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Elenar’s earliest memory was of the first—and only—time that he called Aunt Lucy “Mama.” That was what Alyssa and Viserra called Mumuña, and it seemed natural to use the same epithet for the woman who hugged, kissed, and played with him the most.
“Don’t be stupid, El,” Alyssa immediately told Elenar, before Aunt Lucy could respond. “You don’t have a mama. You killed her.”
Elenar wasn’t sure what the adults said to Alyssa afterwards, but she cried a lot and glared at him for the rest of the day. He didn’t know what exactly he’d done wrong, but he did know to never call Aunt Lucy his mama again.
Aunt Lucy found him sitting by the window in the nursery, sucking his thumb as he clutched the blanket that Aunt Hel had made for him. “You shouldn’t suck your thumb, darling.” Aunt Lucy gently moved his thumb from his mouth. “It’ll make your teeth grow funny.”
“Did I really kill my mama?” asked Elenar.
“No,” Aunt Lucy said firmly. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Then why don’t I have a mama?”
Aunt Lucy’s eyes glistened as she smiled, strained. “Because—because she loved you so much, she couldn’t imagine living in a world where you weren’t there too. So she picked you.”
A portrait hung in a sunlit corridor in Maegor’s Holdfast. The woman in the portrait was beautiful. She had the same black hair and bronze skin as Elenar, and her purple eyes smiled just as much as her mouth. She seemed kind. Elenar was unable to look away.
“Her name was Jacaera, but we all called her Jace,” said Uncle Daeron. “She loved scholarly pursuits, and—”
Aunt Joff snorted. “She didn’t love scholarly pursuits. She studied because she was Mother’s heir, and it was expected of her.”
“She was good at it,” Uncle Daeron argued.
“She was,” Aunt Joff agreed. “But that doesn’t mean she loved it.”
“What did my mama love?” Elenar tried to imagine the woman as a real person, not just paint on a canvas.
“She loved reading for pleasure. Pretty clothes. Spending time with her family. And…” Aunt Joff stopped speaking. She shared a knowing look with Uncle Daeron.
“And your father,” Uncle Daeron finished quietly. “She loved your father, Elenar.”
Elenar wished he was tall enough to touch the portrait. He wanted to know whether the painting would be warm under his fingers, like soft skin, so he could pretend it was actually his mother in the frame. “Is my papa dead too?”
His aunt and uncle were silent for so long, he finally looked away from the portrait so he could peer curiously up at them.
Aunt Joff appeared grim, which was normal for her. Uncle Daeron, on the other hand, smiled constantly. But now his expression was dark and just a bit angry.
“Your father isn’t dead,” Aunt Joff said at last.
Elenar blinked. “But I never see him.” Alyssa and Viserra’s papa visited them in the nursery almost every day. Why didn’t Elenar’s papa visit him?
Uncle Daeron’s voice rang furiously through the corridor. “Because he’s too much like our father!”
Elenar rarely sought comfort from Aunt Joff, who scared him sometimes, but now he clutched her skirts. Uncle Daeron never shouted.
His uncle took a deep breath. The darkness vanished from his face. “Sorry, Elenar. I was upset, but now I’m not.” Uncle Daeron smiled. It was less happy than his usual smiles. “Why don’t we go flying? I think Tessarion can beat Tyraxes in a race.”
Uncle Aemond took Elenar to view the collection of dragon eggs at the Dragonpit. Elenar had a cradle egg once, blue with gray swirls from Dreamfyre’s clutch, but it never hatched. He looked carefully at every egg. Uncle Aemond even let Elenar touch a few of them. They were all warm, but none of them seemed like they were his.
Disappointed, Elenar trudged after his uncle as they went to visit Vhagar. Along the way, they passed a dark den. Something made Elenar stop and stare at its occupant. “Who is that?” Elenar pointed at the golden dragon within.
“That is Sunfyre.” A moment passed, then Uncle Aemond added reluctantly, “He is your father’s dragon.”
“Sunfyre seems sad,” said Elenar. The dragon was curled in a corner, barely moving, even though Elenar was sure the dragon was awake. There was a chain around his neck.
“Dragons thrive when they fly in the open skies. Sunfyre hasn’t flown in a long time.” Uncle Aemond clenched his jaw. “His rider hasn’t visited him in years.”
“Why not? Aren’t riders supposed to love their dragons?”
“We do. And your father does love Sunfyre. But…” Uncle Aemond trailed off.
(Later, Elenar would figure out how Uncle Aemond meant to finish his sentence: But not as much as he loved your mother.
Still later, Elenar would learn the whole truth. For a while, his father hadn’t been allowed to visit Sunfyre. During the funeral for Elenar’s mother, it was his father’s duty to order her body burned. So he commanded dracarys to Sunfyre—then tried to leap in front of the dragon’s flames himself. Only Uncle Aemond’s quick reflexes saved him from joining Jacaera in death, but he never thanked Aemond for it.
For a long time, the king and queen forbade Elenar’s father from visiting Sunfyre. They eventually lifted the prohibition, but by then, Elenar’s father was in no state to go anywhere near any dragon. Sunfyre was kept chained at all times, because otherwise he would attempt to break out of the Dragonpit and fly to Dragonstone, where Jacaera’s dragon had remained after her death.)
Elenar was in the rose garden with Aunt Rhaena and Aunt Hel when a strange woman descended upon them. “My precious stepson, how you have grown!”
The woman was tall, black-haired, and blue-eyed. She tried to coax Elenar into playing a game with her, but he hid behind his aunts.
“I don’t think the prince is in a mood to play, Lady Cassandra,” Aunt Rhaena said politely. “It may be time for his nap.”
“I shall put him down for his nap,” Lady Cassandra insisted. “He is the closest thing I have to a son, and I am the closest thing he has to a mother.”
Aunt Hel, who was showing a caterpillar to Elenar, said without looking up, “My brother still has no intentions of consummating the marriage, then?”
Aunt Rhaena ushered Elenar and Aunt Hel away, muttering something about an impending storm.
“Who is she?” Elenar asked as he was tucked into bed. “Why did she say she’s my mother?”
“Not your mother. Stepmother,” Aunt Hel corrected. “I think the ‘step’ implies she is one step away from being your actual mother, but in truth, she is an entire tower’s worth of steps away.”
Aunt Rhaena shot her a warning look then smiled at Elenar. “We’ll tell you when you’re older, darling.”
It was Aunt Baela who told him the story, because she thought it was stupid that Elenar didn’t even know that his father had remarried. “Cassandra was supposed to marry your Uncle Aemond,” she said.
Elenar finished the last bite of the cake she had given him. “But he’s married to Aunt Lucy.”
“Yes, exactly. He wanted to marry Aunt Lucy instead.” Aunt Baela urged him to eat a second cake before she continued, “Your father offered to marry Cassandra, since he was a widower and available for remarriage. She just wanted to marry a Targaryen, and she wasn’t especially picky about which one. But it isn’t a normal marriage. Cassandra lives with her family in the Stormlands most of the time.”
Elenar swallowed a mouthful of cake. “Why? Does she not like it here?”
“She did like it…at first.” Aunt Baela smirked. “Until it became evident that your father had absolutely no interest in her, and he only married her to get her out of your Uncle Aemond’s way.” Her expression softened. “After your mother died, he knew there would never be anybody else for him. It was very easy to love your mother. And once you love her…nobody else in the world can compare to her.”
Elenar waited until Alyssa and Viserra were asleep before crawling out of bed. He left his shoes on the floor; he didn’t want his footsteps to echo. There was a nursemaid on night duty, but she was fond of chatting with one of the guards who patrolled the area. Once the nursemaid was distracted, Elenar slipped out of the nursery.
He hurried down the corridor until he reached his destination. Aunt Baela had pointed out the doors the other day. “They were your mother’s quarters first. Then your father moved in when they officially married. Now they’re his quarters. Nobody else really goes in there.”
Elenar had grown recently, so he was able to reach the door handle. It was unlocked. When he opened the door, he wrinkled his nose as he was met with the stench of wine and stale sweat. All was dark except for a solitary lit candle in the bedroom beyond the solar.
The candlelight was barely bright enough for Elenar to see the sleeping man sprawled on the bed. Elenar silently crept forward until he stood beside the bed. The man was unhealthily pale, with oily, unwashed silver hair that was shorn unevenly. His torso was bare, and the wine-stained sheets covered him from the waist-down.
Elenar studied the man’s face, slack with sleep. Their resemblance was undeniable. This was Elenar’s father. Elenar was seeing his father for the first time in his life. It felt…
…disappointing. Elenar wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but it wasn’t this.
Sighing quietly, Elenar moved to the desk upon which the candle sat. He climbed onto the chair and looked around. There was a sheet of paper smudged with charcoal. Intrigued, Elenar studied the drawing of a woman with dark hair and—oh! It looked just like the portrait of his mother!
The portrait in the corridor had been done by a court painter. His mother sat in a formal pose with a formal smile, wearing her most luxurious gown with lace and pearls. In this drawing, however, his mother was dressed simply in a shift, gazing at the viewer as she combed her hair. Her smile was wide and toothy, and her eyes crinkled pleasantly at the corners.
As Elenar stared at the drawing, his mother began to feel more and more real. She wasn’t just a perfect statue. She was a person whose hair got messy sometimes, a person who liked to laugh.
Next to the drawing was a small bottle of perfume. The stopper was carved in the shape of a rose. Curious, Elenar took the bottle and opened it. A sweet floral scent drifted out. He inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with perfume. As it swirled around him, it almost felt like a hug.
There was a sudden movement on the bed as his father shot up to a sitting position. “Who’s there?”
Startled, Elenar dropped the bottle. It smashed to pieces on the floor.
“What have you done!” His father launched himself from the bed and stared, despairing at the remnants of the perfume bottle. He didn’t look at Elenar. Elenar didn’t think his father really saw him. “You broke it! You fucking broke it!”
Afraid, Elenar stumbled off of the chair. His bare foot landed on a shard, which pierced his skin. As his foot began to bleed, Elenar wailed shrilly, tears pouring down his face. It hurt, and his father was yelling, but he didn’t mean to break the bottle, now he was in trouble and he didn’t know what to do, and his foot hurt—
Aunt Joff and Uncle Daeron burst through the door. Elenar’s father was still shouting about the perfume bottle being broken. He was weeping even louder than Elenar.
Uncle Daeron’s nostrils flared. “Joff, take Elenar. I’ll handle Aegon.”
Aunt Joff scooped up Elenar and carried him away. As they made their escape to the corridor, Elenar noisily wiped the snot from his face and looked over his aunt’s shoulder.
Inside the room, Aegon Targaryen continued sobbing and raving like a madman. Even after Uncle Daeron shut the doors with a decisive thud, Elenar could still hear his father’s unfettered grief.
Aunt Joff let Elenar sit on her lap while the maester bandaged his foot. When the maester left, Elenar brought his thumb to his mouth even though he wasn’t supposed to suck his thumb anymore. Without looking at his aunt, he said quietly, “Is my father angry?”
“Yes,” Aunt Joff said evenly. “But it isn’t your fault. He’s angry at the world.”
“Because my mama died?”
He heard his aunt take a deep breath. “Yes,” she said again, this time shakily. “When she died, he died that day too.”
“Then it is my fault.” Elenar screwed his eyes shut, trying not to cry again. He wasn’t a baby anymore. “Because my mama wanted me to live.”
There was the sound of sniffling. Elenar wasn’t sure which of them was making the sound. Mayhaps they both were.
“No,” Aunt Joff whispered. “It’s my fault. I should have been faster that day.”