110 AC, King’s Landing
Time flows like water, silently passing through the stone walls of the Red Keep.
Two years.
From the Kingswood hunt in 108 AC to the autumn of 110 AC, over seven hundred days and nights have slipped away amidst bells, tides, and the wings of ravens.
More vines cling to the stone walls of the Red Keep, the tapestries in the Throne Room have faded, and two new cribs have appeared in the nursery of Maegors Holdfast.
The young girl who carried her brother into the forest two years ago has now grown into a thirteen-year-old princess, taller, her face shedding its childishness, with a newfound steadiness in her brow.
The one-year-old toddler who sat on the back of the white stag in the forest two years ago is now a three-year-old boy, with longer silver hair and deeper violet eyes, able to speak in complete sentences, run, jump, and even ride Sunfyre for short flights—
Ever since the Kingswood hunt, the terrifying growth rate of that golden dragon began to normalize, gradually resembling a ‘normal’ young dragon…
But, having already been the size of a small pony back then, it has now grown to the size of a large adult horse, its scales gleaming like gold, its wingspan sufficient to shade half a small courtyard.
And tonight, in a room in the Red Keep, an infant is crying.
It is Aemond Targaryen, the second son of Viserys and Alicent Hightower.
He was born on the afternoon of this day last month, half a month earlier than expected, but both mother and child are safe.
The baby has a sparse head of silver hair, a loud cry, and it is said that his eyes were pale violet when he opened them—though the midwife said a newborn’s eye color would still change.
At the time, Alicent was still lying exhausted on the birthing bed, listening to the baby’s cries, a smile on her face.
Giving birth for the third time, she was already accustomed to the pain and exhaustion, as well as that complex mix of emotions—
Joy, pride, and a hint of elusive loss.
Because Aegon did not come to see his brother.
Or rather, Aegon only came to take one look, confirm that “the brother is born,” and then ran off to Rhaenyra’s room.
He said, “Sister is waiting for me to tell stories.”
Alicent did not stop him.
She only watched her son’s small back disappear outside the door, listened to his footsteps fade down the corridor, and then closed her eyes.
Two whole years have passed…
Aegon still likes Rhaenyra the best.
The timeline returns to the other side of the Red Keep tonight.
Rhaenyra’s room is in the east wing of Maegors Holdfast, with windows facing the sea, where one can see the scattered sails of Blackwater Bay.
It is late now, and a few candles burn in the room, their light flickering.
Logs crackle in the fireplace, dispelling the chill of the autumn night.
A copy of “Chronicles of Valyria” lies open on the desk, its parchment pages yellowed and ink faded.
On the chair beside it rests a black and red cloak, the one Rhaenyra wore when riding her dragon during the day.
But there is no one in the room reading, no one wearing the cloak.
Rhaenyra lies on her side on the bed, her silver hair spread across the pillow, breathing evenly.
She is holding a small body in her arms—
Aegon is curled up in the crook of her arm, his small hands clutching the collar of her nightgown, his face buried in the crook of her neck, sleeping soundly.
Sunfyre is coiled on the carpet beside the bed, its massive body occupying nearly half the room.
It rests its chin on its front paws, golden eyes half-closed, occasionally glancing at the siblings on the bed, and after confirming they are safe, continues to doze.
Two years have passed, and its size no longer allows it to squeeze onto the bed as it did when it was young, but it still manages to squeeze through the door and insists on guarding at the closest distance to its rider, like a dog that is excessively loyal.
The sound of waves comes from outside the window, and the faint light of the lighthouse in the distance flickers vaguely.
This pair of siblings is completely unaware of everything that happened after that night two years ago.
At the same moment, on the other side of the Red Keep, the King’s study is brightly lit.
The fire in the fireplace is burning brightly, the wood crackling, filling the room with warmth.
But the person sitting by the fire has no warmth on his face.
Viserys sits quietly, reclined in a large armchair, one leg resting on a footstool, holding a wine goblet.
The wine in the goblet has been warmed, mixed with honey and spices, his preferred way of drinking recently.
On the small table before him lies a letter.
The edges of the parchment are charred, and the creases of the letter are severely worn—evidently, it has traveled a long distance and been read repeatedly.
Alicent sits on a low stool opposite him, a wool blanket covering her knees.
She gave birth half a month ago and should be resting in bed, but Viserys sent someone to invite her, saying there was an important matter to discuss.
She is wearing a thick robe, her hair simply tied up, her face still showing some postpartum fatigue, but her eyes are clear.
“…A letter from Vaemond Velaryon.”
Viserys finally speaks, his voice hoarse, pointing to the parchment on the small table, “Corlys Velaryon’s younger brother, that…
that guy who is always trailing behind his brother, with no presence.
He is writing to ask for reinforcements.”
Alicent says nothing, just looks at him quietly.
“The Triarchy has gathered a new fleet again.” Viserys continues, his fingers rubbing the edge of the goblet, “And this time, there are Dornishmen too.
Qoren Martell, that little fox, has finally decided to step in himself.
They have besieged that guy Daemon’s…
that little kingdom.”
When mentioning “little kingdom,” there is even a hint of sarcasm in his tone.
Alicent asks softly: “How is the war going?”
“Vaemond says it is bad.” Viserys picks up the letter, glances at it, “He says in the letter, ‘The Grey Gallows has fallen, Daemon’s lair, Bloodstone, is besieged, and even the garrison at Widow’s Watch has only two hundred men left’…
They need reinforcements, supplies, the support of the Iron Throne.”
He puts down the letter and takes a large gulp of wine.
“It has been five years, right?
Ever since the year we got married, he and the Sea Snake have been trying to get their hands on the Stepstones.”
He says, his voice suppressing a complex emotion, “That troublesome guy Daemon proclaimed himself king in the Stepstones without a word, and Corlys?
He not only crowned Daemon himself but is also Daemon’s ‘Admiral.’
The two of them joined forces, conquered a piece of land, crowned themselves, and started ruling it on their own terms.
They write to me, saying ‘Brother, I need your recognition’ on one hand, and ‘Your Grace, this is the territory carved out for you’ on the other—this is utter bullshit!”
The wine goblet in Viserys’s hand slams onto the table, splashing wine.
“They need my recognition?” Viserys’s voice rises, “When they need me, they remember that I am the King, their relative, their liege lord.
When they don’t need me?
Did Daemon tell me a word the day he was crowned?
Did Corlys ask for my permission when he sent his fleet to blockade the Stepstones?”
Alicent stands up, walks to his side, and gently presses his shoulder.
She has done this countless times, and each time it has calmed Viserys’s anger a little.
But tonight, Viserys clearly needs to vent for longer.
“I wrote to them personally as early as last year.” He continues, his tone gradually shifting from anger to grievance, “Right after Daemon’s coronation, I wrote to him: I allow you to keep the crown, as long as you stop causing trouble.
Guess how he replied to me?”
Alicent actually already knew the answer, but she remained silent.
“He actually replied to me: ‘Thank you for Your Grace’s generosity.
I will continue to clear pirates for the realm and ensure the safety of trade in the Narrow Sea.
As for this crown, it is merely a decoration on my forehead and will not affect my loyalty to the Iron Throne and you in the slightest.’ Listen to this, Alicent!
Does this sound like a letter that he, Daemon Targaryen, could write?
When has he ever been this polite to me, his elder brother?
What’s most hateful is that even the scribe he hired was so unprofessional.
As his brother, how could I not recognize his, Daemon Targaryen’s, handwriting?”
He is loyal to the Iron Throne?
He is loyal to me?
If he were loyal, he should have asked me before starting the war!
He should have obtained my consent before the coronation!
He should have—”
He stops, taking a deep breath.
“And Corlys, that old Sea Snake.” He lowers his voice, but his anger remains undiminished, “Five years ago, I thought he came to King’s Landing again to admit his mistake, bow his head, and return to being my Master of Ships, but he actually wanted me to marry Laena.
I treated him like a brother-in-law, but he was thinking of being my father-in-law.
I refused, and I chose you.
Since then, his attitude toward me has changed.
On the surface, his letters are respectful, but in private…
in private, he has gotten mixed up with Daemon, supporting his claim as king, helping him fight.
He is taking revenge on me!
Revenge for me not choosing his daughter!
Revenge for me not bowing to him at the time!”
Alicent remains silent.
She knows better than anyone that what Viserys says is not without reason, but she also knows that things are far more complex than this.
“Now they are in trouble.” Viserys sneers, “The Triarchy is counterattacking, the Dornishmen have joined, and they can’t hold on.
That guy Daemon, when he can’t hold on, he remembers he still has me, his brother, the King.
Vaemond writes to ask for reinforcements—Vaemond!
That poor creature who has lived in his brother’s shadow his whole life!
An honest man!
This letter is not his style at all.
He deliberately exaggerates the crisis in the Stepstones.
Corlys can’t lose face, so he dictated to his brother Vaemond to write the letter asking for help!”
He raises his wine goblet again, drains it, and then slams the empty cup down.
“What should I do?” He looks at Alicent, his eyes filled with anger, grievance, and deep exhaustion, “If I send reinforcements to those two ‘rebels,’ Daemon and Corlys, now, how will everyone view me as King?
They will say: Look, that weak ‘Young King,’ being led by the nose by his brother and brother-in-law again.
They will say: The King cannot even maintain his own authority and still has to help those disobedient guys.
They will say—”
“Viserys.”
Alicent finally speaks, her voice soft but clear.
And the hand she has pressed on his shoulder is also applying slight pressure.
Viserys stops, looking at her quietly, looking at his wife before him.
“Which is more conducive to the stability of the realm?” Alicent asks, those chestnut eyes also watching him quietly, “To sit by and watch the Triarchy and the Dornishmen unite and grow their power in the Stepstones?
Or to root them out completely?”
Viserys opens his mouth but does not answer.
“Daemon and Corlys,” Alicent continues, her voice calm, “They have their selfishness, their ambitions, and places where they do not obey.
But they are also doing what the Iron Throne should do—clearing pirates, maintaining trade routes, and containing the expansion of the Triarchy.
If they lose, the Stepstones will return to the hands of the Triarchy, the pirates will make a comeback, and trade in the Narrow Sea will be threatened once again.
By then, it will be too late for you to think about sending troops.”
Viserys is silent, looking at the fireplace, the firelight dancing in his eyes.
“Family.” Alicent, subtly influenced by Aegon’s “brainwashing,” says softly, “No matter how many conflicts, no matter how much dissatisfaction, we are family after all.
You are sending troops now, not just for Daemon, not just for Corlys, but for the entire realm, for the Iron Throne.”