The hallowed air of the Starry Sept in Oldtown hummed with an almost unbearable anticipation, thick with the scent of incense and the unspoken prayers of thousands.
It was the waning days of 48 AC, and a new dawn was breaking over the Seven Kingdoms, after the long, dark shadow of King Maegor I Targaryen's cruel reign. The faithful, lords, and smallfolk alike, packed the ancient sept to its vaulted ceilings, their eyes fixed on the dais where the young Prince Jaehaerys stood.
At fourteen years of age, he was a slender, earnest boy, yet his demeanour carried a quiet strength, a stark contrast to his indecisive father, Aenys I, and his bloodthirsty uncle, Maegor. Hope, fragile yet fervent, rested on his youthful shoulders.
Oldtown, the greatest city in all Westeros, and the ancient heart of the Faith, brimmed with visitors. Its massive walls had once welcomed Aegon the Conqueror for his own coronation, two years after his landing, when he was anointed by the High Septon himself.
Now, the city's many bells pealed, announcing a similar auspicious event. From the Starry Sept's ornate windows, shafts of morning light cut through the gloom, illuminating the intricate tapestries depicting the Seven. Every noble house, from the Dornish Marches to the shadow of the Wall, had sent representatives, their vibrant silks and velvets a kaleidoscopic tapestry themselves, signifying the tentative peace Jaehaerys promised.
He was hailed as "the Conciliator" even before his reign truly began, a king who would unite the fractured realm.The High Septon, whose courage had defied Maegor's tyranny, now performed the sacred rites, his voice, though aged, resonating with profound authority.
The crystal crown, symbol of the Father of the Faithful, gleamed as he raised his hands in blessing over Jaehaerys. "By the grace of the Seven, and in accordance with the laws of gods and men, I anoint thee, Jaehaerys of House Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm!".
A collective intake of breath, then a thunderous cheer, erupted from the assembled multitude. The lords, arrayed in their finest velvets and silks, knelt, their sworn swords laid low.
Among them, the indomitable Dowager Queen Alyssa, her face still etched with the pain of recent losses, watched with a flicker of pride as her youngest surviving son was crowned.
Beside her stood the fiercely loyal Lord Rogar Baratheon, Hand of the King, whose very presence exuded power, a man who had delivered the Iron Throne to Jaehaerys.
Princesses Rhaena and Alysanne, Jaehaerys's older sisters, knelt too, their silver-gold hair a beacon amongst the lesser nobility.
Even Ser Joffrey Doggett, the Red Dog of the Hills, an outlawed Warrior's Son who had accepted the King's clemency, knelt, a testament to Jaehaerys's conciliatory wisdom, which sought to heal the deep divisions Maegor had sown between the Iron Throne and the Faith.
This was conciliation, true and hard-won, a realm beginning to mend its grievous wounds. The High Septon then placed the iron crown of Aegon the Conqueror upon the young king's brow, not the ornate golden crown his father had favoured, but a symbol of raw power and ancient Valyrian lineage. Balerion, the Conqueror's own dragon, had burned Harrenhal, a testament to the might now vested in this boy king.
Outside the Sept, the streets of Oldtown teemed with tens of thousands of smallfolk, their cheers echoing back the joyous peals of the city's bells. They hailed their new king, a boy who promised a gentler, more just reign than his predecessor, Maegor the Cruel. Jaehaerys had arrived in Oldtown on the wings of Vermithor, the bronze fury, a majestic display of Targaryen dominance that left no doubt of their power.
This was a king who meant to heal, to build, to unite, a stark contrast to the previous reign that had left the kingdom impoverished, war-torn, and lawless. His reign was anticipated as a welcome respite from chaos and conflict, a year of peace and plenty.
Grand Maester Benifer, newly returned from exile, and other archmaesters of the Citadel, stood witness, hoping for an era of stability after the turmoil that had seen three Grand Maesters executed by Maegor. Jaehaerys's fair-spoken manner and chivalrous nature had already won the admiration of many lords and commoners, confirming the hope he embodied. The long conflict with the Faith Militant, which had pitted pious men and women against the Targaryens, was now set to end, thanks to Jaehaerys's willingness to grant clemency and work with the High Septon.
The young king truly seemed like the best of his generation, wise and courageous, poised to bring a golden autumn to Westeros.
Suddenly, the joyous clamour shifted. A collective intake of breath, a sudden hush, like a tide receding before a monstrous wave. The light inside the sept, usually filtered through stained-glass windows, dimmed abruptly, as if a great, opaque curtain had been drawn across the sun. Outside, the joyous bells of Oldtown faltered, then stopped altogether, replaced by a low, guttural rumble that seemed to vibrate through the very stones of the ancient city.
Then came the roar. Not the familiar, awe-inspiring roar of a Targaryen dragon, but something ancient, vast, and chillingly predatory. It was a sound that curdled blood, a sound that spoke of primeval forests and consuming hunger.
Above the Starry Sept, the sky was blotted out entirely. A silhouette, immense beyond comprehension, coal-black against the already-darkened heavens, cast the city into a terrifying twilight.
It was larger, perhaps, than even Balerion, a monstrous presence that dwarfed the very towers of the Hightower.
The whispers began, starting as faint rustles of fear, then growing into a panicked murmur:
"The Cannibal!"