In the autumn of the 108th year after the Conquest, the Red Keep was filled with a mixture of old stone dust and anxiety.
On the stone walls of the Small Council chamber, tapestries depicted the glorious achievements of Aegon the Conqueror during his war to conquer the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, but the atmosphere around the long table at this moment was the exact opposite of those triumphant scenes.
Hand of the King Otto Hightower gently pushed the parchment battle report brought by a messenger raven from the Stepstones across the table to the King on the other side, his movements as precise as moving a piece on a chessboard.
“News from three days ago.
Prince Daemon engaged in a ‘one-on-one duel’ with the Myrish Prince Craghas Drahar on the beaches of Bloodstone.”
Otto’s voice was steady, but every word felt as if it had been soaked in ice water.
“According to intelligence, at dawn, the two clashed on the sands washed by the waves.
Prince Daemon used Dark Sister to sever the other’s head.”
Viserys’s fingers tapped on the armrest of his chair, a habitual movement when he was anxious.
“Craghas Drahar…
that ‘The Crabfeeder’?
The Myrish Prince?”
“Precisely,” Otto nodded.
“He was also the supreme commander of the Triarchy in the Stepstones.
Daemon emulated his methods of dealing with enemies, mounting his head upon a spear atop the fortress of Bloodstone.
It is said that ravens can still be seen circling there.”
A mix of admiration and concern showed on the young face of Ser Tyland Lannister, the Master of Ships: “This means the Triarchy will retaliate frantically.
The Myrish will do everything in their power to avenge their prince, and Tyrosh and Lys will also send reinforcements—
Though Craghas was cruel, he was their most effective general.
Without him, the Triarchy has no choice but to expand the scale of the war.”
“Scale of the war?” Viserys’s voice rose slightly.
“From 106 to 108, the war in the Stepstones has been raging for nearly three years!
That fellow Daemon wants to proclaim himself ‘King of the Narrow Sea and the Stepstones’ there, Corlys Velaryon has sent his fleet to support him, and now half the landless knights and second sons of Westeros are flocking there—”
“That is precisely the problem, Your Grace.”
Otto interrupted, then realized his rudeness and bowed slightly.
“Prince Daemon is building an army, an army loyal to him rather than to the Iron Throne.
He controls more and more islands, and his prestige grows higher and higher.
Now that he has personally slain the The Crabfeeder, in the eyes of commoners, he is no longer the Rogue Prince, but a hero who slays demons.”
Silence fell around the long table.
Sunlight streamed in from the high windows, illuminating the dust floating in the air.
Lord Lyonel Strong, the Master of Laws, spoke slowly: “Lord Otto makes a valid point, but we must also acknowledge that Prince Daemon is indeed clearing a scourge that has plagued trade in the Narrow Sea for decades.
In the past, the pirates of the Stepstones reduced coastal trade tax revenue by forty percent, and merchant fleets across the Seven Kingdoms even had to pay extra protection fees—”
“So he’s doing a good deed for the realm?” Ser Tyland’s tone was sharp.
“Lyonel, forgive my bluntness, but Prince Daemon only ever acts for himself.
What he is doing now has only one ultimate goal: to accumulate enough power and prestige, and then…”
He stopped, his gaze sweeping over Rhaenyra, who sat in the position of cupbearer below the King.
Rhaenyra’s hand holding the silver wine flagon remained motionless, but her knuckles turned slightly white.
She wore formal court attire, her silver-gold hair styled like that of a grown woman, even though she was only eleven.
Since her mother passed away, her father remarried, and her brother was born, she had been allowed to continue attending the Small Council meetings as a cupbearer—
Viserys euphemistically called it “an heir’s education,” but everyone knew it was the King’s way of showing the court:
Look, my daughter is the legitimate heir, and I still stand by this decision.
“And then what?” Viserys asked, a hint of fatigue in his voice.
Tyland hesitated.
But Otto took up the thread: “And then he will return, my King.
With his army, his prestige, and perhaps even the crown of the Stepstones.
What will he want then?
Will he be satisfied with the title of ‘Prince’?
Or will he demand more?”
Viserys stood up and walked to the fireplace.
The firelight reflected his beginning-to-flesh-out figure.
“My brother…” he whispered, more to himself.
“When he was little, he always wanted to follow behind me.
When mother took him to ride a dragon for the first time, he held my waist tightly, screaming in terror as we flew over Blackwater Bay, but after landing, he begged me to let mother take us flying again.”
“People change, Your Grace,” Otto said.
“Perhaps.”
Viserys turned around.
“But the war has been going on for three years.
What harm is there in waiting three more days?
Tomorrow begins the hunt in the Kingswood to celebrate Aegon’s Name Day—
Though it’s a bit late, the Autumn Hunt is just at the right time.
Let the messengers rest, let the ravens wait.
In three days, we shall discuss the Stepstones again.” This chapter was taken from g.com without permission.
“Your Grace—” Tyland wanted to say something, but was stopped by Lyonel’s look.
Otto bowed slightly: “As you wish.
A hunt is indeed a good time; almost all the important vassals have come.
They want to see the Prince, and…
His dragon.”
The last few words were as light as a feather, yet they landed heavily in the room.
On the first morning of the Kingswood hunt, the Godswood on the north side of the Red Keep was shrouded in mist.
Rhaenyra sat quietly under the Weirwood tree.
The ancient tree’s red leaves looked like burning flames in the morning light, and the carved face on the trunk seemed to be eternally weeping.
A book was spread across her lap, but her gaze did not fall on the pages.
In her arms, a silver-gold haired boy was trying to catch the falling red leaves.
Her brother, Aegon Targaryen, was one year and three months old, and could already speak simple words fluently:
“Sister,” “Dragon,” “Fly.”
To others, this seemed like startling precocity, but to Rhaenyra, who was pestered by him daily, the child’s intelligence was almost unsettling.
“Book…”
Aegon feigned an air of childish innocence, reaching out a small hand to pat the pages.
“Rhaenyra…
read book?”
“I am reading, dear,” Rhaenyra said softly, her fingers unconsciously stroking the boy’s soft hair.
His hair was just like hers, pure Targaryen silver-gold, and his purple eyes were like midsummer violets.
Every feature of this child reminded her: he was a legitimate prince, male, with an indisputable right of inheritance.
Although her father had publicly reconfirmed her status as heir after Aegon’s birth, although her father had sworn to the Seven in the Sept, although her father had insisted in the Small Council—
But the whispers of the court never ceased.
Especially now, after news of Alicent’s pregnancy had spread once more.
“Once your stepmother gives birth to a son, your position will be unstable.”
Princess Rhaenys’s words from the past echoed in her ears.
Back then, she was a nine-year-old child, crying in the Dragonpit after her mother’s funeral.
“The Queen Who Never Was” had found her, offering no comfort, only cold reality.
“Men will not let a woman rule unless there is no other choice.”
Now they had two more choices.
Aegon, and the fetus of unknown gender in Alicent’s womb.
Aegon, in her arms, keenly sensed her mood and looked up with his small face: “Sister…
unhappy?”
“No,” Rhaenyra forced a smile.
“Yes,” Aegon said stubbornly, then turned his head and gave a muffled call toward the depths of the Godswood: “Sunfyre!”
A flash of golden light pierced the mist.
Sunfyre flew from a clearing in the woods, the sound of its wings flapping startling a flock of ravens.
The dragon had already grown to the size of a pony, its golden scales shimmering in the morning sun, and the shadow cast when its wings unfolded could cover most of the Weirwood tree.
It hovered before Rhaenyra, fire glowing faintly deep in its throat, and then—
It breathed a small stream of golden flame.
The flame drew a circle in the air, then a figure-eight, before scattering into sparks and vanishing.
Aegon clapped and laughed: “Look!
Sunfyre…
performing!”
Rhaenyra was indeed captivated.
Dragons did not usually perform like this; they were natural hunters and destroyers, not jugglers.
But Sunfyre was different—
This hatchling, which had hatched in Aegon’s cradle within three days, seemed to possess an unusual intelligence.
It understood Aegon’s will and could even execute complex commands.
“It only listens to you,” Rhaenyra murmured.
“Listens to sister!” Aegon said suddenly, then turned to Sunfyre, “Sunfyre, listen to Rhaenyra!”
The golden dragon tilted its head, its golden eyes fixed on Rhaenyra, then lowered its head like a knight paying homage to a lord.
Rhaenyra felt a strange surge of emotion.
Dragons were symbols of Targaryen power, and this dragon was showing her favor.
Was it because of Aegon’s command, or because…
She hadn’t quite figured it out when Aegon did something else.
The little boy cupped her face, his small hands soft and warm, and then gave her a heavy kiss on the cheek.
sister happy.”
Rhaenyra was stunned.
A child’s kiss should have been pure and innocent, but in this politically charged moment, on this morning full of doubt in her heart, this kiss touched something deeper.
Perhaps it was loneliness—
Her mother was gone, her father was occupied by a new family, and her former close friend had become her stepmother.
Perhaps it was longing—longing for a family member who would not compete with her, but only love her.
She hugged Aegon, burying her face in his soft hair.
“It is indeed very heartwarming.”
Alicent’s voice came from the edge of the woods.
Rhaenyra looked up.
The Queen stood ten yards away, dressed in deep green hunting attire, her belly already slightly protruding.
She was four months pregnant.
The court physicians said it might be a girl, but who cared?
As long as she could give birth to one, she could give birth to a second, a third.
And every son was a challenge to Rhaenyra’s status as heir.
Alicent approached, her gaze moving between Rhaenyra and Aegon.
Her expression was complex—relief, wariness, and a trace of imperceptible jealousy.
“Aegon likes you very much.”
“He is a good boy,” Rhaenyra said, not letting go of her embrace.
“The hunt is about to begin.”
Alicent said, “Your father hopes you will participate as well.
After all, you are the heir to the realm; you should show your face before the vassals.”
“Is that the King’s command?” Rhaenyra asked, her voice calm.
Alicent’s smile stiffened for a moment.
“No, it’s an invitation.
I thought…
perhaps we could walk in the woods together.
Like we used to.”
“Used to”—the words were like a small knife.
They used to be friends, sharing secrets, reading together, running and laughing in the corridors of the Red Keep.
Alicent used to be her most trusted handmaiden, her closest companion.
The world used to be simple and clear.
“Then let’s go, Your Grace,” Rhaenyra closed her book and stood up, holding Aegon.
Alicent reached out, wanting to take Aegon: “Let me carry him; you still need to prepare—”
“I’ll carry him,” Rhaenyra stepped aside to avoid her.
“He likes me carrying him.”
“Rhaenyra…”
Alicent’s voice lowered, “You don’t have to be like this.
Truly, we don’t need to be this way.
I know you’re angry, you’re sad, but I also…”
Her words were interrupted by a flutter of wings.
Sunfyre flew down from the Weirwood tree, not toward Rhaenyra, but circling around Alicent.
The golden dragon did not breathe fire or hiss; it just flew silently, its golden eyes staring at the Queen’s protruding belly.
Alicent turned pale.
What did Sunfyre’s interest in the fetus in her womb mean?
Acknowledgment?
A threat?
Or simple curiosity?
“Sunfyre, come here.” Aegon reached out a small hand.
The golden dragon immediately flew back and landed at Rhaenyra’s feet, its large body forming a contrast with her slender figure, yet strangely harmonious.
Rhaenyra held Aegon, Aegon held her neck, and Sunfyre followed by their side—
This image froze for a few seconds.
Then Rhaenyra turned and walked toward the castle gates.
“Rhaenyra!” Alicent called out behind her.
The Princess did not look back.
The morning light filtered through the red leaves onto her silver-gold hair, onto the boy in her arms, and onto the following golden dragon.
She walked steadily, as if she were carrying not a child, but a decision.
Alicent stood where she was, her hand unconsciously resting on her belly.
The wind blew through the woods, the leaves of the Weirwood rustled, and the carved face seemed to be silently telling ancient secrets.
The sound of horns outside the distant city gates had already sounded; the hunt was about to begin.