At least in early 122 AC, everything in Westeros was quiet.
The North was quietly waiting for its lord to die.
No, the northern lord hadn’t made it through the previous year.
Their ruler now was a fourteen-year-old boy, Cregan Stark.
Though their true ruler was his uncle, Ser Bennard Stark, regent of the Warden of the North.
The Vale was quietly obscure.
No one even knew what was happening beyond the Bloody Gate.
The Riverlands were quietly chaotic.
House Blackwood had killed House Bracken’s chickens.
House Bracken had stolen House Blackwood’s water.
The Strongs of Harrenhal had rejected the leadership of Larys “Clubfoot” Strong but let him walk off with the castle’s gold.
Everything was so quiet.
The Westerlands were quietly digging gold.
And sending a fair amount of it to King’s Landing.
Because the lord’s brother was serving as the king’s master of ships.
The Reach was quietly playing dead.
House Hightower had dispatched another party to King’s Landing to assist Ser Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King.
The unruly children of House Tarly of Horn Hill had run off again.
Lord Donald Tarly was chasing his son Alan Tarly and youngest daughter Diana Tarly across the world, his family’s Valyrian steel sword Heartsbane in hand.
Dorne was quietly playing dead too.
Prince Qoren Martell was still carefully balancing the delicate relations between the desert and mountain lords.
Houses Yronwood and Wyl were trading heavy fire over territory.
The proud knight Obara Dayne of House Dayne had stolen the family’s meteoric greatsword Dawn and vanished.
It was said the lady knight, whose views on love and marriage leaned closer to the Andals’ ideals of loyalty and singularity, had battered every man and woman who tried to court her, then ridden out of the castle.
A furious Lord Samwell Dayne had therefore ordered his daughter arrested.
The Stormlands weren’t even worth mentioning.
They didn’t have a single piece of news worth noticing.
Dragonstone.
Rhaenyra Targaryen, her figure badly distorted by successive pregnancies and her youthful beauty long gone, sat in a specially made chair, enjoying the breeze fanned by her handmaid.
She was pregnant again and would give birth soon.
“The little one is strong.” Rhaenyra smiled, stroking her swollen belly.
She hadn’t ridden her dragon since conceiving this child.
Syrax, that magnificent golden beast, had reportedly been wailing inside the Dragonmont for ages.
“It should be a boy.”
The handmaid didn’t dare respond.
The princess smiled and shook her head.
“Don’t be afraid.
Where are the children?”
The handmaid answered then.
“Prince Jacaerys is at the Dragonmont with Vermax.
Prince Lucerys and Prince Joffrey are still at their lessons.
Prince Aegon is still asleep.
The wet nurse just finished feeding him.”
“You’ve done well.” The princess gestured for the handmaid to stop fanning.
“Go rest.
I want to sleep alone for a while.”
The handmaid stopped the fan and curtsied slightly.
“As you command, Princess.” She turned and walked straight into Prince Daemon, covered in dust.
Daemon Targaryen was a hard man, his silver hair roughly tied back.
The years had left their marks on him too.
But the prince’s unique personal magnetism hadn’t changed.
The red beast Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm, was his mount and partner.
Both the prince and his dragon had earned great renown in battle over the decades.
He smiled at the handmaid and motioned her away.
Then he unstrapped the pack on his back.
A dragon egg, still steaming.
Daemon opened the bronze brazier blazing at the center of the room and carefully placed the egg inside.
“Syrax did well.” The prince smiled at his wife.
“She laid another egg.
That black wild dragon tried to steal it.
Caraxes and Syrax drove it off together.”
“The Cannibal?” That wild dragon, infamous for hunting hatchlings and stealing eggs, had been marked a grave danger by Dragonstone’s residents.
Rhaenyra knew it well.
“Daemon, once the child is born, we can hunt that wild dragon together.
It can’t be allowed to keep killing dragons.”
“I know, Rhaenyra.” Daemon washed his hands and face in a basin nearby, then walked softly to his wife’s side and crouched down, pressing his ear to her belly as if listening to the baby.
His voice dropped to a murmur.
“Don’t worry about these things.”
Just then, an earth-shaking dragon roar came from outside the window.
Daemon gently covered Rhaenyra’s ears, then looked through the window at the shadows beyond.
A bronze titan was rising into the sky, beating its wings westward.
A silver giant spread its wings too and flew west.
“Vermithor?” Daemon identified the two beasts.
“And Silverwing?
Are they going to feed?”
Princess Rhaenyra shook her head.
Since the deaths of King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne, no one had ever tamed that inseparable pair again.
The Bronze Fury, Vermithor, had once been the mount of King Jaehaerys, the Old King, the Conciliator, the Arbitrator.
The bronze behemoth was the second-largest dragon in Westeros, surpassed only by the aging colossus Vhagar.
Silverwing had belonged to the Good Queen Alysanne.
That silver beauty, though smaller, had flown over mountains and snowfields, bringing peace and calm to the land.
No one knew what they wanted.
A high-pitched roar followed, along with a shriek like a serpent’s hiss.
Syrax and Caraxes somehow joined the chorus, though they didn’t take flight.
Soon.
The king’s desk received the report from Dragonstone.
“Your Grace, a letter from Dragonstone.” Grand Maester Mellos handed the message to King Viserys, who was working on his model.
The king was a slightly plump man with a silver beard and gentle features.
Before him sat a model of King’s Landing large enough to fill most of the room.
This was Viserys I’s ambition.
The King’s Landing left by Aegon the Conqueror had been little more than a blindly expanding mess.
Only under Jaehaerys I’s tireless governance had it gradually found its footing.
Viserys meant to continue that work, reshaping the capital’s layout, fostering the city’s rebirth.
The king carefully swapped the positions of two buildings, then straightened up with some effort and looked at the Grand Maester.
“Read it.”
Mellos unrolled the letter.
“Your Grace, word from Dragonstone.
The Bronze Fury, Vermithor, and Silverwing have departed the island, apparently to hunt in the Narrow Sea.
Prince Daemon pursued on dragonback for a time and observed nothing unusual.”
“Mm.
I trust they can handle such small matters.
Is there anything else?”
Mellos glanced toward the door.
“The Hand requests an audience.”
“Otto?” The king waved a hand with some irritation.
“Send him away.
It’s late.”
“As you command.”