“Surely my uncle would never do anything wrong.” Only yesterday, Rhaenyra had been pleased with herself.
Today, she was proven wrong.
She had been resting in her chambers within the Red Keep, enjoying a lazy morning after slipping out of her comfortable silk sheets.
Before she could drift back to sleep, Elly informed her that Arryk Waters from the Dragonpit had urgent news.
After washing and dressing, Rhaenyra received Arryk in the audience chamber.
Gone was the disheveled figure she had first met.
He now dressed neatly.
His ragged clothes and hollow eyes were things of the past.
In the words of his friends in King’s Landing, he had cleaned up well.
Arryk Waters had grown up surviving in the city.
He had been a Flea Bottom rat, a water carrier, a tavern hand, and even a knight’s squire for a time.
The knight had been a bastard like him, but the knight’s father was a nobleman, and so their paths had never truly been equal.
Through a series of opportunities, Arryk had found a minor official who pulled strings to get him into the Gold Cloaks.
He had failed the examination and ended up as a guard at the Dragonpit instead.
Then he met Princess Rhaenyra.
She had been in need of capable people and brought him into her service.
Arryk came from poverty and understood the city’s underbelly.
Street brawls, citizen protests, all the tensions of King’s Landing—he handled them perfectly.
Rhaenyra promoted him and made him one of her trusted agents.
He now commanded a detachment of palace guards and also handled intelligence-gathering in the city.
He had connections everywhere, making it easy to gather information.
That was the kind of talent Rhaenyra valued.
“What happened?” “Princess, a dragon egg has been stolen from the Dragonpit!” “What?
Someone stole a dragon egg?
Was it those wretched Braavosi?
Or someone looking to stir trouble?” “To inform Your Grace, it was Prince Daemon who took it from the lair.
One of my men, while cleaning dragon dung, spotted a blood-red dragon from afar.
Prince Daemon saw him but did not hide.
He rode Caraxes straight out of the pit.” Ah.
A thief from within the family.
For a moment, Rhaenyra’s sleepy mind thought it was an outside enemy.
That would have been manageable.
Wait—no.
This was anything but manageable.
Rhaenyra was not the first to learn the news.
King Viserys already knew.
By the time she arrived at the small council, his face was dark with barely contained fury.
Grand Maester Runciter, bent with age, and Lord Beesbury, the Master of Coin who had recently been avoiding Rhaenyra’s endless requests, were already seated at the table.
Rhaenyra counted heads.
The Hand of the King, Otto Hightower, was absent.
Everyone else was present.
Something was off.
This scene could not be complete without Hightower.
Then she spotted an inconspicuous figure in the corner.
Tyrion—no, Tyland Lannister had noticed her entrance.
Seeing her look toward Ser Galwyn Hightower, he spoke.
“Ser Galwyn brought word to His Grace this morning that Prince Daemon had stolen a dragon egg.
The report has been confirmed.” Rhaenyra blinked.
Among the aged councilors, this Lannister stood out.
Tyland Lannister was the second son of the Lord of Casterly Rock.
His twin brother, Jason, was the heir.
Their father, who had supported Viserys’s claim at the Great Council of 101 AC, had sent Tyland to court.
Viserys, grateful for that support, had groomed him as a future councilor.
He now sat in the Master of Ships’s chair.
Politics as usual?
Tyland was about Rhaenyra’s age.
His eyes held a glint of cunning.
He flashed her a sunny smile.
Rhaenyra rolled her eyes inwardly but returned the smile with practiced grace.
On the surface, she was the picture of a courtly lady.
This man is a Green through and through.
He probably helped Hightower gain entry.
I will need to keep an eye on him.
Then again, he does become a competent Hand later.
Reminds me of Tyrion, minus the dwarf’s disadvantage.
A second son without lands, forced to rely on his wits.
He even has his face scarred later.
He serves the Iron Throne faithfully in the end, though no one respects him for it—they only remember his actions as a Green.
Why did Rhaenyra think this?
Because Tyland would one day be one of the greatest Hands of the Seven Kingdoms.
The “Hooded Hand.” After his reformation.
For now, he was a schemer.
His friendliness toward her was calculated.
During the height of conflict between the Dowager Queen and Rhaenyra, he and his brother Jason had competed for her hand.
Both had lost.
Afterward, Tyland turned Green.
He personally oversaw the division of the treasury, claiming he had never sworn fealty to Rhaenyra.
A child’s oath means nothing!
When Rhaenyra took King’s Landing, he was severely tortured and disfigured.
Released, he recruited sellswords for the Greens overseas.
Only after the Dance did Tyland reform and dedicate himself to serving Rhaenyra’s son, Aegon III.
So when Tyland smiled at her, Rhaenyra’s internal alarm flared.
Notably, Tyland never married or had children.
Perhaps because of his failed pursuit of Rhaenyra, or his disfigurement.
But Rhaenyra had other thoughts.
Ser Galwyn Hightower is here.
As if he was waiting for Daemon to act so he could report him first.
I knew it.
The maesters’ accounts in Fire & Blood were lies.
The informant was never Harwin Strong.
The Citadel’s scholars are just Hightower’s dogs, covering up their masters’ tracks.
Rhaenyra’s mind was stuck on this thought.
The Hightowers, if they knew, would be exasperated.
Yes, we did it.
Yes, it was shameless.
But your family’s dragon egg is missing!
Shouldn’t you be more concerned?
Unaware of Rhaenyra’s distraction, Viserys continued his tirade.
“A prince, committing theft!
Is this how he shows his displeasure with his king?” “And a dragon egg!
His wife remains in the Vale.
She is not with child.
Does he mean to hatch the egg himself and father his own hatchlings?” The councilors fought back laughter.
Even Grand Maester Runciter allowed himself a faint smile.
The tension eased slightly.
Tyland spoke up.
“Your Grace, it is likely that a bastard is soon to be born.
All of King’s Landing knows of Prince Daemon’s mistress—a dancer from beyond the Narrow Sea.
The prince wishes to give the child a dragon egg.” “Custom dictates that eggs be placed in a royal babe’s cradle.
Only Targaryen blood may hatch them,” added Galwyn.
“Ha!
Dragon eggs are for royal blood alone.
This is a baseborn bastard!
A bastard is no dragon.
Daemon grows more reckless by the day!” “Your Grace!” The voice came from the corner.
Ser Galwyn Hightower rose and knelt before Viserys.
“My father, Otto Hightower, bids me pass along a message.
He has reflected upon his errors and wishes to serve.
He offers to travel to Prince Daemon, at the risk of dragonfire, to persuade him to return the egg and send away his foreign mistress.” Daemon’s unhappy marriage had long been a sore spot for Viserys.
Their father had arranged the match when Daemon was barely sixteen.
Daemon had become a wastrel, rejecting his wife and taking mistresses as if he were never wed.
Viserys, unable to mend the union, had turned a blind eye.
But now Daemon had gone too far.
A bastard.
A stolen dragon egg.
Hightower’s offer seemed reasonable.
Should he send Otto to confront Daemon and bring him to heel?