“You are the Prince of Dragonstone and Heir to the Iron Throne.” Jaehaerys’s gaze sharpened, focusing entirely on his son.
“These matters are yours to decide.” The old King suddenly let out a long breath, sinking back heavily into his chair.
Truth be told, the moment he had read the letter penned by Alysanne’s own hand, he had barely been able to suppress the urge to order a saddle put on Vermithor and fly to Dragonstone immediately to mend the rift with his beloved queen.
Yet, ever since his flight back to King’s Landing from the Reach a year ago, a terrifying realization had taken root in his mind.
In his youth, he could fly for a day and a night without rest and leap from the saddle with boundless energy.
Now, merely flying from Tumbleton to the capital left his bones aching and his chest heaving with exhaustion.
From that moment on, the suppressed fiery temper of his youth and the carefully maintained gentle veneer of his middle years had gradually eroded into the quiet compromises of a man facing his twilight.
He was willing to yield to Alysanne’s terms.
He was willing to tacitly accept Quentyn claiming a wild dragon, as it was legally and logically unassailable.
Ultimately, he had even compromised to allow Lord Corlys Velaryon to claim a dragon egg for his infant son.
“Father…” Baelon shook his head slowly.
“Your Grace, you are the King.
The realm is willing to accept the compromises offered by the Conciliator.
But the Spring Prince is still too young, and the realm will view my compromises as weakness.” “What do you intend to do?” Though his body was failing, Jaehaerys’s mind remained sharp.
He instantly grasped the underlying chords of Baelon’s words.
“Summon Quentyn and Gael to fly to King’s Landing, or perhaps have the court travel to Dragonstone to receive them.” Baelon placed his courtier’s orb on the weirwood table, giving it a gentle push.
The polished sphere rolled smoothly, dropping into its designated cradle on Baelon’s side of the table with a soft click.
“Invite Lord Daeron, Princess Vaella, Lord Corlys Velaryon, and every other great lord currently residing in the capital to bear witness to this grand occasion.
Princess Vaella’s presence will cement the absolute legitimacy of Quentyn claiming a dragon.
Once the realm sees that, Lord Corlys Velaryon will have no ground left to stand on.” “I see your design.” A glimmer of profound admiration returned to Jaehaerys’s tired eyes.
“Quentyn and Gael arriving simultaneously upon dragonback…
the lords of the realm will bear witness to the absolute, undisputed supremacy of the blood of the dragon once more,” Baelon continued, a calculating edge to his voice.
“Normally, such a display of power would drive certain houses to scheme in the shadows.
But if we drag everything into the blazing light of the sun, we can leverage these houses against one another and extract an even greater advantage.” “You are referring to House Celtigar, I presume?” A wry, knowing smile touched the old King’s lips.
Among the ancient houses possessing Valyrian blood that were closely tied to House Targaryen, only House Celtigar currently found themselves in an incredibly awkward political position.
House Velaryon had won the absolute favor of the Crown through their unrivaled naval supremacy.
The ‘Sea Snake’ had brought back unimaginable wealth, a massive fleet, and had successfully married a Targaryen princess who rode a dragon.
Now, Lord Corlys had even successfully extracted a dragon egg for his son.
House Qoherys, by virtue of protecting Jaehaerys, Alysanne, and the Queen Dowager Rhaena in the past, and breaking the curse that nearly claimed Princess Vaella’s life, had not only secured a royal marriage but had now produced a prodigy who tamed a massive wild dragon.
Only House Celtigar, having failed in their attempts to conquer Crackclaw Point and possessing very few meaningful marital alliances, had been entirely left out in the cold.
“Lord Bartimos Celtigar is a deeply rational man,” Baelon said, following his father’s line of thought flawlessly.
“But even the most rational men lose their composure when confronted with the raw power of dragons.
Lord Bartimos has many children and numerous siblings.
We must exploit their desperation.” “A cunning lad.” Jaehaerys let out a rare, hearty laugh that echoed through the quiet chamber.
“See it done.
By the way, what title do you intend to bestow upon Quentyn to bind him to us?” Baelon did not hesitate for a fraction of a second.
“The Sword of the Crown.
He shall become the sharpest blade defending the royal house.” “Ahhh!” “Hiss!” Gael would have sworn before the Seven that she had never screamed so loudly in her entire life.
It was completely devoid of any ladylike grace.
But she could not control the sound tearing from her throat.
The terrifying sensation of weightlessness as the emerald dragon surged into the sky paralyzed her with fear.
She could only clamp her eyes shut and maintain a death grip on the spikes protruding from the green dragon’s back.
Even the emerald hatchling was deeply affected by Gael’s blind panic, letting out a continuous, nervous hiss, the rhythm of its wingbeats growing erratic and clumsy.
It was not until the colossal shadow of Moondancer glided smoothly into position beneath her that the emerald dragon finally began to calm down.
Moondancer beat its massive silver wings, climbing steadily until it effortlessly overtook the smaller green beast, leveling out to fly perfectly parallel to Gael.
“Do not be afraid!
I am right here!” Quentyn shouted over the rushing wind, projecting his voice to reach the terrified girl.
Gael’s screaming ceased abruptly.
She sniffled, her eyes brimming with tears, but as the emerald dragon’s flight smoothed out into a steady, rhythmic glide, the cool sea breeze gently brushed across the young girl’s face.
Her silver hair danced wildly in the wind, fluttering like the delicate wings of a butterfly catching the sun.
Quentyn allowed himself to admire the sight for a long moment before tearing his gaze away, taking a deep, steadying breath.
The boy began to calculate his next move upon the grand board.
Taming Moondancer had indeed disrupted his initial, cautious plans.
However, Daemon’s accident, Alysanne’s extended olive branch, Jaehaerys’s political compromises, Baelon’s desire to leverage Quentyn’s newfound power to check House Velaryon and bolster a royal family severely lacking in active dragonriders…
and above all, the fact that he had personally shielded the Queen, the Princess, and the Prince during the chaotic dragon attack.
This cascading series of events had perfectly aligned to create an incredibly favorable environment for him.
Yet, this also meant he needed to actively demonstrate a profound closeness to the royal family.
Only by doing so could he maximize the leverage this perfect environment provided and naturally secure even greater political and material gains.
Gael was merely the first step.
While he was lost in his political calculus, the emerald dragon began its descent.
Moondancer followed closely behind, landing heavily on the rocky slopes right beside the smaller beast.
Gael sat frozen on the dragon’s back, her mind completely blank.
She was unsure if the sheer terror of the flight had entirely drained her energy, or if she simply had not yet processed the reality of what she had just accomplished.
Quentyn offered a gentle smile.
He slid smoothly down the leathery slope of Moondancer’s wing and strode over to the green dragon.
The emerald beast cast a cautious glance at Quentyn.
It lowered its head, crouching close to the earth and unfurling its wings to create a ramp.
It was still a very young dragon.
When it crouched low, an ordinary knight could have simply swung their leg over the saddle and stepped directly onto the dirt.
But Gael…
was clearly not an ordinary knight.
Quentyn reached up, wrapping his hands firmly around the girl’s slender waist, and gently lifted her down from the dragon’s back.
It was not until she felt the solid warmth of the boy’s armored chest against her that Gael finally snapped out of her daze.
She let out a long, trembling breath.
She gazed up at Quentyn, her violet eyes sparkling with a light as bright as the evening stars.
Daemon came hopping over on his good leg, a bitter scowl twisting his face.
“Seven Hells, Quentyn.
I regret everything.” Quentyn carefully set Gael down, shooting Daemon an exasperated look.
“What exactly are you regretting now?” “I should have dragged you straight to the Dragonpit to see Caraxes the moment you arrived in the capital.
Dammit, if I had done that, I would have been the first one to show off a dragon in front of you…” Quentyn was utterly speechless.
“Th-thank you…” Gael interjected, her voice barely above a whisper.
She reached out a single, trembling finger, gently tapping Quentyn’s soot-stained cheek.
“Thank you, Quentyn…
my…
my…” Gael searched her mind for a long time before finally squeezing out the words.
“My knight.” Daemon threw his head back and barked a loud, genuine laugh.
Quentyn offered a flawless, courtly bow.
“It is a knight’s sworn duty, my princess.” Gael’s face burned an even deeper shade of crimson.
“Alright, children.” Alysanne stepped forward, flanked by the two white knights, pulling all three youths into a sweeping embrace.
“It is time to go home.” She looked up at the two dragons resting on the slopes.
“A grand feast awaits you in the keep.
As for these two magnificent beasts…” The Queen’s eyes crinkled into warm crescents.
“The Dragonmont has been stocked with fat lambs, calves, and swine.
Whatever a dragon desires to eat, Dragonstone provides.” Alysanne’s gentle voice was caught by the wind, slowly dissipating into the sulfur-laced sea breeze of the volcanic island.
The moon chased away the sun, draping the realm in night and a canopy of brilliant stars.
Ravens dispatched from the high towers of the Red Keep had already delivered their sealed parchments to the desks of the great lords across the Crownlands and the Riverlands.
Harrenhal.
The Widow’s Tower.
During the years Queen Dowager Rhaena resided at Harrenhal, she had exclusively used the grand bedchamber specifically designed for her by Harren the Black.
Today, this massive, comfortable room, which remained perfectly warm in the bitterest winter and pleasantly cool in the height of summer, bore absolutely no trace of the extinct House Hoare.
The Queen Dowager had brought with her a massive bedframe forged of Valyrian steel, an ornate dressing table carved from pure ebony, and exquisite ocean-themed sculptures crafted in the style of Fair Isle.
These luxurious furnishings remained exactly where she had left them.
The vaulted ceiling above depicted a grand, mythical feast, showing the legendary Merling King and his queens gathered in joyous celebration.
Schools of fish swam in eternal circles around plump, beautiful maidens, ancient symbols of fertility and prosperity.
Lord Daeron shrugged off his heavy velvet doublet.
Decades of comfortable, luxurious living had graced him with a pronounced beer belly, but overall, the striking, handsome features gifted to him by his Valyrian blood remained largely untouched by time.
He had never been a warrior.
As Quentyn grew taller and stronger with each passing day, Lord Daeron’s own strength and martial skill had atrophied.
But Lord Daeron did not care in the slightest.
He loved Princess Vaella with every fiber of his being, and the Princess returned that devotion equally.
Furthermore, they had long passed the age of recklessly chasing fleeting pleasures.
Now, both past the age of fifty and entering the twilight of their lives, they found profound joy simply leaning against one another, finding comfort and happiness in each other’s quiet company.
Princess Vaella sat before the ebony dressing table, slowly removing her intricate silver jewelry while looking into the polished glass mirror.
Lord Daeron wrapped his left arm gently around his wife’s waist, burying his face into the crook of her neck, greedily breathing in the sweet fragrance of her skin.
Princess Vaella gently pushed her husband’s face away with a soft laugh.
“Have you forgotten the gift little Quentyn brought back from the Citadel?
He crafted it with his own hands.” She proudly lifted a delicate silver vial, handing it to Lord Daeron.
An intoxicating, complex floral scent instantly filled the massive bedchamber.
“You have been smelling it for days, are you not tired of it yet?” “Never.” Lord Daeron leaned in once more.
His hand slid slowly across Princess Vaella’s smooth back, wrapping around her shoulder as he pressed a deep, passionate kiss against her lips.
“Lord Daeron, a raven from King’s Landing…” Just as the two were intimately entangled, a sudden, urgent voice echoed from beyond the heavy oak doors.
Lord Daeron jerked his head up so fast he nearly lost his balance, stumbling backward.
Princess Vaella could not help but laugh softly as she watched Lord Daeron clumsily snatch a silk robe to cover her, before hastily and awkwardly pulling his own discarded tunic back over his head.
He hurried to the carved iron doors and yanked them open.
“A…
a message has arrived…” Maester Swift lowered his head, carefully weighing his words, entirely missing the rapid fading of the deep flush on Lord Daeron’s cheeks.
“Astounding news, you say?” The Maester finally lifted his head.
Catching sight of Lord Daeron’s disheveled state, his expression instantly hardened into one of grave medical concern.
“Lord Daeron, I have advised you on numerous occasions that your current physical constitution is simply not suited for such strenuous…” “Enough of that, Maester Swift.” Lord Daeron snatched the parchment from the Maester’s hand, his face burning with embarrassment.
“What has happened?” Lord Daeron stared at the heavy wax seal bearing the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.
A sudden, heavy premonition of monumental news settled over him.
Princess Vaella, having wrapped herself tightly in a silk robe, stepped out from behind him and used her long fingernail to neatly slice open the wax seal.
The moment Princess Vaella’s eyes scanned the first line of the letter, she gasped sharply, her hands flying up to cover her mouth.
Lord Daeron’s grip went slack, and the heavy parchment fluttered to the stone floor.
“How…
how is this even possible?” Lord Daeron whispered, the blood draining from his face.
Maester Swift hastily bent down to retrieve the letter.
The moment his eyes caught the words inked upon the page, the usually unflappable scholar’s hands began to tremble violently, and the parchment slipped from his grasp to the floor once more.
“How could he not…” Princess Vaella’s violet eyes were brimming with absolute disbelief, instantly overwhelmed by the ecstatic, tearing joy of a mother witnessing her son achieve god-like glory.
“He is my son!”