Title: The New Assets

Title: The New Assets

Year and Month: 109 AC, 2nd Moon

The nine months of my Queen's pregnancy were, for the realm, a period of joyful anticipation. For me, it was a time of heightened risk management. The heir to the Iron Throne—the single most important asset to the future stability of my enterprise—was in its developmental phase, a vulnerable stage I could not directly control. The health and safety of my Queen became a matter of state security. I assigned my most trusted Kingsguard, Ser Roland Crakehall, to her personal protection. The royal kitchens were placed under permanent guard to prevent any possibility of poison. Grand Maester Allar was commanded to attend to her daily, his every diagnosis and prescription reviewed by me personally. I left nothing to chance.

Lyanna endured the scrutiny with a grudging, wolfish patience. She understood the political necessity of her condition, the immense value of the child she carried. Our partnership deepened in these months. In the quiet of our chambers, we would discuss the reports from the North and Dorne, her sharp insights often providing a valuable perspective that my southern-born council members lacked. She was proving to be an even better acquisition than my initial analysis had projected.

As her time grew near, a palpable tension settled over the Red Keep. Childbirth, even for a queen, was a dangerous business in this age—a battle fought in a bloody bed, as the saying went. The memory of my own grandmother, the first Alysanne, who had endured so many difficult births, was a constant, unspoken presence. I had taken every possible precaution, but some variables remained outside even my control.

The labor began on a cold, rain-lashed night in the second moon of 109 AC. Maegor's Holdfast was placed under a silent lockdown. Only the Grand Maester, the Queen's ladies, and a team of midwives were permitted inside the birthing chamber. I did not wait outside, pacing like a nervous father. That was not my way. I waited in my solar, the antechamber to the birthing room, a command center from which I would manage the crisis. My sister Gael was with me, her hands clasped in prayer, her face pale with worry. My nephew Viserys was also there, wringing his hands, offering useless words of comfort. I had sent Daemon away on a pretext; his chaotic energy was an unwelcome variable in this delicate operation.

The hours crawled by. The only sounds were the howling of the wind and the distant, muffled cries from the birthing chamber. Maester Allar would emerge periodically, his face slick with sweat, to give me a progress report. "The Queen is strong, Your Grace." "The labor is long, but proceeding." "We are doing all we can."

I listened to his reports with a cold, analytical calm. I monitored his vital signs—his trembling hands, the fear in his eyes—and cross-referenced them with the sounds from the chamber. The screams were growing weaker, more strained. The situation was deteriorating.

"The child is not properly positioned," I stated during one of the maester's reports, my voice flat. "You are losing time."

Allar stared at me, his jaw slack. "Your Grace… how could you possibly…?"

"I can hear the change in the tenor of the midwives' whispers," I lied smoothly. The serum had enhanced my hearing to a phenomenal degree. "And I can hear the Queen's exhaustion. The asset is at risk. You will proceed with the turning of the child. Now."

The maester, terrified and awed, scurried back into the room to implement my command. I was not a physician, but I was a master of data analysis. I had read every medical text in the Red Keep's library, and I could diagnose the situation from the auditory data available to me.

Another hour passed, an hour of agonizing silence followed by a renewed, desperate struggle. Then, at last, a new sound cut through the storm: the thin, wailing cry of a newborn infant.

A wave of relief washed over Viserys and Gael. But I remained still, my senses on high alert. The project was not yet complete. The maester emerged again, his face beaming with exhausted relief.

"A prince, Your Grace! You have a son! A strong, healthy boy!"

A prince. An heir. The primary objective was achieved. But something was still not right. The sounds from within the chamber had not ceased. There was still urgency, still pain.

"And the Queen?" I asked, my voice like ice.

Before he could answer, another cry, weaker than the first but just as vital, joined the chorus. The maester's eyes went wide with shock. He turned and ran back into the room.

My sister Gael gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "Two," she whispered, her eyes finding mine. "Like us, Aeryn."

Twins. A prince and a princess. A perfect, symmetrical replication of my own birth. A matched set. The irony was not lost on me. I had planned for a single heir, a single asset. The arrival of a second, unexpected asset was a complication, a deviation from the plan. But it was a complication that offered new strategic possibilities.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the maester and the chief midwife emerged. They knelt before me, their faces tired but triumphant.

"Your Grace," the midwife said, her voice full of awe. "The gods have blessed you twice over. A prince, and a princess. Both are healthy, and the Queen, though greatly weakened, will recover. She is a warrior, that one. A true she-wolf."

I gave a single, sharp nod of acknowledgment. "You have done your duty. You will be rewarded."

I entered the birthing chamber. The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood and the sweat of exertion. Lyanna lay pale and exhausted against a mountain of pillows, her dark hair plastered to her brow. But her grey eyes were open, and they burned with a fierce, triumphant light. In the crook of each arm, wrapped in swaddling clothes, was a tiny, red-faced infant.

She looked up at me as I approached, a weary but proud smile on her face. "It seems our merger was more productive than anticipated, husband," she whispered, her voice hoarse.

I looked down at the two creatures she held. My children. My heirs. They were small, ugly, and perfect. One was a boy, his face screwed up in a silent cry, a fine dusting of silver-gold hair already visible on his head. The other was a girl, quieter, her eyes squeezed shut, a hint of dark hair shadowing her scalp.

I felt a surge of… something. It was not the sentimental warmth the poets speak of. It was a cold, fierce, and utterly overwhelming sense of ownership. These were mine. My creations. The living embodiment of my legacy, the future of my enterprise. They were the most valuable assets I would ever produce.

"They are healthy?" I asked, my voice purely clinical.

"They are perfect," Lyanna said softly. "He has your hair. She has mine."

Fire and Ice. A perfect synthesis.

"They require names," I said, my mind already working, calculating the political and symbolic weight of the choice. The names of royal children were not mere labels; they were statements of intent.

For the boy, my heir, the future King, I needed a name that spoke of strength, of legitimacy, of our Valyrian heritage. I had considered many. But looking at him, the firstborn son who would carry the weight of my ambitions, only one name felt right. A name that was both ancient and new.

"His name will be Jaehaerys," I declared. "Jaehaerys the Second. To honor the memory of the King who built the peace we now enjoy." It was a politically astute choice, a gesture of respect for my father that would resonate with the older lords and signal a continuation of his stable reign. But for me, it was also a private irony. I was naming my son after the man whose legacy I had so ruthlessly managed and surpassed.

Then I looked at the girl. My daughter. She would be a princess of immense importance, a vital piece in the game of dynastic marriage. She needed a name that reflected her unique heritage, her dual nature.

"And she," I said, my gaze softening almost imperceptibly as I looked at the tiny girl with the dark hair, "will be named Visenya."

Lyanna's eyes widened. Visenya. The name of the Conqueror's sister-queen, the warrior, the sorceress. A name of immense power and dark legend. But it was also a northern name, a name used by the First Men. It was the perfect fusion. A name that honored both the dragon and the wolf.

"Jaehaerys and Visenya," Lyanna whispered, testing the names. A small, true smile touched her lips. "They are strong names. Names for a king and a queen."

"For a king and his most trusted advisor," I corrected her gently. My daughter would not be a mere queen consort. She would be trained, like me, to be a ruler, a strategist, a vital part of the family business.

The maesters and midwives bustled about, seeing to the Queen and the royal infants. Later, after Lyanna was sleeping, they brought the cradles into my solar. Two magnificent cradles of carved weirwood from the North and gilded oak from the south, another symbol of the union.

Grand Maester Allar approached me, his expression hesitant. "Your Grace… the dragon eggs. It is the tradition."

He was referring to the ancient Targaryen custom of placing a dragon egg in the cradle of a newborn royal. The hope was that the child's presence would encourage the egg to hatch, forging a bond from birth. It was a practice steeped in hope, magic, and, from my perspective, unacceptable randomness.

"There will be no eggs," I said flatly.

The maester stared at me, aghast. "No eggs, Your Grace? But… it is a tradition stretching back to Old Valyria! The princes must have a chance to bond!"

"I do not deal in chance, Maester," I replied, my voice cold. "I deal in certainties. My children will not be given a random stone in the hopes that it might one day hatch into a suitable mount. Their dragons have already been chosen."

I walked over to the cradles and looked down at my sleeping children. My son, Jaehaerys, the future king. He would need a mount that was a symbol of overwhelming power, a dragon whose majesty was second only to one.

"When my nephew Laenor Velaryon passes from this world," I declared, "his dragon, Seasmoke, will be claimed by my son. That is the will of the King." I was invoking the Dragon's Clause. Seasmoke was a magnificent silver-grey dragon, a mount worthy of a prince.

"And my daughter," I continued, my gaze falling on the tiny form of Visenya, "will require a dragon of equal standing. A creature of fire, beauty, and fierce loyalty." My niece, Rhaenys, still rode Meleys, the Red Queen. But Meleys was old. A better choice lay with my other nephew's wife. "Upon the death of Lady Laena, the dragon Vhagar will be claimed by Princess Visenya."

The maester's blood ran cold. I had just claimed the two greatest living dragons after Balerion for my infant children. Vhagar, the last of the Conqueror's dragons, the largest and most formidable beast in the world. And I had done it by citing a law that would see the dragons pass from the Velaryons directly to my own line. I was not just providing for my children; I was strategically consolidating all of my House's primary assets under my direct dynastic control.

"My children's future will not be left to a lottery of colored stones," I said, turning back to the terrified maester. "It will be forged by my will. They are the new assets of House Targaryen. And their growth, their training, and their eventual deployment will be managed with the utmost precision. See to it that the Dragonkeepers on Dragonstone are informed of my designations. That is all."

The maester bowed and practically fled the room. I was left alone with my children, the new prince and princess. Jaehaerys and Visenya. The future of my kingdom, sleeping peacefully in their cradles. I had brought them into this world. I had named them. I had assigned them their future power. The initial public offering was complete. Now began the long, patient process of nurturing these new assets, of shaping them, of ensuring they would grow to be worthy successors of the great enterprise I was building. My enterprise. My dynasty. My legacy.