King’s Landing always had a smell.
But today, there was a hint of something else mixed into that scent.
It was the scent of death.
Three days ago, news arrived from Driftmark: Laena, the daughter of Lord Corlys, had died along with her unborn child after struggling for two days and a night on the birthing bed.
When the news reached the Red Keep, King Viserys I remained silent for an entire afternoon.
Now, that letter lay spread out on the long table.
The raven from White Harbor arrived last night, bringing a letter written by the hand of Lord Wylis Manderly.
Otto Hightower had already read it three times, and every word pricked at his schemes like a needle.
The door opened.
King Viserys I walked in.
The King was a girth broader than in his youth, and his face was somewhat pale.
He wore a deep red velvet robe, with the three-headed dragon emblem of House Targaryen pinned to his chest, but the weariness in his eyes could not be covered by the badge.
“Your Grace.” Otto Hightower turned and bowed.
King Viserys waved his hand and walked to the long table to sit down.
His gaze fell upon the letter from White Harbor, then shifted to another shorter report beside it—the dictated record after “Crows Eye” fled back to King’s Landing.
“Have you read them all?” King Viserys asked.
“I have, Your Grace.”
“What do you think?”
Otto Hightower walked to the opposite side of the King, bracing his hands on the table: “A bastard.
The bastard born to Princess Rhaenys, hidden on Driftmark for seventeen years, now runs to White Harbor, cuts off the hands of nine of my men, burns three strongholds, and has even tamed…”
He paused: “…the wild dragon from Dragonstone called ‘Sheepstealer’.”
King Viserys picked up the letter and read it again.
His fingers traced the edge of the parchment, which bore the mermaid wax seal of House Manderly.
“Sheepstealer…” the King repeated softly, “I remember that dragon.
Gray scales, fond of stealing sheep, wandering between Dragonstone and Driftmark for many years.
Many people tried to tame him, but none succeeded.”
“Now a bastard has succeeded.” Otto Hightower’s voice was calm, but every word felt like carving on ice, “And with that dragon, he has declared war on us.”
King Viserys looked up: “What Manderly asks in the letter is ‘how the Kingdom should dispose of this,’ not a declaration of war.”
“Cutting off nine hands, burning three strongholds, and demanding higher stakes—if this isn’t a declaration of war, what is, Your Grace?” Otto Hightower leaned forward, “This is a seventeen-year-old bastard telling The Iron Throne: The price you offer is not worthy of my dragon.” This chapter was taken from novelping dot com without permission.
The room was quiet for a moment.
King Viserys leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.
Sunlight shone in from the high windows, casting uneven shadows across his face.
“But he does have a dragon.” The King finally spoke, “Silver hair, purple eyes, able to tame a dragon…
even if he is a bastard, the blood is real.”
A sharp glint flashed in Otto Hightower’s green eyes: “The blood is real, which makes him even more dangerous, Your Grace.
With a legitimate Targaryen, we know where he is, we know what he wants, and we know how the rules bind him.
A bastard…
especially one who has already proven he dares to kill, dares to burn, and dares to negotiate terms with us…”
He did not finish, but the meaning was clear.
“So you want to kill him,” King Viserys said.
“I want to solve the problem,” Otto Hightower corrected, “And right now, the problem is that boy named Aeron and his dragon.
Lord Corlys will not tolerate this disgrace living.
We have two choices: First, strike before Driftmark does, and take both the person and the dragon into our control; second…”
He paused, observing the King’s expression: “…Support Driftmark.
Let Lord Corlys handle his own ‘family matters.’
We can provide assistance, and even offer Lord Corlys a formal expression of gratitude afterward—thanking him for clearing an uncontrollable wild dragon from the Kingdom, and an even more uncontrollable wild dragonrider.”
King Viserys did not answer immediately.
He looked out the window, his gaze seeming to pierce through the stone walls of the Red Keep, seeing the distant Driftmark, seeing that old father who had just lost his daughter.
“Laena has died,” the King said suddenly, his voice very soft.
Otto Hightower was taken aback for a moment: “Yes, Your Grace.
Three days ago.
Childbirth complications.”
“Lord Corlys must be in great pain right now.” King Viserys turned back, his eyes holding an emotion Otto Hightower could not fathom, “To lose a daughter, and now to face a bastard his wife bore before they were wed…
and that bastard has a dragon.”
“That is precisely the problem, Your Grace.” Otto Hightower seized the opportunity, “If we acknowledge that bastard now, give him a name, give him status—that would be like rubbing salt into Lord Corlys’s wounds.
On Driftmark, everyone will say: Look, the King would rather acknowledge a bastard than respect the’Sea Snake’ who has just lost his child.”
Their fleet is larger than anyone else’s, their wealth…
Your Grace, we cannot offend Lord Corlys for the sake of a bastard of unknown origin.”
King Viserys was silent for a long time.
His fingers tapped on the letter, making a monotonous, rhythmic sound.
“You are right,” the King finally spoke, “We cannot hurt Lord Corlys’s heart further just when he has lost his daughter.”
Otto Hightower breathed a sigh of relief.
“However,” King Viserys continued, his voice growing firm, “we also cannot let a dragon—and a Targaryen bloodline capable of riding a dragon—go completely out of control.”
He picked up a quill and drew a blank sheet of decree paper from the table.
“Write a reply to White Harbor,” King Viserys began to dictate, the nib scratching against the paper, “In the King’s name.
Say this: Upon investigation, Eron Targaryen is confirmed to be of the blood of House Targaryen, and is permitted to use the ‘Targaryen’ surname and enjoy noble status.”
Otto Hightower’s brow furrowed: “Your Grace, this is tantamount to acknowledging him—”
“Only acknowledging the surname,” King Viserys interrupted him, “No lands, no titles, no right of inheritance.
He is merely a ‘Targaryen in name only.’ As for where he and his dragon should go, and what they should do…”
The King stopped writing and looked at Otto Hightower: “Tell House Manderly to let the boy go to Dragonstone himself.
If he is truly the son of Rhaenys, then let him go see his sister Rhaenyra.
Let the people of House Targaryen decide for themselves how to handle one of their own.”
Otto Hightower stared at the drying ink on the decree, his mind calculating rapidly.
“You are wise, Your Grace,” Otto Hightower said finally, bowing slightly.
“And,” King Viserys added, “send a letter to Driftmark as well.
In my personal name, offer condolences to Lord Corlys for the loss of his daughter.
Tell him…
the Kingdom understands his anger, but asks him to exercise restraint for the time being.
The bastard has been granted a surname; let him go to Dragonstone first.
We shall discuss what comes after, later.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
King Viserys set down the quill and leaned back in his chair, a look of weariness appearing on his face.
“A dragon…” he murmured, “It is always a dragon.”