter. Then there was the unexplained screaming that belonged to whatever mysterious calculations governed infants.
Jace learned to walk with him against his chest, one hand supporting the head while the other moved slowly across his back. He learned that Gaemon preferred movement and that sitting down after finally calming him often restarted the entire process.
He also learned that children smelled. No song about royal births had prepared him for that. One morning, I entered the family solar and found Jace standing several paces away from a nurse who had just taken Gaemon from him. His expression resembled the one he wore after discovering a dead horse left too long beneath the summer sun. Sara sat nearby eating fruit.
"You look disturbed," I said.
Jace turned towards me. "How can something that small create that smell?"
Sara did not look up. "He inherited remarkable abilities from his father."
"That was not me."
"You were holding him when it happened."
"That does not establish responsibility."
I glanced towards the nurse, who was attempting not to laugh while carrying Gaemon towards the adjoining room. "Your son is a Targaryen prince. He may eventually command armies and ride a dragon. At present, his principal talents are noise, sleep, and making servants reconsider their duties."
Jace sat heavily in the nearest chair. "No one explains this part before children are born."
"Would it have changed anything?"
"No, but I would have preferred warning."
"You received warning. You spent your childhood surrounded by younger siblings."
"I was not responsible for cleaning them."
"That was an excellent arrangement from your perspective."
Sara finally looked up. "He has not cleaned Gaemon either. He merely discovered what required cleaning and summoned someone more experienced."
Jace gave her an offended look. "I helped."
"You held the clean cloth."
"I also prevented him from rolling."
"He cannot roll yet."
"I prevented him very successfully."
Rhaenyra entered in time to hear the last sentence.
She looked between us before deciding she did not want context.
Gaemon’s dragon egg caused fewer problems, although only because it could not cry.
The egg had been placed beside his cradle shortly after birth, following the custom our family had continued with each child. Its shell was a pale sea-grey streaked with black and deep blue, with scales so smooth that light travelled across them almost like water.
Gaemon became attached to it in a way none of us understood.
The first time we noticed, one of the nurses moved the egg to a safer stand while changing the bedding. Gaemon woke and began crying before she finished carrying it across the room.
The egg returned to its place. He stopped. At first, we dismissed the timing. Then it happened again. And again. Eventually, Sara ordered the egg left beside the cradle unless there was a genuine reason to move it.
Jace treated the connection with fascination. "He knows it is there," he told me while we stood beside the cradle one evening. Gaemon slept with one tiny hand pressed against the warm shell.
"You cannot know that."
"Whenever it is moved, he notices."
"Perhaps he notices the nurse moving around him."
"He turns towards it."
"He turns towards light, voices, and occasionally empty space."
Jace folded his arms. "You are deliberately refusing to admit that it means something."
"I am deliberately refusing to build prophecy around the behaviour of a one-month-old child."
"You claim dragon dreams."
"I also claim enough experience to know that interpreting every unusual event as destiny creates unbearable adults."
Sara sat near the fire, reading.
Without looking up, she said, "For once, I agree entirely with your father."
Jace glanced towards her. "You called the egg his little brother yesterday."
"I was tired."
"You also told Gaemon that if the dragon hatched first, he would have to share the nursery."
"That was practical preparation."
The egg remained beside him.
Sometimes Gaemon slept with his fingers resting against it. At other times he kicked his blankets loose until one foot touched the shell. The nurses began placing cushions carefully around both child and egg, terrified that the prince would somehow damage one or the other despite the fact that the egg was considerably harder than his skull.
Rhaenyra spent as much time in the nursery as her duties allowed. She had become a different grandmother than I expected. With our own children, necessity always divided affection from responsibility. There were lessons to arrange, alliances to consider, dragons to supervise, illnesses to fear, and a realm constantly waiting to transform every childhood mistake into political meaning.
Gaemon demanded nothing from her except attention. She gave it freely. I found her one night sitting beside the cradle after Sara had fallen asleep in the adjoining chamber. Gaemon was awake but quiet, his dark eyes following movements he could not possibly understand. Rhaenyra had one finger wrapped inside his hand.
"You should be sleeping," I said softly.
"So should he."
"He appears unconcerned by your expectations."
"That seems hereditary."
I sat beside her.
For several minutes we watched our grandson exist. It was surprisingly compelling.
"He looks like Jace did," Rhaenyra said. "Around the eyes, especially."
"Jace had more hair."
"You remember none of that."
"I remember enough to sound convincing."
She smiled. Her attention returned to Gaemon. "I worried that I would look at him and think first about succession," she admitted. "A grandson born to my heir should be exactly the sort of thing a queen spends years wanting."
"And what did you think?"
"That he was very small."
"An excellent political judgement."
"I also thought Sara looked exhausted and Jace looked terrified. The throne came later."
"That may be healthier."
Rhaenyra rested her head against my shoulder. "I want him to grow up believing peace is ordinary."
The sentence stayed with me. Our children had not received that. Their childhoods contained whispers about succession before they understood the word. Their adolescence became dragons, alliances, separation, and war. Jace entered fatherhood after carrying a sword through the Riverlands.
Perhaps Gaemon could inherit something less dramatic. He could grow believing arguments were settled in council chambers, that weddings ended in music rather than blood, and that dragons were creatures ridden by family rather than weapons deciding which claimant survived. I knew enough history to understand peace never remained permanent. That did not make it meaningless.
The hatching came near the end of Gaemon’s first month. It began with screaming. Nothing about that seemed unusual. Sara was eating breakfast when one of the nurses hurried into the family solar carrying Gaemon. Jace followed close behind, still fastening the sleeve of his coat.
"He will not stop," the nurse said. "We have fed him, changed him, and checked everything we could think of."
Gaemon screamed against her shoulder. Sara reached for him. Before the nurse could cross the room, another sound came from the nursery. A crack. Everyone stopped. Jace looked towards the door. The second crack was louder. Sara stood so quickly that Rhaenyra reached automatically towards her despite the birth being a month behind her.
"The egg," Jace said.
We entered the nursery together. The shell beside the cradle had split along one side. A thin line ran from top to bottom, widening slowly as something pushed from within. The egg rocked against the cushions, scraping across the wooden cradle. Gaemon continued crying. The thing inside answered. The sound was high, rough, and surprisingly loud for something still mostly enclosed by shell.
Gaemon went silent. For perhaps two heartbeats. Then he screamed again. The hatchling answered with equal determination.
Sara stared between them. "Wonderful. There are two now."
Another section of shell broke away. A small dark head pushed through, wet scales appearing almost black until the light caught streaks of silver-blue along the jaw. The hatchling struggled, claws tearing at the remaining shell while its wings remained pressed tightly against its body. Jace moved forward instinctively. I caught his arm.
"Let it finish."
He stopped. The hatchling broke free several moments later and collapsed among the pieces of shell. It was barely larger than a cat. Its scales were deep blue-black, becoming paler along the belly. Narrow silver markings ran behind its eyes and continued towards the small ridges forming along its neck. Its wings unfolded unevenly, revealing membranes of dark grey washed through with blue.
Then it opened its mouth. The cry that came out was absurdly loud. Gaemon immediately answered. The hatchling cried again. So did my grandson. Within seconds, they appeared to be competing.
Rhaenyra began laughing. Sara stared at her son. "He has found the only creature in the castle willing to make more noise than he does."
Jace crouched beside the cradle, watching the hatchling drag itself towards Gaemon. It reached the child’s blankets and settled against his side. Gaemon stopped crying. The dragon did not. Its thin shriek continued until Gaemon made another unhappy noise, which seemed to encourage it.
Jace looked towards Sara. "We need a name."
She watched the dragon announce itself to the entire Red Keep. "I think it has already chosen the sort of name it deserves."
By evening, the hatchling was officially recorded as Siren.
The name suited both dragon and rider far too well. Gaemon Targaryen had spent his first month proving that the smallest member of our family could make himself heard throughout a castle.
Now he had a dragon determined to help.