It was still the autumn of 110 AC, the second day at the Red Keep in King’s Landing.
Morning light filtered through the lace curtains, casting dappled shadows across Rhaenyra’s room.
The fire in the hearth had gone out, leaving only the lingering warmth of the ashes.
From outside the window came the cries of seagulls, mingled with the distant clamor of the market—King’s Landing was awake.
Rhaenyra sat before her vanity, her silvery-gold hair cascading over her shoulders and back, her eyes heavy with sleep.
She held Aegon in her arms—the three-year-old boy was curled up on her lap, his small face buried in her chest, still half-lost in dreams.
This posture had become a fixture since that night in the forest two years ago: wherever Rhaenyra was, Aegon was in her arms.
Sunfyre was coiled on the rug in the center of the room, its already massive golden body occupying nearly half the space.
It rested its chin on its front claws, its golden eyes half-closed, ears twitching occasionally to catch the surrounding movements.
Two years had passed, and its size had grown so large that the door had to be widened for it to enter and exit—
Viserys had specifically ordered the modification of Rhaenyra’s door to allow this dragon, which was excessively loyal to its rider Aegon, to come and go at any time.
A handmaid stood behind Rhaenyra, gently combing her long hair with an ivory comb.
This was Rhaenyra’s personal handmaid—
Floris Strong, the second daughter of the current Hand of the King, Lord Lyonel Strong, and the sister of Harwin and Larys.
She was only two years older than Rhaenyra, with a delicate face, chestnut hair, and a gentle but sharp personality, earning her the Princess’s deep trust.
“I have to serve as a cupbearer at the Small Council again today,” Rhaenyra said with a wide yawn, her voice muffled.
“Can’t Father find someone else?
I’ve been a cupbearer for five years now.”
Floris chuckled softly.
Compared to her eldest sister, who was also a handmaid to the Princess, she was clearly more eloquent like her brother Larys and enjoyed more of the Princess’s confidence.
Her comb never stopped moving:
“Princess, doesn’t that just show how much His Majesty trusts you?
It is tradition for the heir to attend the Small Council sessions.”
“Tradition,” Rhaenyra muttered.
“I hate that word the most.”
She looked down at Aegon in her arms.
Since returning from the Kingswood two years ago, the boy had become particularly lethargic.
He stirred slightly, his small hands clutching Rhaenyra’s nightgown as he mumbled incoherently, “Sister…
just a little longer…”
Rhaenyra smiled and leaned down to kiss his forehead.
“Lazybones, the sun is already high in the sky.”
Aegon hummed in response, burying his face even deeper.
Floris continued combing, the comb gliding from root to tip with gentle, practiced movements.
After a moment’s hesitation, she chose to speak: “Princess, I heard that this afternoon, the son of Earl Okheart of The Reach is coming to King’s Landing for an audience.”
Rhaenyra gave a nonchalant “Mm-hmm.” “Oakheart?
The son of that…
old Lord?
What is he here for?”
“Supposedly to present the autumn harvest tribute on behalf of The Reach,” Floris’s voice grew even softer.
“But I heard…
I heard His Majesty wants you to receive him alone.”
The sound of the comb through the hair suddenly became distinct.
Rhaenyra’s movements froze.
“Receive him?” she repeated slowly, the sleepiness mostly gone from her voice.
“Me?
Receive the son of a Lord of The Reach…
alone?”
Floris did not answer, merely continuing to comb.
But her silence said everything.
Rhaenyra looked down at Aegon.
At some point, the boy had looked up, his purple eyes watching her, looking more awake than someone who had just been sleeping.
Their eyes met.
Then Rhaenyra turned to Sunfyre.
The golden dragon was also watching them, a hint of…
alertness in its golden eyes?
It had sensed something.
Well, it was clearly Rhaenyra’s “wrath of the sleeping dragon.” Two years ago, the scene of her “cruelly” stabbing that wild boar to death with nothing but a dagger had been deeply branded into Sunfyre’s then-young mind.
“Floris,” Rhaenyra’s voice became very calm—the kind of calm that was frightening.
“What did you just say?
Say it again.”
Floris’s hand trembled slightly, startled by the sudden eruption of the Princess’s “wrath of the sleeping dragon,” but her voice remained steady:
“It is…
it is only a rumor, Princess.
I heard it from the kitchen staff, saying that Earl Okheart’s son is coming and His Majesty wants to arrange for you to receive him personally.
They also said…
they said this might be another…”
Rhaenyra finished the sentence for her.
The room fell silent for a moment.
Then Rhaenyra reached out and placed Aegon on the floor.
She stood up, her movements slow and steady.
Floris instinctively took half a step back.
“Princess…”
“The day before yesterday,” Rhaenyra said, her voice still calm.
“Just the day before yesterday, he promised me again.
Two nights ago, at the feast, he told me himself—’Rhaenyra, I will not force you to marry.
You can take your time to choose, whenever you are ready.’ The day before yesterday!”
She turned to Sunfyre.
The golden dragon had already stood up.
It had completely sensed it—
That familiar aura of “terror,” an aura belonging to its rider’s sister that it had felt once before deep in the Kingswood two years ago.
The “wrath of the sleeping dragon.”
This term had long circulated within House Targaryen, describing those dragonlords whose blood boiled and tempers flared.
Rhaenyra rarely showed this side, but whenever she did, it was always…
Aegon sighed.
He knew exactly what was coming next; after all, he deserved some of the “credit” for Rhaenyra’s current state of “wrath of the sleeping dragon.”
Sure enough, Rhaenyra reached out and scooped Aegon back into her arms.
She turned and marched out, her pace fast and urgent, still in her nightgown and her hair only half-combed.
“Princess!” Floris cried out.
“Your hair—”
But Rhaenyra had already burst through the door.
Sunfyre hesitated for half a second—
It looked at Aegon in Rhaenyra’s arms, and Aegon gave it a helpless look, as if saying, “Just follow us, don’t provoke her.”
The golden dragon sighed—if a dragon could sigh—and then followed them out of the room.
Floris was stunned for only a moment before she too expertly grabbed her skirts and chased after them.
The Small Council chamber was on the second floor of the Red Keep’s main keep, separated from the outside by a heavy oak door.
Standing guard on either side of the door today were two members of the Kingsguard—
Alec Cagely and Ser Ilic Cargyle.
The twin brothers stood together like mirror images.
At this moment, muffled voices could be heard from within.
Princess Rhaenyra rushed to the door and stopped.
She was in her nightgown, her hair a mess, holding Prince Aegon in her arms, followed by a young dragon and a panting handmaid.
This was hardly the appropriate image for barging into a Small Council meeting.
But she didn’t rush in immediately.
She raised a finger to her lips, gesturing “shh” to Aegon and the others, and then leaned against the door to eavesdrop, regardless of her image.
Aegon also pricked up his ears.
Sunfyre sensibly stopped a few paces away, its massive body crouching down, golden eyes watching its rider and his sister with a hint of…
helplessness?
Floris finally caught up, out of breath, still clutching the ivory comb.
She saw Rhaenyra pressed against the door listening and instinctively started to say something, but Rhaenyra shot her a look, and she immediately shut her mouth, obediently standing aside to silently tidy the Princess’s appearance.
Viserys’s voice came from inside.
“…that son of Earl Okheart, have any of you seen him?” The King’s tone was light, clearly in a good mood.
Then came the voice of the Master of Ships, Tyland Lannister: “Your Majesty, I saw him once at the tournament in Lannisport three years ago.
The young Oakheart knight was quite skilled in arms and most charming; it is said he is very popular among the noble ladies of The Reach.”
“Popular?” Viserys laughed.
“That is perfect then.
Rhaenyra is a picky girl; we must find someone popular for her.”
Outside the door, Rhaenyra gritted her teeth.
Following that, the voice of Floris’s father, the new Hand of the King, Lyonel Strong, was heard:
“Your Majesty, though House Oakheart is a distinguished family in The Reach, they are after all only a lesser house.
For the Princess’s marriage, should we not consider someone more…
equal in standing?”
“I know, I know,” Viserys said.
“But let them meet first.
It might not lead to anything.
The girl has a stubborn temper; I must let her adjust slowly.”
Tyland’s voice rose again, tinged with a joking tone: “Your Majesty, since the Princess does not care for my brother, Lord Jason, I wonder if I, as the younger brother, might have the honor…”
A wave of light laughter came from inside.
Tyland’s words were clearly meant as a joke, but there was a hint of ill-concealed tension in his voice.
As the twin brother born only seconds after Jason, Tyland had lived in his brother’s shadow since childhood.
Jason was the heir, the future Lord of Casterly Rock, and the focus of everyone’s attention.
Tyland, meanwhile, had to “make his own way,” becoming the Master of Ships and winning a seat for his family on the Small Council.
Deep down, he couldn’t help but harbor thoughts of competing with his brother.
“My dear Ser Tyland!” Viserys laughed heartily at Tyland’s remark.
My daughter is famously difficult to please.”
“Of course, it was only a joke, Your Majesty,” Tyland said quickly, though his voice betrayed a faint, imperceptible trace of disappointment.
Before the laughter subsided, Grand Maester Runeter’s voice rang out—aged, slow, and carrying the typical rigidity of a maester: “Your Majesty, I have a preliminary suggestion.
Prince Qoren Martell of Dorne is currently unwed.
If the Princess could be betrothed to him, perhaps we could use this opportunity to bring Dorne into the realm’s fold.
The great work that Aegon the Conqueror failed to complete might be realized by your hand.”
The room suddenly went silent.
The “good old” Master of Coin, Lord Lyman Beesbury, cleared his throat, his voice carrying a hint of suppressed dissatisfaction:
“Grand Maester, the Dornish have a blood feud with The Reach and the Stormlands that has lasted for centuries.”
“If the Princess were to marry into Dorne, what would the lords of The Reach and the Stormlands think?”
“Exactly!” The voice of the new Master of Laws, Lord Jasper Wylde, who had taken over Lyonel’s previous post, almost exploded.
This young and hot-headed Stormlands noble was meticulous in his work and equally so in his temper.
“Grand Maester, you may have forgotten how many times the Dornish have raided the Stormlands in the past century!
My own grandfather died in a Dornish ambush!”
Runeter’s voice remained steady: “Lord Wylde, this is a political marriage, meant to end the hatred—”
“Ending hatred by marrying off a Princess?” Jasper sneered.
“Better to rely on the sword!”
The voice of the Hand, Lyonel Strong, cut in again at the right moment, calm and powerful: “My lords, I still stand by the suggestion I made to His Majesty during the hunt in the Kingswood two years ago.
House Velaryon has intermarried with the royal family for generations, and they now possess not only a fleet but also dragons.
Let the Princess marry Ser Laenor, and let Prince Aegon wed Lady Laena.
This would both consolidate the bloodline and bring Lord Corlys’s family back to the crown.
It is the most stable choice.”
The room descended into argument once more.
Some supported the Dornish plan, some supported the Velaryon plan, some whispered that “Jason Lannister isn’t actually a bad choice,” and some even mentioned possibilities in the Vale or the North.
Viserys’s voice rose again, tinged with helplessness: “Enough, enough, stop the bickering.”
“I was only asking casually today; it’s not as if I’m marrying Rhaenyra off tomorrow.
She is only thirteen; there is still time.”
“But Your Majesty,” Grand Maester Runeter’s voice came, “thirteen is already an age where one can be betrothed.
Many ladies have their marriages settled by this age.”
Another silence followed.
Outside the door, Rhaenyra’s face was now as dark as a sky before a storm.
Aegon, in her arms, looked up at her and saw that familiar fire in her eyes—
The same fire he had seen when she faced the wild boar deep in the Kingswood two years ago.
The “wrath of the sleeping dragon.”
Aegon sighed.
He knew the upcoming scene wouldn’t be pretty, but he also knew he couldn’t stop it.
He could only hope that Sunfyre would cooperate well.
Rhaenyra reached out and gripped the door handle.
Then she turned her head and looked at Sunfyre.
The golden dragon understood immediately.
It stood up, its massive body approaching the door.
The two Kingsguard—Arryk and Ilic—instinctively stepped aside.
They had seen this dragon show its power and knew that while its true master was Prince Aegon, the Prince and Princess were now so close they were practically one…
The door was pushed open.
To be more precise, it was rammed open by Sunfyre.
The heavy oak door swung open with a crash, slamming into the stone wall with a thunderous noise.
The group around the council table turned as one to look at the doorway.
Morning light streamed in from the high windows, illuminating the figures at the door.
Rhaenyra stood at the forefront, wearing her nightgown which had been tidied just enough, draped in a cloak Floris had just had sent over.
Her freshly combed hair was slightly mussed, Aegon was in her arms, and her face wore a murderous expression.
Behind her crouched Sunfyre, its golden eyes scanning the room as a low rumble vibrated in its throat.
Further back was Floris Strong, clutching her comb, looking at her father Lyonel, the Hand of the King, and her brother Larys, the King’s Confessor, with a helpless “I couldn’t stop her” expression.
A dead silence fell over the meeting room.
The wine cup in Viserys’s hand stopped mid-air.
Tyland Lannister’s face turned red from his neck to his ears—his “joke” had clearly been overheard.
Grand Maester Runeter adjusted his spectacles, his expression awkward.
The good old Lord Lyman Beesbury looked down to study the tabletop.
Lord Jasper Wylde’s face was grim—not at Rhaenyra, but because his anger over the Dornish proposal had not yet faded.
Lyonel Strong looked at his helpless daughter at the door, then at Rhaenyra, a complex expression flitting across his face—helplessness, worry, and a hint of…
understanding?
Rhaenyra stepped into the council room.
Her pace was not fast, but every step was firm.
Sunfyre followed behind, its tail sweeping across the floor with a rustling sound as its massive body passed through.
Aegon sat quietly in her arms, looking at the various faces around the table, with only one thought in his mind: Well, this meeting isn’t going to continue today.
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