King's Landing, 101 AC - The Red Keep
The great bronze wheelhouse bearing the arms of House Royce rolled through the gates of King's Landing like a thundercloud gathering before a storm. Three-year-old Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen pressed his small face to the window, his brilliant green eyes wide with wonder at the sprawling city that stretched before them like a living tapestry of stone and humanity. The narrow streets teemed with more people than he had ever seen in his short life—merchants hawking their wares, beggars clutching at passersby, children running between the wheels of carts while their mothers screamed warnings from doorways.
"So many people, Mama," he whispered, his voice carrying the precise diction that had surprised everyone who met him. While other children his age babbled and stumbled over simple words, Jaehaerys spoke with an clarity that was both remarkable and unsettling—as if an older mind was carefully choosing each word before it left his mouth.
Lady Rhea Royce, dressed in mourning black that made her auburn hair seem to burn like embers, reached over to smooth her son's silver-gold curls with gentle fingers. "More than live in the entire Vale, little love. This is the great city—the heart of the realm your family rules."
*My family,* Jaehaerys thought, the words feeling strange even in his own mind. In three years of life, he had seen precious few Targaryens beyond his father Daemon and his grandfather Baelon, both of whom had visited Runestone on their great dragons. The memories of those visits burned bright in his mind—the thunderous roar of Caraxes and Vhagar descending from storm clouds, the way the very air seemed to vibrate with ancient power, and most clearly of all, the sensation of *almost* that had filled him whenever he was near the great beasts.
It was like hearing a song through thick stone walls—beautiful and haunting, but maddeningly just out of reach. He knew, with the certainty that had marked so many of his strange insights, that somewhere a dragon was meant for him. His egg had never hatched despite years of careful tending, remaining cold and lifeless in its place of honor beside his bed. But the pull was there, the knowledge that his dragon existed, was *real*, was waiting...
"Will I meet the dragons today?" he asked, though he already knew the answer would disappoint him.
Rhea's expression tightened almost imperceptibly. "Dragons don't attend funerals, sweeting. Even your grandfather Baelon will be laid to rest without Vhagar by his side." Her voice carried carefully controlled grief—she had genuinely liked Prince Baelon, who had treated her with more respect and kindness than most Targaryens had ever shown.
"But they're still here," Jaehaerys said with the sort of matter-of-fact certainty that had learned to make adults uncomfortable. "I can feel them. Like... like thunder that hasn't happened yet."
Rhea studied her son's face with the careful attention she had learned to give his more unusual pronouncements. In three years, she had grown accustomed to the way he seemed to *know* things he shouldn't, the way he would sometimes speak with the voice of someone far older, the way his green eyes would grow distant as if he were seeing things that existed in another time or place entirely.
"The Dragonpit," she said finally. "Yes, there are dragons there. Perhaps your father will take you to see them, if you ask nicely and promise not to try to climb on any of them."
"I wouldn't climb on the wrong dragon," Jaehaerys said seriously, his small hand pressed against the cool glass of the window. "I'd know if it was mine."
*How?* Rhea wanted to ask, but they had learned not to push too hard when he spoke like this. The answers he gave were usually more unsettling than the original statements.
The wheelhouse began its climb up Aegon's Hill, the great red walls of the Red Keep rising before them like a monument to Targaryen power. Jaehaerys had seen it in tapestries and heard it described in stories, but nothing had prepared him for the reality—the sheer *size* of it, the way it seemed to crouch over the city like a sleeping dragon made of stone and iron.
"It's bigger than Runestone," he observed.
"Much bigger," Rhea agreed. "Your ancestor Aegon the Conqueror built it to house the rulers of all Seven Kingdoms, not just one castle in the Vale. Everything here is... larger. Louder. More dangerous."
She had been dreading this journey for weeks, ever since the raven had arrived bearing news of Prince Baelon's death. Not just because of the grief—though she would genuinely miss the old prince's visits and his gruff kindness—but because of what it meant. A royal funeral would require them to navigate the treacherous waters of court politics, to present Jaehaerys to the royal family for inspection and judgment, to watch her unusual son interact with relatives who might not understand or appreciate his... unique qualities.
And beneath it all, the growing whispers of a Great Council. With Prince Baelon dead and the succession unclear, the realm balanced on a knife's edge between Princess Rhaenys—Baelon's niece and heir to Prince Aemon—and Prince Viserys, Baelon's eldest son. The lords would gather, debate, and choose the future of the Targaryen dynasty.
Which meant that Jaehaerys, as grandson to both claimants' father, would be scrutinized with uncomfortable intensity.
"Remember what we discussed," she said quietly as the wheelhouse rolled through the great gates of the Red Keep. "About how to behave around the King and Queen?"
"Bow properly, speak only when spoken to, don't mention the things I dream about, and definitely don't tell Great-grandfather that I can see the sadness in his dragon's eyes," Jaehaerys recited dutifully.
Rhea blinked. "I didn't tell you not to mention that last part."
"You would have, if you'd thought of it," Jaehaerys replied with the sort of innocent logic that made her want to laugh and cry at the same time.
The wheelhouse rolled to a stop in the great courtyard, where a reception party had assembled to greet them. Rhea recognized Prince Daemon immediately—her husband stood with his usual careless grace, silver hair catching the afternoon sun, Dark Sister at his hip more for show than necessity in this setting. Beside him stood a man who could only be Prince Viserys, broader and more solid than his younger brother, with the sort of careful dignity that spoke of someone who took his responsibilities seriously.
And there, barely visible behind her father's legs, a small figure with silver-gold hair that gleamed like spun moonlight—Princess Rhaenyra, nearly four years old and already showing the unmistakable beauty that would one day make her the most desired woman in the realm.
"Your cousin," Rhea murmured to Jaehaerys as servants moved to open the wheelhouse door. "Remember—she's older than you, and a princess born in the capital. Let her lead in any games you might play."
Jaehaerys nodded solemnly, but his green eyes were fixed on something beyond the immediate reception party—toward the great bulk of the Red Keep itself, where ancient stones seemed to whisper with the weight of centuries and power.
*Somewhere in there,* he thought with the strange certainty that had marked his short life, *my dragon is waiting.*
The door opened, and Prince Daemon stepped forward with a smile that transformed his usually sardonic features into something approaching paternal warmth. "My lady wife," he said, offering his hand to help Rhea down from the wheelhouse. "Welcome to King's Landing. I trust the journey wasn't too taxing?"
"Long, but manageable," Rhea replied, accepting his assistance with the sort of careful courtesy they had developed over three years of learning to be married to each other. "The roads were good, and Jaehaerys was an excellent traveling companion."
Daemon's eyes moved to the wheelhouse where his son was carefully making his way down the steps, his small face serious with concentration as he navigated the distance to the ground. At three, Jaehaerys had his father's fine features and his mother's thoughtful nature, but there was something else there too—a quality of ancient awareness that made Daemon's breath catch in his throat every time he saw it.
"Hello, Papa," Jaehaerys said formally, executing a bow that would have done credit to a much older child. "I'm sorry about Grandfather Baelon."
"Thank you, little prince," Daemon replied, scooping his son up in his arms with an ease born of regular practice during his extended stays at Runestone. "He would have been glad to know you came to say goodbye."
Prince Viserys stepped forward with the careful warmth of a man who genuinely enjoyed children but saw them infrequently enough to be slightly uncertain of his approach. "And this must be my nephew," he said, his voice carrying the sort of measured kindness that would one day make him a beloved, if not particularly effective, king. "Jaehaerys, isn't it? Named for our grandfather?"
"Yes, Uncle," Jaehaerys replied politely, studying Viserys with those unsettling green eyes. "Mama says you might be the next king."
The adults froze. Rhea felt her cheeks burn with embarrassment, while Daemon made a sound that might have been a strangled laugh. Viserys, to his credit, simply looked thoughtful.
"Perhaps," he said carefully. "These things are... complicated. The lords will decide what's best for the realm."
"The lords will decide what's best for the lords," Jaehaerys replied with devastating three-year-old honesty. "But the dragons will choose who they want to follow."
*Where does he come up with these things?* Rhea thought desperately, already composing apologies in her head.
But Viserys surprised her by laughing—a genuine, delighted sound. "Out of the mouths of babes," he said, ruffling Jaehaerys's silver hair. "You know, I think you might be right about that."
A small figure detached herself from behind Viserys's legs and stepped forward with the sort of regal bearing that seemed impossible in someone so young. Princess Rhaenyra was beautiful even at four, with the classical Targaryen features and violet eyes that seemed to hold depths of intelligence far beyond her years.
"Hello," she said to Jaehaerys with the careful politeness of a child who had been coached in royal etiquette since birth. "I'm Rhaenyra. You're my cousin."
"I'm Jaehaerys," he replied, still secure in his father's arms but turning his full attention to the little princess. "You have purple eyes."
"And you have green ones," Rhaenyra replied, clearly fascinated. "I've never seen green eyes on a Targaryen before."
"Neither have I," Jaehaerys admitted. "Mama says they're like grandmother's, but different."
"They're pretty," Rhaenyra announced with royal authority. "I like them."
The tension that had been building in the adults eased slightly as the children began their careful introduction. Whatever else might be true about Jaehaerys, he seemed perfectly capable of interacting normally with other children—a relief to everyone present.
"Perhaps," Viserys suggested, "we might continue this conversation inside? Their Graces are eager to meet their great-grandson, and the afternoon grows late."
As they walked toward the great entrance of the Red Keep, Jaehaerys found his attention drawn upward to the massive towers that rose above them like stone fingers reaching toward the sky. There was something about this place—something that called to him in a way that was both familiar and strange, like a half-remembered dream or a song heard in another life.
*Power,* he thought, though he couldn't have explained what he meant by that. *Old power, sleeping but not dead.*
"The castle is very big," Rhaenyra observed, falling into step beside her cousin with the easy confidence of someone who had never known any other home. "There are hundreds of rooms, and secret passages, and a throne made of swords that's taller than Papa."
"Have you seen it?" Jaehaerys asked, his green eyes bright with interest.
"Lots of times. Grandfather sits on it when he holds court, but he's very old now and it makes him tired." Rhaenyra lowered her voice conspiratorially. "Mama says one day Papa might sit on it instead, if the lords decide he should be king. But I think I'd like to sit on it too, someday."
"Maybe you will," Jaehaerys said seriously. "I dream about thrones sometimes. Big ones and little ones and thrones made of things that aren't swords."
Rhaenyra looked at him with the sort of intense curiosity that would one day make her both a beloved and feared queen. "What kind of things?"
"Bones," Jaehaerys replied matter-of-factly. "Dragon bones, mostly. Very old ones."
The adults, who had been listening to this conversation with growing alarm, exchanged meaningful looks over the children's heads. Daemon cleared his throat diplomatically.
"Perhaps we should save the discussion of... unusual dreams... for another time," he suggested. "Their Graces are waiting."
But as they entered the great hall of the Red Keep, Jaehaerys felt that pull again—stronger now, almost overwhelming in its intensity. Somewhere in this ancient seat of power, something was calling to him. Something vast and winged and patient, something that had been waiting far longer than a three-year-old boy should be able to comprehend.
*Soon,* he thought, though he couldn't have said why. *Soon.*
The throne room doors loomed ahead of them, massive oak panels reinforced with iron bands and carved with dragons that seemed to writhe in the flickering torchlight. Beyond those doors waited King Jaehaerys the Conciliator and Queen Alysanne, the most powerful people in the known world—and somewhere beyond even them, in caves carved from the living rock beneath the Red Keep, slept the greatest dragons in the world.
Including one that had been growing restless lately, growing larger, growing hungry for a rider worthy of its magnificence.
As the great doors swung open and the throne room was revealed in all its terrifying grandeur, Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen stepped forward into his destiny, his green eyes reflecting the light of a thousand candles like chips of emerald fire.
The game had begun in earnest now. And though he was only three years old, something ancient and patient behind those impossible eyes suggested that this particular player had been preparing for this moment far longer than anyone could possibly imagine.
---
The Iron Throne rose before them like a monument to conquest and the price of power, its twisted mass of melted swords and ancient metal reaching toward the vaulted ceiling of the throne room like the frozen scream of a thousand defeated enemies. Even in the flickering light of hundreds of torches and braziers, it seemed to drink in the illumination rather than reflect it, casting shadows that writhed and danced with each movement of the flames.
And upon that terrible seat, looking impossibly small against its jagged magnificence, sat King Jaehaerys the Conciliator.
Age had not been kind to the Old King, though it had been gentler than it might have been. His hair was white as fresh snow now, his beard flowing like silver water down the front of his black mourning robes. The crown of Aegon the Conqueror—a circlet of Valyrian steel set with rubies that gleamed like drops of dragon's blood—seemed almost too heavy for his weathered brow. But his eyes remained sharp as amethysts, missing nothing as they swept over the small procession approaching his throne.
Beside the Iron Throne, on a chair that managed to be both magnificent and somehow secondary, sat Queen Alysanne. Even in her seventies, she retained an ethereal beauty that spoke of the blood of Old Valyria, though grief had carved new lines around her eyes and mouth. Her silver-gold hair was braided with ribbons of mourning black, and her hands—still graceful despite their age—were folded carefully in her lap.
The throne room itself was a study in controlled intimidation. Massive columns supported a ceiling so high it disappeared into shadows, while banners bearing the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen hung between tall windows that let in the afternoon light in precise, calculated beams. The floor was polished black marble that reflected the approaching figures like a dark mirror, and every surface seemed designed to make visitors feel small, insignificant, temporary.
But three-year-old Prince Jaehaerys seemed utterly unaffected by the grandeur around him. His green eyes moved systematically across the throne room, taking in details with an analytical precision that was unsettling in one so young. He studied the throne itself with particular intensity, his small head tilted to one side as if he were solving some complex puzzle.
"Your Grace," Prince Daemon said, his voice carrying clearly across the vast space as he executed a bow that was precisely correct—respectful, but not servile. "I present my lady wife, Rhea of House Royce, and my son, Prince Jaehaerys."
Lady Rhea's curtsy was a masterwork of political necessity and genuine respect, her bronze-colored skirts spreading around her like autumn leaves. "Your Grace, Your Grace," she said, addressing both monarchs in turn. "House Royce grieves with House Targaryen for the loss of Prince Baelon. He was a good man and a true knight."
"He was," King Jaehaerys agreed, his voice carrying the weight of decades and the particular grief that comes with outliving one's children. "My son spoke often of his visits to Runestone, Lady Rhea. He found great peace in the Vale's mountains and great pleasure in your hospitality."
Queen Alysanne leaned forward slightly, her violet eyes fixed on the small figure who stood between his parents with perfect, almost unnatural composure. "And this is our great-grandson," she said, her voice warming considerably. "Come closer, little prince. Let us see you properly."
Jaehaerys walked forward without hesitation, his small steps echoing in the vast space. When he reached the prescribed distance from the throne—close enough to be heard clearly, far enough to avoid any appearance of presumption—he executed a bow that would have done credit to a courtier twice his age.
"Your Graces," he said clearly, his young voice carrying with surprising strength across the throne room. "I am honored to meet you. I'm sorry your son is dead."
The blunt honesty of childhood struck the throne room like a physical blow. Several courtiers shifted uncomfortably, and Rhea felt her face burn with embarrassment. But King Jaehaerys surprised everyone by laughing—not the polite chuckle of royal courtesy, but a genuine, delighted sound that echoed off the ancient walls.
"Thank you, great-grandson," he said, his voice warm with unexpected affection. "It's refreshing to hear someone speak plainly about grief instead of dancing around it with pretty words and careful phrases."
Queen Alysanne rose from her chair with fluid grace and descended the steps of the dais with her arms already extended. "May I?" she asked Rhea, who nodded quickly.
The Queen knelt gracefully before Jaehaerys, bringing herself to his eye level with the sort of natural ease that spoke of decades of experience with children and grandchildren. Up close, her beauty was even more striking—the classical features of Old Valyria preserved by good breeding and better fortune, framed by silver hair that caught the light like spun moonbeams.
"Hello, little dragon," she said softly, her voice carrying all the warmth that had made her beloved by smallfolk and nobles alike. "I am your great-grandmother Alysanne. May I have a hug?"
Instead of immediately accepting the invitation, Jaehaerys studied her face with those unsettling green eyes, his expression serious and thoughtful. "You're sad," he observed. "Not just about Prince Baelon. About something else. Something older."
The Queen's breath caught, and for a moment her composed facade cracked to reveal something raw beneath. "Yes," she whispered. "Yes, I am sad about something older. How did you...?"
"I can see it," Jaehaerys said simply. "In your eyes. Like shadows, but sadder." He paused, his small head tilting to one side. "You lost children too. More than one."
A sound like a sob escaped Alysanne's throat before she could stop it. Around the throne room, courtiers shifted uncomfortably, unsure whether they should pretend they hadn't heard or flee entirely. Even King Jaehaerys had gone very still on his iron seat, his sharp eyes fixed on his great-grandson with something approaching awe.
"Daenerys," Alysanne whispered, her voice barely audible. "My little girl. She was so young..."
Without hesitation, Jaehaerys stepped forward and wrapped his small arms around his great-grandmother's neck, offering the sort of wordless comfort that transcends age and understanding. "I'm sorry," he said into her ear. "Losing children hurts worse than losing parents. Parents are supposed to die before their children, but when it happens the other way..." He pulled back to meet her eyes. "It breaks something inside that never really heals."
*How does he know these things?* Rhea thought desperately, watching her son comfort a queen with the wisdom of someone who had experienced profound loss. *He's three years old. He shouldn't understand grief like this.*
But Alysanne was holding Jaehaerys like he was a lifeline, tears streaming down her face as she whispered, "Thank you, sweet boy. Thank you for understanding."
King Jaehaerys descended from his throne slowly, the weight of his years and his crown making each step deliberate and careful. When he reached them, he placed a weathered hand on his wife's shoulder and fixed his great-grandson with a look of profound curiosity.
"You have an unusual gift, young prince," he said quietly. "The ability to see pain in others, to offer comfort where it's needed most. That's... rare. Especially in one so young."
Jaehaerys looked up at him with those impossible green eyes. "Everyone has pain," he said matter-of-factly. "Most people just hide it better. But you're tired, Great-grandfather. Tired of being king, tired of making decisions, tired of watching people you love die while you keep living." He paused, considering. "Your dragon is tired too. Vermithor. He's been getting bigger, but you haven't ridden him in years. He's lonely."
The silence that followed was so complete it seemed to have weight of its own. King Jaehaerys stared down at his great-grandson with an expression that cycled through surprise, concern, and something that might have been recognition.
"How do you know about Vermithor?" he asked very quietly.
"I can feel him," Jaehaerys replied with the same matter-of-fact tone. "He's sleeping in the Dragonpit, but not really sleeping. Waiting. He's been waiting for something, and now..." The boy's eyes grew distant, as if he were seeing something no one else could perceive. "He's getting close to what he's been waiting for."
"Your Grace," Rhea said sharply, stepping forward with a mother's instinct to protect her child from consequences he was too young to understand. "Perhaps we should—"
"No," King Jaehaerys said, his voice carrying royal authority that brooked no argument. "Let him speak. Vermithor has indeed been restless lately. Growing larger, more... vocal. The Dragonkeepers report that he's been calling out at night, singing songs they don't recognize." His violet eyes never left his great-grandson's face. "You think you know why?"
Jaehaerys was quiet for a long moment, his small face scrunched in concentration. "He's not your dragon anymore," he said finally. "Not really. He loved you, and he served you, and he would die for you if you asked. But his heart... his heart belongs to someone else now. Someone who hasn't been born yet, or..." He paused, his expression growing confused. "Or someone who was born, but not for the first time?"
*What?* Daemon thought, exchanging glances with his wife and brother. *What is he talking about?*
"And who," King Jaehaerys asked with the sort of careful neutrality that suggested he was walking through a minefield, "does Vermithor's heart belong to?"
Jaehaerys looked up at him with eyes that seemed far too ancient for his young face. "Me," he said simply. "But not yet. I have to grow bigger first. Strong enough to hold him, wise enough to guide him, ready enough to..." He trailed off, his expression growing distant again. "There's going to be a war. A bad one. Dragons fighting dragons, family fighting family. And Vermithor and I... we're going to be in the middle of it."
The throne room erupted in whispers and shocked exclamations as courtiers absorbed the implications of a three-year-old prince claiming the king's dragon and prophesying civil war. But King Jaehaerys raised his hand for silence, and the great hall fell quiet instantly.
"You speak of war," he said carefully. "What kind of war? Between whom?"
"Targaryen and Targaryen," Jaehaerys replied, his young voice carrying an certainty that was chilling in its matter-of-factness. "The dragons will dance, and the realm will bleed, and when it's over there will be fewer of us left." He looked directly at Princess Rhaenyra, who had been watching this entire exchange with wide violet eyes. "You'll be beautiful when you grow up, Cousin. The most beautiful woman in the world. But beauty can be dangerous when everyone wants to possess it."
Rhaenyra took an instinctive step closer to her father, though her eyes remained fixed on Jaehaerys with fascination rather than fear. "Will we be friends?" she asked. "In the war?"
"I don't know," Jaehaerys admitted, his expression growing sad. "I hope so. But wars make enemies of people who should be family. Make them choose sides when they should choose each other."
Queen Alysanne had composed herself during this exchange, though her eyes remained bright with unshed tears. "Sweet child," she said gently, "these are troubling words from one so young. Perhaps they're merely the fancies of a clever mind, dreams and stories mixed together?"
Jaehaerys looked at her with something that might have been pity. "I dream about dragons dancing," he said quietly. "Big ones and little ones, old ones and young ones. They breathe fire at each other until the sky turns black and the ground turns to ash. And in the middle of it all, there's a bronze throne covered in melted swords, and someone sitting on it who shouldn't be there."
*A bronze throne?* Rhea thought, her blood running cold. *He's never seen the Iron Throne before today, never heard it described in detail. How could he know it's made of melted swords?*
"Child," King Jaehaerys said very quietly, "where do these dreams come from? Are they... have you had them long?"
"Since I was born," Jaehaerys replied matter-of-factly. "Sometimes they're just pictures, like looking through colored glass. Sometimes they're stories, like someone telling me about things that happened to someone else. And sometimes..." He paused, his green eyes growing distant. "Sometimes they feel like memories. Like I was there, but wearing someone else's face."
The implications of those words settled over the throne room like a shroud. Several courtiers made warding signs against evil, while others simply stared in horrified fascination at the small prince who spoke of reincarnation and prophetic dreams as casually as other children discussed toys or sweets.
But King Jaehaerys, who had ruled the Seven Kingdoms for nearly half a century and seen wonders and terrors that would break lesser men, simply nodded thoughtfully.
"Vermithor," he said finally. "You believe he will be your dragon."
"I know he will," Jaehaerys corrected gently. "He's been waiting for me. Growing bigger and stronger and more restless because he can feel me getting closer to being ready for him. But not yet," he added quickly, seeing alarm in the adults' faces. "I'm still too small, and he's still yours. But someday..."
"Someday," the King repeated thoughtfully. He looked down at his great-grandson for a long moment, then made a decision that would change the course of history. "Would you like to meet him? Not to ride—you're far too young, and he's far too large—but simply to see him? To let him see you?"
"Your Grace," Daemon said sharply, his paternal instincts finally overriding his fascination with his son's unusual pronouncements. "Vermithor is not Caraxes. He's the second-largest dragon in the world, unpredictable, dangerous. A child—"
"Will be perfectly safe in the Dragonpit with appropriate precautions," King Jaehaerys finished smoothly. "I want to see how Vermithor reacts to the boy. If young Jaehaerys is right—if there truly is some bond between them—then it's better we understand it now, while it can be controlled and guided."
He looked down at his great-grandson with something that might have been respect. "Besides, if he's going to claim my dragon eventually, perhaps it's time I started preparing for retirement."
The joke fell flat in the tense atmosphere of the throne room, but Jaehaerys smiled—the first truly childlike expression he'd shown since entering the great hall.
"Thank you, Great-Uncle," he said with obvious delight. "I've wanted to meet him for so long. In my dreams, he's beautiful. Terrible and wonderful and beautiful."
"That," King Jaehaerys said dryly, "is as accurate a description of Vermithor as any I've heard." He straightened, suddenly every inch the king who had united a fractured realm and held it together through nearly fifty years of rule. "But first, we have a funeral to attend. Prince Baelon deserves our full attention and proper honors. The dragons can wait until grief has been properly observed."
As the royal audience began to conclude and courtiers started to disperse, Princess Rhaenyra approached her cousin with the determined gait of a child who had decided something important.
"I want to come too," she announced. "When you meet Vermithor. I want to see what happens."
"Rhaenyra..." Prince Viserys began, but his daughter cut him off with royal imperousness that would have done credit to her great-grandmother in her youth.
"I'm not afraid of dragons, Papa. And if Jaehaerys is going to be part of our family, I should know about his dragon. Besides," she added with four-year-old logic, "someone should witness it, in case it's important later."
Jaehaerys studied his cousin with those ancient green eyes. "You have a dragon too," he said thoughtfully. "A beautiful one, golden and fierce. But you'll lose her in the war." His expression grew sad. "Everyone loses things in wars. Dragons, people, pieces of their souls they can never get back."
"Maybe the war won't happen," Rhaenyra said with the stubborn optimism of childhood. "Maybe we can stop it."
"Maybe," Jaehaerys agreed, but there was no conviction in his voice. "I hope so. But hoping and happening are different things. And the dreams... the dreams are very clear."
As they left the throne room, walking past the twisted mass of the Iron Throne toward the great doors that led back to the world of ordinary politics and everyday concerns, none of them could know that they had just witnessed the beginning of the end of the Targaryen dynasty as it had existed for over a century.
Behind them, the Iron Throne sat empty once more, its jagged edges catching the torchlight like teeth. And far beneath the castle, in caves carved from the living rock of Aegon's Hill, the Bronze Fury stirred in his sleep and sang a song of fire and blood and destiny yet to come.
The dance was beginning, though the dancers didn't yet know the steps. But in the dreams of a three-year-old prince with impossible green eyes, the music had been playing for years.
---
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