THALOR
The summons came at dawn, delivered by a Kingsguard knight rather than a page—a clear indication of its importance. Ser Jonothor Darry stood stiffly at the entrance to Thalor's workshop.
"Prince Thalor," the knight said formally. "His Grace King Aerys, Second of His Name, commands your presence at the Small Council meeting this morning."
Thalor looked up from the complex water filtration designs spread across his workbench. He had returned to King's Landing only a week ago after his trip to the Wall.
"The Small Council?" Thalor asked, careful to keep his tone neutral. This was unexpected. Since his return from Dragonstone, his father had received him only once—a tense, formal audience where Aerys had alternated between cold fury and calculated disinterest. There had been no mention of Thalor resuming court duties.
"Yes, my prince. His Grace specifically requests your attendance." Ser Jonothor's expression revealed nothing, but the slight emphasis on "requests" told Thalor all he needed to know. This was not a request but a command, and one that carried significant implications after his four-year absence from court.
"I will prepare immediately," Thalor said, already setting aside his tools with practiced efficiency. "Please inform His Grace that I am honored by the summons."
Once Ser Jonothor departed, Thalor moved quickly to his adjoining chambers. Four years had passed since that stormy night when his mother had arranged his escape to Dragonstone, following his refusal to use Nightfury to execute prisoners accused of minor offenses.
The distance from court politics had allowed him to focus on matters he considered far more important than royal intrigue—namely, preparation for the threat from beyond the Wall that still haunted his dreams.
Thalor dressed quickly in formal Targaryen black and red, his movements practiced and precise. As he fastened the dragon-head clasps of his doublet, Nightfury stirred in his specially constructed chamber on the tower's upper level.
"I'll be fine, bud." Thalor said, knowing the dragon could sense his tension. Since their return to King's Landing, Nightfury had been staying in the modified roost high atop the Broken Tower where guards no longer openly watched him but where Thalor knew Varys's spies monitored his every movement.
He climbed the stairs to check on the dragon before departing. The dragon's green eyes fixed on Thalor with an intelligence that continued to impress even those who had grown accustomed to his presence.
"I've been summoned to the Small Council," Thalor explained, running a hand along Nightfury's sleek neck. "After four years, Father finally wants me to attend again. I doubt it's a reconciliation."
Nightfury huffed softly, a small curl of smoke escaping his nostrils.
"Exactly," Thalor agreed. "Keep alert while I'm gone. Things may change quickly depending on what he wants."
The walk to the Small Council chamber gave Thalor time to prepare himself mentally. The Red Keep had changed little, but he noted subtle shifts in the atmosphere—servants more tense, guards more numerous, courtiers moving in tighter clusters and speaking in lower voices. His father's condition had clearly continued to deteriorate.
Outside the council chamber, Ser Barristan Selmy stood at attention. The knight's eyes showed a flicker of recognition—perhaps even relief—at Thalor's approach.
"Prince Thalor," he greeted with a formal bow. "The council awaits."
"Is my father already inside?" Thalor asked quietly.
"Yes, Your Grace. Along with the Hand and the rest of the council."
Thalor nodded, straightening his shoulders. "Then let's not keep them waiting."
Ser Barristan opened the door and announced him formally: "Prince Thalor Targaryen."
The chamber fell silent as Thalor entered. Around the long table sat the powerful men who governed the Seven Kingdoms in his father's name: Lord Tywin Lannister, the Hand of the King, his face an impassive mask; Grand Maester Pycelle, whose obsequious smile failed to reach his eyes; Lord Steffon Baratheon, Master of Ships, watching him with careful assessment; Lord Qarlton Chelsted, Master of Coin, nervously adjusting his chain of office; and Varys, the Spider, whose powdered face revealed nothing of his thoughts.
At the head of the table sat King Aerys II Targaryen, and the sight of him sent a chill through Thalor despite his preparation.
His father had deteriorated dramatically since Thalor had last seen him. Aerys's once-handsome face had grown gaunt, with sunken cheeks and feverish eyes that darted suspiciously around the room. His silver hair and beard had grown wild, an unkempt tangle that reached well past his shoulders. Most disturbing were his fingernails—yellow and cracked, curling like talons from his thin fingers, some nearly six inches long. The smell of unwashed flesh barely masked by heavy perfume filled the air around him.
"So the dragon prince finally graces us with his presence," Aerys said, his voice a dry rasp that nonetheless cut through the chamber's silence. "Years playing with water pipes while your king and father ruled without your... valuable insights."
The sarcasm in the last words was unmistakable, but Thalor maintained his composure, bowing deeply.
"Father. My lords. I am honored to be invited to rejoin the council."
"Invited?" Aerys laughed, a sound like breaking glass. "Is that what you call a royal command these days? Perhaps Dragonstone has its own interpretation of authority."
"I meant no disrespect, Your Grace," Thalor replied evenly. "I am grateful to return to your service after completing the projects you permitted me to oversee."
This careful framing—positioning his absence as authorized royal business rather than the exile it had truly been—seemed to mollify Aerys slightly. The king gestured impatiently to an empty chair halfway down the table.
"Sit. We have matters to discuss that concern you directly."
Thalor took the indicated seat, noting that it positioned him between Varys and Grand Maester Pycelle, with Tywin Lannister directly across from him. The Hand's golden-flecked green eyes met his briefly, measuring and calculating as always.
"My son's dragon has grown," Aerys announced to the council, though all were well aware of Nightfury's development. "Large enough now for war, the reports say. A true weapon of House Targaryen."
The emphasis on "weapon" sent a familiar chill through Thalor. Four years ago, he had refused to use Nightfury as an instrument of execution. His father, it seemed, had neither forgotten nor abandoned his view of dragons as tools of destruction rather than protectors of the realm.
"Nightfury has indeed grown stronger," Thalor acknowledged carefully. "His fire could defend King's Landing against any threat."
"Defend?" Aerys's fingernails scraped against the table. "Always so... passive in your thinking, my son. Dragons conquered this land. They didn't defend—they attacked. They burned those who opposed them until seven kingdoms became one."
Lord Tywin cleared his throat. "Your Grace, perhaps we might address the matters on today's agenda? The Dornish trade negotiations require—"
"Silence!" Aerys snapped. "I will decide what matters deserve our attention, Hand." He leaned forward, his bloodshot eyes fixed on Thalor. "We face threats within and without. Plots against the crown. Whispers of defiance from lords who forget their place."
The familiar paranoia had clearly worsened during Thalor's absence. He chose his next words with extreme care.
"The realm seems prosperous and peaceful, Father. Lord Tywin's governance has—"
"Lord Tywin's governance," Aerys interrupted with a sneer, "serves Lord Tywin's interests above all. But that is not why I summoned you today." His mood shifted again, calculation replacing anger. "You are four and ten namedays now. A man grown by many standards."
"Yes, Father," Thalor replied, tensing as he sensed the true purpose of the summons approaching.
"It is time we secured your future—and the future of our house. You will marry," Aerys declared. "The right alliance will strengthen our position against those who plot in the shadows."
Though Thalor had anticipated this eventually, the bluntness of the announcement took him by surprise. He glanced at Lord Tywin, whose expression remained carefully neutral despite what must have been great interest in this topic.
"I am honored by Your Grace's consideration of my future," Thalor said diplomatically. "Did you have a particular match in mind?"
Aerys leaned back, a thin smile playing across his cracked lips. "Oh yes. I have given this great thought during your... absence." He emphasized the last word, making it clear he had not forgotten the circumstances of Thalor's departure. "The dragon's blood must remain strong. Pure."
The implication sent a wave of discomfort through Thalor, but he maintained his composure. "House Targaryen has always valued strong alliances through marriage, Father."
"Alliances?" Aerys's voice dripped with contempt. "Is that what they taught you? That we need alliances with lesser houses?" He laughed again, that terrible, humorless sound. "The dragon stands alone, above all others. Our strength comes from within, from the purity of our bloodline."
The other council members shifted uncomfortably, clearly recognizing the dangerous direction of the king's thoughts. Even Lord Tywin, normally unflappable, seemed tense.
"The Targaryens ruled through dragons and blood," Aerys continued, his voice taking on the dreamy quality that Thalor remembered from his prophetic obsessions. "The dreams have shown me the truth of this. Fire and blood, Thalor. That is our way."
"Indeed, Father," Thalor acknowledged cautiously. "Our house words remind us of our heritage."
"More than words," Aerys insisted, leaning forward again, his eyes fever-bright. "A philosophy. A destiny." He studied Thalor with sudden, sharp focus. "Your mother carries my child again."
The abrupt change of subject caught Thalor off-guard. His mother pregnant again, after so many stillbirths and miscarriages? At her age?
"I... was not aware," he said carefully. "That is joyous news."
"If it is a daughter," Aerys said, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "she will be your bride. The dragon must have three heads. Brother and sister, as it was in Old Valyria."
Horror washed through Thalor, but years of court training kept his expression neutral. "Father, the child is not yet born. Perhaps we might—"
"If not a sister," Aerys continued as if Thalor hadn't spoken, "then there are other options to maintain the purity of our line. Rhaella. My sister, your mother."
The suggestion was so grotesque that for a moment Thalor thought he had misheard. Across the table, even Lord Tywin looked disturbed, while the other council members studiously avoided meeting anyone's eyes.
"Father," Thalor said, his voice steady despite his revulsion, "the Faith would never—"
"The Faith!" Aerys snarled, slamming his fist down. "What do I care for their bleating? I am the dragon! If Maegor could take multiple wives, why should you not take your mother? Our bloodline would remain pure."
The chamber had grown deathly quiet, the council members frozen in horrified silence. Even Varys, master of his expressions, could not hide his unease at the king's ravings.
Thalor took a deep breath. He needed to redirect this conversation before it spiraled further into madness.
"Your Grace," he said formally, shifting away from the familiar address of "Father" to create distance, "I understand your concern for our house's legacy. But perhaps there are political advantages to consider as well? The great houses have daughters of noble blood. An alliance might strengthen the realm against any who would challenge your authority."
This approach—appealing to Aerys's paranoia about challenges to his power—seemed to give the king pause. He studied Thalor through narrowed eyes.
"You sound like Tywin," he said eventually. "Always politics, never understanding the importance of blood."
Into the uncomfortable silence that followed, Lord Tywin spoke for the first time since the discussion of marriage began.
"Your Grace, if I might suggest—the matter of Prince Thalor's marriage is indeed of great significance to the realm. Perhaps a period of consideration is warranted? The prince has only just returned to court after his long service on Dragonstone. There would be wisdom in allowing him time to reacquaint himself with the current political landscape before making such a momentous decision."
It was a masterful intervention, Thalor had to admit. Tywin had neither challenged the king directly nor supported his disturbing suggestions, instead offering a reasonable delay that might allow Aerys's attention to shift elsewhere.
For a moment, it seemed Aerys might erupt in rage at his Hand's interruption. But then, unpredictably, he laughed.
"Always the diplomat, Tywin. Always so... careful." He waved a dismissive hand. "Very well. Let the dragon prince 'reacquaint himself' with court. Let him attend council meetings, see how we've ruled in his absence." His eyes narrowed. "But do not think this matter is forgotten. You will marry, Thalor. Soon. If not your mother or a sister yet to come, then someone worthy of the dragon's blood. I will consider the matter further."
Thalor recognized the dismissal and rose, bowing deeply. "Thank you, Your Grace, for your wisdom in this matter."
As he straightened, Aerys caught his wrist with surprising strength. "Four years is a long time, my son," he hissed, low enough that only Thalor could hear. "Long enough to forget what happens to those who wake the dragon. Do not make that mistake again."
"I serve at Your Grace's pleasure," Thalor replied steadily, meeting his father's gaze.
Aerys released him with a push. "Go. The council has other matters to discuss."
Thalor bowed again and backed toward the door, never turning his back on the king as protocol demanded. Outside, he exhaled slowly, controlling the tremor that threatened to overtake him now that he was beyond his father's sight.
"Prince Thalor," a voice called softly from behind him. He turned to see Ser Barristan approaching with concern in his eyes. "Are you well?"
"As well as can be expected, Ser Barristan," Thalor replied. "The king is... unchanged."
The knight's expression remained carefully blank, but understanding passed between them. "Worse, I would say," he murmured, glancing around to ensure they weren't overheard. "Since your absence, his... convictions have only deepened."
"So I observed," Thalor said. "Thank you for your concern, Ser Barristan. I should check on Nightfury. He grows restless when confined too long."
As he walked away, Thalor's mind raced with the implications of this meeting. His return to court was clearly not a reconciliation but a reassertion of his father's control—a way to bring the increasingly valuable asset of a dragon rider back under direct royal authority. The marriage proposal, with its disturbing implications, was likely just the beginning of Aerys's attempts to bend Thalor to his will.
Instead of returning directly to Nightfury, Thalor made his way to his mother's chambers in Maegor's Holdfast. He needed to confirm if what Aerys had said about her pregnancy was true, and, if so, to warn her about the king's disturbing plans.
The Queen's guards recognized him immediately, bowing with genuine respect. Unlike many at court, Rhaella's household had always shown Thalor loyalty untainted by fear.
"Is the Queen receiving visitors?" he asked the captain of her guard.
"For you, Prince Thalor, always," the man replied with a small smile.
Inside, he found his mother seated by a window overlooking the gardens, her ladies-in-waiting working quietly at their embroidery nearby. When she saw Thalor, her face lit with genuine joy.
"My son," she said warmly, rising to embrace him. "Twice in one week—I am truly blessed."
"Mother," Thalor returned her embrace, then stepped back to study her carefully. Her gown was loose-fitting, but he could detect no obvious signs of pregnancy. "I've just come from the Small Council meeting."
Understanding dawned in her eyes. She turned to her ladies. "Leave us, please. I wish to speak with my son alone."
Once they had departed, Rhaella guided Thalor to a seat beside her. "So your father has brought you back into the fold," she said. "I wondered when he would summon you to council."
"He spoke of marriage," Thalor said directly. "And he claimed you are with child again."
Rhaella's face paled slightly. "I see." She folded her hands in her lap, her knuckles whitening. "I am not with child, Thalor. Your father... he often speaks of things he wishes to be true rather than what is."
Relief washed through him. "Then his talk of my marrying a sister yet unborn, or—" He couldn't bring himself to complete the thought.
"Or myself?" Rhaella finished gently. "Yes, I've heard similar ravings before. Since his dreams began to consume him, his obsession with Targaryen bloodlines has only grown stronger." She reached out to touch his cheek. "Do not fear, my son. These are the fantasies of a troubled mind, not plans that will come to fruition."
"But he seemed determined," Thalor pressed. "He spoke of it in council, before the Hand and other lords."
"And did any support this idea?" Rhaella asked.
"No. Lord Tywin suggested delay, allowing me time to 'reacquaint' myself with court."
A small smile touched Rhaella's lips. "Clever of him. Your father's attention shifts. What seems all-important today may be forgotten tomorrow in favor of some new obsession." Her eyes grew serious. "But make no mistake, Thalor—he will return to the question of your marriage. It represents control to him, a way to bind you and your dragon more firmly to his will."
"What should I do?" Thalor asked, momentarily allowing himself to be the son seeking counsel rather than the strategic prince.
"For now, appear compliant. Attend council when summoned. Offer insights that demonstrate your value without challenging his authority." She squeezed his hand. "And quietly build alliances of your own. Your time on Dragonstone, however short, has given you knowledge and perspective the court lacks. Use that."
"And the marriage question?"
"When it arises again—and it will—continue to advocate for political advantage over blood purity. Your father may be fixated on Targaryen tradition, but he is not immune to arguments about strengthening his position against perceived enemies." Rhaella's eyes grew distant. "And if he insists on something... unacceptable, we will find another solution. I protected you once; I would do so again if necessary."
The reference to her orchestration of his escape to Dragonstone four years ago hung between them. That night had marked a turning point in their relationship—the moment when Rhaella had transformed from the Queen to a mother who would risk everything to protect her child from the king's madness.
"I don't want you to face his wrath again," Thalor said quietly. "The price you paid for my safety last time was too high."
After he had fled to Dragonstone, Aerys had taken out his fury on Rhaella. Though she never spoke of it directly, Thalor had heard rumors of the queen's "accidents" and "illnesses" that had followed his departure.
"Some prices are worth paying," Rhaella replied simply. "But let us hope such measures won't be necessary again." She straightened, her queenly demeanor returning. "Now, tell me of the council meeting. What other matters were discussed before your father turned to questions of marriage?"
Thalor recognized her redirection and accepted it, shifting to a recounting of the brief council business that had preceded Aerys's pronouncements. As they spoke, he found himself studying his mother with fresh eyes. Despite years of abuse and fear, she had maintained not just her dignity but her strategic mind. Rhaella Targaryen was not merely a victim of Aerys's madness but a subtle resistor, navigating the treacherous currents of court with a skill few appreciated.
Later, as Thalor finally made his way back to Nightfury, his mind was clearer. His mother was right—compliance for now, while quietly building his own position and alliances. The marriage question would return, but time was on his side. His father's mental deterioration made him unpredictable but also inconsistent. What seemed an immovable royal command one day might be forgotten the next as new obsessions took hold.
In the meantime, he had other concerns—chief among them, the reports from the Night's Watch about increasing wildling migrations south and abandoned villages beyond the Wall. Those mattered far more than court politics, though few at the Red Keep would understand why.
Nightfury greeted him with a gentle nudge, sensing his troubled thoughts.
"It's alright, bud," Thalor said, scratching behind the dragon's ear flaps. "We've navigated worse than my father's madness." He smiled grimly. "At least this time we're facing human problems, not a Red Death."
Nightfury huffed in agreement, a small flame flickering between his teeth.
"Exactly," Thalor agreed. "One challenge at a time. First, we survive court politics. Then, we prepare for winter."
Because winter was coming, bringing horrors from beyond the Wall. And neither his father's madness nor marriage plans would matter if the realm wasn't ready when the true enemy arrived.