# The Dragonpit - King's Landing, 102 AC
The familiar bronze gates of the Dragonpit loomed before them as Caraxes descended through the late afternoon sky, his crimson wings casting shadows across the ancient stone structure. The Blood Wyrm's landing was characteristically dramatic—a controlled plummet that ended with earth-shaking impact and a roar that sent every bird within a mile radius fleeing in terror. The great dragon's talons scraped against stone as he settled, sending sparks dancing through the dusty air.
"Show off," Rhea muttered, her knuckles white from gripping the saddle straps. She dismounted with the careful dignity of someone determined not to let anyone see how thoroughly rattled she was by the flight, though her bronze traveling cloak billowed wildly in the wind kicked up by Caraxes' wings. "Does everything you do have to be quite so... theatrical?" She steadied herself against the dragon's warm flank, shooting her husband a look that could have frozen wildfire. "I swear you told him to do that little diving maneuver just to watch me turn green. Some twisted form of marital entertainment, perhaps?"
Daemon slid down from Caraxes with fluid grace, that insufferable smirk already playing at his lips as he removed his riding gloves with deliberate, maddening slowness. Each finger pulled free with theatrical precision, as if he were performing for an audience of thousands rather than his exasperated wife and young son.
"Would you prefer I arrive quietly?" He asked with mock innocence, violet eyes dancing with mischief as he patted Caraxes' massive neck. "Slip in through the back gates like some merchant's son come to petition for grain subsidies? Perhaps I should have walked from Runestone, hat in hand, muttering apologies for existing?" He gestured grandly at his dragon, who preened under the attention. "Caraxes has a reputation to maintain. Don't you, old friend? We can't have the smallfolk thinking the Rogue Prince has gone soft in his old age. Next thing you know, they'll be expecting me to follow proper protocols and actually listen during small council meetings."
The dragon huffed, a sound that might have been amusement, and settled into a more comfortable crouch. Steam rose from his nostrils in the cooling air, and his great head swiveled to study the bronze gates with the casual interest of an apex predator surveying his domain.
"Old age?" Rhea arched one perfectly sculpted eyebrow, her voice dripping with the sort of mock concern that had cowed mountain lords into submission. "My dear husband, you're barely past thirty. Though I suppose all that posturing and preening does age a man prematurely." She shook out her cloak with sharp, efficient movements that spoke of years commanding troops and managing difficult terrain. "As for your reputation—I'd prefer to arrive with my internal organs still properly arranged, rather than scattered across half of King's Landing because you needed to prove your dragon is still the most dramatic beast in the sky."
"Dramatic? Caraxes?" Daemon's voice rose in theatrical outrage as he helped young Jaehaerys down from the dragon's back, his movements surprisingly gentle despite his mockery. "He's a perfect gentleman. Aren't you, my beauty?" He scratched behind one of Caraxes' great horns, earning a pleased rumble that shook dust from the ancient stones. "You barely singed anyone on the way down. That's practically restraint by your standards. Remember last week when you roasted that pickpocket in Flea Bottom? Completely justified, of course—the man was clearly asking for it."
Caraxes snorted, sending a small puff of smoke curling around Daemon's head like a crown, and fixed one great golden eye on Rhea with what could only be described as draconic smugness.
"Don't look at me like that," Rhea told the dragon firmly, pointing an accusatory finger at his massive snout. "I know exactly what you and your rider are about. This whole performance was planned, wasn't it? The dramatic descent, the earth-shaking landing, even that little sideways glance you just gave me. You're both as bad as each other."
"Now that's simply unfair," Daemon protested, though his grin suggested he was rather pleased by the comparison. "Caraxes is a noble creature of ancient lineage and impeccable breeding. I, on the other hand, am a scoundrel who married above his station and somehow convinced a woman far too sensible for her own good to tolerate my nonsense."
"Convinced?" Rhea's laugh was sharp and thoroughly unimpressed. "My dear Prince, you seem to have forgotten the circumstances of our marriage. As I recall, I was given precious little choice in the matter. King Jaehaerys decided the Vale needed tying more firmly to the crown, I was conveniently unwed, and you were conveniently unmarried and in need of suitable lands to support your... expensive tastes."
"Expensive tastes," Daemon repeated thoughtfully, running his fingers through his silver hair with studied casualness. "That's a diplomatic way of putting it. Most people just say I'm a spendthrift with delusions of grandeur who drinks too much wine and starts too many fights."
"Most people are being charitable," Rhea replied tartly, adjusting her riding gloves with military precision. "I prefer accuracy in my assessments. Besides, your delusions aren't entirely without merit—you do have a dragon and a Valyrian sword, which puts you ahead of most spendthrifts in terms of actual capability."
"Such ringing endorsement from my beloved wife," Daemon said, pressing a hand to his heart in mock wounded dignity. "Truly, I am blessed among men to have found such unstinting support in my hour of need."
"Your hour of need was eight years ago when you thought challenging the Faith Militant to single combat was a reasonable solution to theological disputes," Rhea pointed out with the patience of someone who had spent years managing her husband's more impulsive decisions. "Everything since then has been your hour of 'I told you so, but did you listen? No, you did not.'"
"The Faith Militant situation worked out perfectly well," Daemon protested, though something in his eyes suggested even he wasn't entirely convinced by this argument. "Nobody got permanently maimed, the theological disputes were resolved in a suitably dramatic fashion, and I gained valuable experience in negotiating with fanatics. All skills that have served me well in subsequent endeavors."
"You call being banned from the Sept of Baelor for life 'resolved in a suitably dramatic fashion?'" Rhea's voice rose incredulously. "Daemon, the High Septon still crosses himself and mutters protective prayers whenever your name is mentioned in his presence. Last time we were in the capital, he tried to have you exorcised."
"He tried to have me blessed," Daemon corrected with wounded dignity. "There's a significant theological difference, though I'll admit the holy water was applied with unusual vigor."
"Subtle is overrated anyway," Daemon continued, waving away the memory of unfortunate religious encounters with theatrical annoyance. "Besides, wife, you handled the flight beautifully. Most people vomit at least twice on their first dragon flight—though technically this was your fourth, so perhaps I should be less impressed." He paused, tilting his head with that particular expression that meant he was about to say something particularly irritating. "Actually, most people vomit, faint, or start praying to whatever gods they think might be listening. You managed to keep your breakfast down, maintain that wonderfully disapproving expression throughout, AND deliver a running commentary on my flying technique. That's genuinely impressive. I'm rather proud."
"How reassuring to know I've met your exacting standards," Rhea replied, her tone dry enough to kindle fires. "I'll be sure to include that on my list of accomplishments when I write to Father. 'Successfully avoided vomiting while married to a Targaryen.' I'm certain that will impress him far more than balancing the Vale's accounts or negotiating trade agreements with the mountain clans."
"Oh, it will," Daemon said with a grin that was equal parts charming and infuriating, the sort of smile that had gotten him into more trouble than Dark Sister had gotten him out of. "Half the noble ladies of Westeros lose their lunch just watching dragons from the ground. The other half faint dead away when Caraxes so much as looks in their direction. Lady Tyrell's daughter actually swooned when he yawned during a court presentation. Just yawned! Not even a proper roar."
"That's because you actively encourage him to intimidate people," Rhea pointed out with the long-suffering patience of someone who had spent years managing her husband's more theatrical impulses. "I've seen you whisper to him before court appearances, seen that calculating look you get when you're planning something particularly dramatic. What exactly do you tell him? 'Look especially menacing today, we need to remind Lord Beesbury that his tax proposals are tedious?' 'Show them your teeth when I mention the Stepstones?'"
Daemon's expression of innocence was so perfectly crafted it was almost insulting to her intelligence. "I would never—" he began, but the protest was thoroughly undermined by the wicked gleam in his violet eyes and the way his mouth twitched with suppressed laughter. "Though now that you mention it, Caraxes does have very strong opinions about fiscal policy. Don't you, old friend? Particularly when it comes to funding dragon maintenance and the proper provisioning of royal princes who happen to own extremely large, extremely hungry war machines."
The dragon made a sound that could generously be interpreted as agreement, though it sounded suspiciously like draconic laughter to anyone paying close attention.
"You see?" Daemon gestured triumphantly at his mount. "He understands the fundamental principles of economics. Dragons are expensive to maintain—they require enormous amounts of food, proper housing, regular exercise that occasionally involves burning things, and of course the services of trained dragonkeepers who understand their particular needs and temperaments. When the small council starts muttering about belt-tightening and fiscal responsibility, Caraxes and I feel it's important to remind them that some expenses are non-negotiable."
"By intimidating them into submission," Rhea observed wryly.
"By presenting a compelling visual argument for the continued importance of dragon-related expenditures," Daemon corrected with dignity that was only slightly undermined by his obvious amusement. "There's a subtle but crucial difference in methodology and intent."
Jaehaerys, meanwhile, had been quietly studying the ancient structure around them with that unsettling intensity that marked his more unusual moments. His small hands rested against Caraxes' flank, and for a moment it looked as though he were listening to something only he could hear—some conversation carried on in frequencies beyond human understanding. The dragon's great head had turned toward the boy, and those golden eyes held a depth of attention that suggested far more than animal intelligence.
Now the child looked up at his parents with those impossible green eyes—eyes that seemed far too knowing for someone who had seen barely four summers, eyes that held depths of understanding that made adults uncomfortable in ways they couldn't properly articulate.
"Vermithor knows we're here," he said matter-of-factly, his voice carrying the calm certainty of someone stating an obvious truth about the weather or the color of the sky. "He's been restless all day, pacing his chamber like a caged wolf. The Dragonkeepers are having trouble with him—he keeps knocking over their equipment with his tail, refusing his food, and making that deep thrumming sound that echoes through the stone corridors."
The boy paused, tilting his head as if hearing something distant and vast, some communication that traveled through stone and earth and the deep places where ancient powers slept.
"He's... excited, I think. But also sad. He knows what's coming. He knows about Great-grandfather." Jaehaerys' young face grew troubled, shadows passing across his features like clouds across the sun. "He can feel it in his bones, the way dragons feel earthquakes coming days before the ground trembles. The way they know when storms are building beyond the horizon, when the wind carries news that no human ear can detect."
Daemon and Rhea exchanged one of those loaded looks that long-married couples had perfected—part concern, part resignation, part the shared exhaustion that came from raising a child who regularly said things that should have been impossible for him to know. There was also a deeper current of worry, the kind that came from loving someone whose gifts might be too heavy for them to bear safely.
"And how exactly—" Daemon began, his voice carefully modulated in the way it got when he was trying to balance parental concern with genuine curiosity about supernatural phenomena that he only half understood.
But before he could finish the question, the massive bronze doors of the Dragonpit opened with a groan of ancient hinges that echoed through the stone chambers like thunder. The sound seemed to roll through the very bones of the earth, carrying with it the weight of centuries and the whispered memories of dragons long dead.
Ser Harrold Westerling emerged from the shadows beyond the doors, his white cloak pristine despite the dust and dragon-smoke that perpetually hung in the air around the Dragonpit like morning mist. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard cut an impressive figure—tall and broad-shouldered, with the sort of weathered dignity that came from decades of faithful service and the quiet authority that marked men who had faced death and found it wanting.
His weathered face bore the carefully neutral expression of a man who had learned to navigate the treacherous waters of royal family dynamics with the skill of a master sailor reading dangerous tides. Every line and crease spoke of hard-won wisdom and the particular exhaustion that came from trying to keep impulsive royals alive despite their best efforts to get themselves killed in creatively stupid ways.
Though his eyes crinkled with genuine warmth as they fell on the small family before him—the sort of affection that transcended duty and spoke of years of shared trials and genuine friendship forged in the crucible of court politics and family drama.
"Prince Daemon," he said with a bow that was precisely calibrated to show respect without servility, the gesture of a man who understood protocol but refused to let it eclipse the more important bonds of friendship and mutual respect. His Scottish accent lent a certain gruffness to the formal words, but there was unmistakable affection beneath the protocol. "Lady Rhea."
He turned toward the boy, and his expression softened considerably as he addressed the child, the stern lines of his face melting into something approaching grandfatherly fondness mixed with wary respect for capabilities he didn't entirely understand.
"And young Prince Jaehaerys. Their Graces have been counting the hours until your arrival like merchants counting coins." His mouth quirked upward in a slight smile. "Her Grace has had the kitchens preparing honey cakes since dawn—though she's threatened to feed anyone who samples them to Silverwing. Had the head cook in tears twice, and he's a man who once served the Ironborn during the siege of Lannisport without so much as blinking."
"Ser Harrold," Daemon said warmly, his entire demeanor shifting as he crossed the distance between them in quick strides. The theatrical persona fell away like a discarded cloak, revealing something more genuine underneath—the sort of friendship that had been forged in shared dangers and tempered by mutual respect. He clasped the older man's arm with obvious affection, the gesture of equals rather than prince and subject. "You look well, though that's probably more thanks to good steel and better tailoring than restful sleep. Has my dear brother been keeping you busy with his endless worry about succession and legacy? Still having those dawn councils where he stares at maps and mutters about the Great Council?"
Ser Harrold's slight smile didn't quite reach his eyes, though there was genuine warmth in his voice as he replied. "Prince Daemon," he said with the careful diplomacy of a man who had learned to speak truth without giving offense, "your brother concerns himself with many things. As is his right and duty as King of the Seven Kingdoms and protector of the realm."
The careful diplomacy of the words was undermined by the way his weathered hands gestured expressively, and the slight roll of his eyes that spoke volumes about the reality of serving a monarch who took his responsibilities with perhaps excessive seriousness.
"Though I'll grant you, the man does like his councils. Morning councils about what was discussed in the evening councils, afternoon councils about what should be discussed in the morning councils, evening councils about what was discussed in the morning councils and what needs to be revisited in tomorrow's afternoon councils." His accent thickened with fond exasperation. "Sometimes I think he'd call a council to discuss whether we need a council to discuss calling another council, if he thought it would help him make a better decision about calling the first council."
"Seven Hells," Daemon muttered, running a hand through his silver hair in a gesture of fond exasperation that was becoming increasingly familiar to those who knew him well. "And I thought military campaigns involved too many meetings. At least in war, if someone talks too long about strategy, you can threaten to feed them to your dragon and people take the hint. There's something refreshingly direct about battlefield negotiations that way."
"Aye, well," Ser Harrold replied with a chuckle that held years of shared experience and the particular camaraderie that came from surviving the same impossible situations, "court has its own battles, My Prince. Though the weapons are words instead of swords, the casualties are reputations rather than lives, and the blood that gets spilled is usually metaphorical rather than literal." He paused thoughtfully. "Most of the time, anyway. Though there was that unfortunate incident with Lord Celtigar and the dinner knife last month."
"Please tell me someone finally put that pompous ass in his place," Daemon said with obvious interest, his eyes lighting up with the sort of anticipation that suggested he was hoping for entertaining gossip rather than boring political maneuvering.
"Lord Royce, actually," Ser Harrold replied with obvious satisfaction. "Your good-father took exception to some comments about the Vale's contributions to the royal treasury. Apparently, Lord Celtigar made some rather pointed observations about mountain lords who think mining copper makes them as wealthy as Lannisters mining gold."
"Good for him," Rhea interjected with approval, stepping forward to extend her hand to Ser Harrold with the easy confidence of someone accustomed to command. "Father never did suffer fools gladly, and Lord Celtigar has always been particularly foolish when it comes to understanding economics beyond 'more gold equals more better.'"
"Lady Rhea," Ser Harrold replied, bowing over her offered hand with old-world courtesy that managed to be respectful without being obsequious. "A pleasure, as always. You're looking distinguished as ever—though I suspect that authoritative bearing of yours hides more gray hairs than you'd care to admit. The burdens of command have a way of making themselves known, don't they?"
"A gentleman never tells tales about a lady's hair," Rhea replied with a smile that transformed her stern features, revealing the warmth that lay beneath her practical exterior. "Though I'll say this much—it's seen enough years and enough stubborn mountain lords to know when to stay quiet and when to speak up. The trick is learning the difference between the two, especially when you're dealing with men who think volume equals validity in an argument."
"Wise policy," Ser Harrold agreed with a grin that took years off his weathered face. "I find the same approach works well when managing Kingsguards who think they know better than their Lord Commander about protocol and procedure. Though I'll admit, I don't have the benefit of those mountain lord negotiation skills you've perfected."
"What mountain lord negotiation skills?" Daemon asked with obvious interest, turning to look at his wife with the sort of expression that suggested he was about to hear something entertaining at his own expense.
"The look," Ser Harrold explained with obvious enjoyment, gesturing toward Rhea with theatrical appreciation. "The one that says 'I've fought mountain clansmen before breakfast, balanced the household accounts before lunch, and resolved three separate territorial disputes before dinner, so kindly don't test my patience with your nonsense.' Works better than any sword, that does. Seen it reduce grown lords to stammering apologies faster than dragon fire melts steel."
Daemon snorted, though there was obvious affection in his expression as he looked at his wife. "She perfected that look during our first year of marriage. I'm fairly certain it's the reason our household runs so smoothly—everyone's too terrified of disappointing her to cause real trouble. Even the servants toe the line when Lady Rhea is inspecting the accounts."
"I prefer to think of it as efficient leadership," Rhea replied with mock dignity, though her eyes sparkled with amusement. "Though terror does have its place in a well-ordered household. Particularly when that household includes a husband who thinks 'impulse control' is a suggestion rather than a necessity and a four-year-old who regularly says things that would make septons reach for their holy symbols."
"Unfair," Daemon protested, though his grin suggested he wasn't particularly offended by the characterization. "I have excellent impulse control. I simply choose to exercise it selectively, based on careful consideration of the situation and the likely consequences of various courses of action."
"Last week you challenged a merchant to a duel because he suggested your wine preferences were 'pedestrian,'" Rhea pointed out with the patience of someone who had had this argument many times before.
"That was a matter of honor," Daemon replied with wounded dignity. "A man's wine preferences reflect his character, his sophistication, his understanding of the finer things in life. I couldn't let such slander stand unchallenged without appearing weak before the entire marketplace."
"It was a wine merchant, Daemon. His job is literally to have opinions about wine. You challenged a man to mortal combat for doing his job competently."
"His opinions were wrong," Daemon said stubbornly. "Demonstrably, objectively wrong. Dornish wines are perfectly respectable, thank you very much, and anyone who suggests otherwise is either ignorant or deliberately provocative."
Ser Harrold cleared his throat diplomatically, gesturing toward the ornate wheelhouse that bore the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. "Perhaps we should continue this discussion of wine preferences and dueling etiquette in more private surroundings? The carriage is prepared, and Their Graces grow more anxious with each passing hour."
His expression grew more serious as he continued, though there was still warmth in his weathered features. "Though I warn you—Her Grace has been pacing the solar like a caged lioness, muttering about 'inconsiderate great-grandchildren who don't send word of their arrival' and 'young people today who think ravens are decorative rather than functional.' She's worked herself into quite the state, and you know how she gets when she's been kept waiting."
"Grandmother always did like her schedules," Daemon said fondly, his expression softening with genuine affection mixed with the sort of fond exasperation that came from years of loving someone whose standards were impossibly high. "Remember when I was late for my sixteenth name day feast? She threatened to have me served as the main course if I kept everyone waiting again. Had the cooks prepare an extra large platter and everything."
"She meant it too," Ser Harrold replied with a bark of laughter that echoed off the stone walls. "Had the cooks prepare an extra large platter, complete with garnishes and side dishes, just in case. Her Grace doesn't make idle threats—every promise of dire consequences comes with detailed planning and backup arrangements for implementation."
"What stopped her?" Rhea asked with obvious curiosity, though her tone suggested she suspected the answer would be entertaining.
"His Grace," Ser Harrold replied with obvious affection for the memory. "Pointed out that serving members of the royal family as dinner courses might set an unfortunate precedent for future feast planning. Plus, he noted, young Prince Daemon probably wouldn't taste very good anyway—too much wine and not enough proper seasoning in his diet."
"Flattering," Daemon observed dryly, though he was clearly fighting back laughter. "It's always reassuring to know your grandfather considers you unpalatable as well as unreliable."
As they walked toward the carriage, Daemon fell into step beside the knight with the easy familiarity of old companions-in-arms. The afternoon light caught the silver of his hair and the white of Ser Harrold's cloak, creating an almost fraternal picture despite the difference in their stations and the years that separated them.
"How are they really, Ser Harrold?" Daemon asked, his voice losing its characteristic lightness and taking on the sort of gravity that he usually reserved for truly serious matters. "And I want the truth, not the courtesies we'll perform for the small council. No diplomatic evasions designed to spare my feelings, no carefully crafted phrases that sound reassuring but don't actually tell me anything useful."
Ser Harrold's expression grew grave, the years settling back onto his features like a familiar weight. He was quiet for several steps, his weathered hands clasping behind his back in a gesture that spoke of military bearing and long experience delivering difficult reports to people who needed to hear unwelcome truths.
The silence stretched between them, filled only by the sound of their footsteps on ancient stone and the distant rumble of dragons settling into their evening rest. When he finally spoke, his voice carried the careful precision of a man who understood that honesty could be its own form of cruelty, but that lies were ultimately more cruel still.
"His Grace..." He paused, choosing his words with the care of a man who had spent decades learning the difference between truth and diplomacy, between honest assessment and needless brutality. "He has good days and poor ones, lad. On the good days, he's still sharp as castle-forged steel—settles disputes with the wisdom of five decades on the Iron Throne, speaks of the succession and the great council that must come with the clarity of a man who's thought of little else for years."
His pace slowed as memory took hold, and his voice grew warmer with obvious affection. "His mind works as clearly as it ever did when he's at his best, and his passion for the realm burns as bright as dragonfire. He still remembers every major house's lineage going back seven generations, can recite trade agreements from memory, knows exactly which lords can be trusted and which ones are just clever enough to be dangerous without being wise enough to be useful."
"And the poor days?" Rhea asked quietly, her practiced composure not quite hiding the concern that tightened the corners of her eyes and drew her shoulders into a more rigid line.
Ser Harrold's pace slowed further, and when he spoke again, his voice carried the weight of a man who had watched greatness slowly fade, who had been forced to witness the cruel diminishment of someone he deeply respected and genuinely loved.
"The poor days are harder to watch, my lady. Much harder." His accent thickened with emotion, and for a moment the careful control of the perfect courtier cracked to reveal the grieving man beneath. "He forgets things—names, faces, conversations we had the day before. Sometimes he'll be in the middle of discussing trade agreements with the Free Cities, sharp as ever, making excellent points about tariffs and shipping routes, and then suddenly he'll stop mid-sentence and ask me when Prince Baelon will be returning from Dragonstone."
The words hung in the air like a funeral shroud, heavy with implications that none of them wanted to examine too closely. Prince Baelon had been dead for over a decade, lost to a sudden fever that had taken one of the finest men any of them had ever known.
"Yesterday morning was particularly difficult," Ser Harrold continued, his voice growing thick with emotion that he was struggling to contain. "He asked me when Prince Aemon would be arriving for the evening feast, wondered if we should have the cooks prepare his favorite dishes—those honey-glazed quail that he always requested for special occasions."
Daemon felt something cold and sharp twist in his chest, a pain that had nothing to do with physical injury and everything to do with the slow, cruel erosion of the people he loved most. Prince Aemon had been his uncle, the Crown Prince and heir to the Iron Throne, and the previous rider of Caraxes before his death by Myrish crossbow bolt at Tarth. The old king had mourned his son's death with the devastating grief of a father who had outlived his child, and the realm had mourned with him. But he had never forgotten—not until now.
"Seven Hells," Daemon muttered, his hand unconsciously moving to rest on the pommel of Dark Sister, seeking comfort in the familiar weight of Valyrian steel. "Ten years since Uncle Aemon died, and he still expects him to walk through the door?"
"Aye," Ser Harrold said softly, his weathered face etched with lines of grief that seemed to have deepened overnight. "And when I reminded him... the look on his face, lad. Like I'd struck him with my sword, like I'd delivered news of some fresh tragedy that he was hearing for the first time. The grief was as fresh as the day we lost Prince Aemon, as if he were learning of it for the first time all over again, experiencing that initial shock and devastation without the cushion of years and acceptance."
"Seven Hells," Daemon breathed, the profanity slipping out before he could stop it. "That's... that's worse than I thought it would be. To lose someone you love over and over again, to have that wound torn open fresh each time..."
"Grief has its own seasons," Ser Harrold said philosophically, though his voice was rough with emotion. "Sometimes winter returns when we least expect it, and all we can do is weather the storm and hope for spring's return. But watching someone you care about trapped in an endless winter... that's a special kind of cruelty."
"And the Queen?" Rhea pressed gently, her soldier's practicality warring with evident compassion and the sort of maternal concern that she usually reserved for her own household.
"Ah, Her Grace." Ser Harrold's expression softened with obvious affection, and for a moment he looked less like the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and more like a fond grandfather discussing his favorite grandchild. "Now there's a woman who refuses to surrender to anything—time, age, or the protests of her guards who worry about her taking unnecessary risks."
His voice grew warmer, filled with the sort of admiration that came from years of watching someone face impossible challenges with grace and determination. "Her mind remains as sharp as a Dornish blade, her wit quicker than ever, her understanding of politics and human nature deeper and more sophisticated than most men half her age. She still runs her ladies-in-waiting ragged with her projects—new gardens for the Red Keep that require careful planning and precise execution, improvements to the royal sept that involve consulting with architects and craftsmen, correspondence with lords and ladies across the seven kingdoms that keeps three scribes busy from dawn until dusk."
He paused, his weathered features growing troubled with the sort of worry that came from watching someone push themselves beyond reasonable limits. "But her body grows frailer with each passing moon, though she'd box my ears bloody if she heard me say so. Some mornings she cannot rise from her bed without assistance, though she pretends it's merely the dampness affecting her old bones and nothing more serious than temporary inconvenience."
The concern in his voice deepened as he continued, painting a picture of determined dignity in the face of physical decline. "Even short walks in the godswood leave her breathless now, though she still insists on making her daily rounds to check on her favorite trees and flowers. And stairs have become her sworn enemy—each step is a battle, though she still insists on climbing them herself when she thinks no one is watching, pride warring with practicality at every landing."
"She would," Daemon agreed with a fond smile that held years of complicated family affection mixed with frustrated worry. "Grandmother never did care for anyone fussing over her, never wanted to admit that time and age might impose limits on what she could accomplish. I remember when she broke her wrist falling from Silverwing during that terrible storm—refused to let the maesters set it properly because she didn't want to miss the Harvest Festival. Spent the entire celebration with her arm in a sling, hosting lords and dancing with her left hand, pretending it was perfectly normal."
"Aye, well, try telling that stubborn streak to a woman who once flew her dragon from Oldtown to the Wall in a single journey just to prove it could be done," Ser Harrold replied with a chuckle that held equal parts exasperation and admiration. "Still speaks of taking Silverwing out for 'just a short flight around the city' whenever the weather's fair and her spirits are high. The Dragonkeepers and I have formed something of an unofficial alliance to prevent such adventures—though we have to be clever about it, more clever than we've ever had to be before."
"What do you do?" Rhea asked, genuinely curious about the logistics of managing a queen who commanded dragons and had little patience for people who tried to limit her activities based on concerns she considered overblown.
"We've taken to having 'urgent court business' arise whenever she mentions flying," Ser Harrold admitted with a conspirative grin that made him look decades younger and far more mischievous than befitted a member of the Kingsguard. "Amazing how many pressing matters require her immediate attention whenever she heads toward the Dragonpit with that particular gleam in her eye."
He warmed to his theme, clearly enjoying the memory of successfully outmaneuvering one of the most formidable women in the Seven Kingdoms through creative crisis management. "Last week we had three separate 'emergencies' involving the kitchen staff—a dispute over the proper seasoning for the king's morning meal, a crisis regarding the availability of proper ingredients for the evening feast, and a sudden need to review the household accounts because someone had noticed discrepancies in the spice budget that required immediate royal attention."
"Devious," Daemon said approvingly, his respect for the knight's tactical thinking evident in his voice. "I'm genuinely impressed. That level of creative crisis management requires real skill and considerable nerve. Though I suspect she's caught on to your methods by now?"
"Oh, she knows exactly what we're doing," Ser Harrold replied cheerfully, his eyes twinkling with mischief that would have surprised anyone who only knew him in his official capacity. "Has for months, probably figured it out after the second manufactured emergency. But she plays along because she knows we're doing it out of love and genuine concern for her safety, not presumption or desire to control her."
His expression grew more serious, though the affection remained. "That's the difference between managing Queen Alysanne and trying to control her—she'll accept the former from people she trusts, but the latter would earn you a tongue-lashing that would make a Dornish sand snake weep."
Jaehaerys, who had been listening with that peculiar stillness that marked his more thoughtful moments, suddenly looked up at Ser Harrold with those unsettling green eyes. There was something ancient in his gaze, a quality of patient waiting that seemed far too heavy for such small shoulders.
"You don't have to worry about Great-grandmother flying again," he said with matter-of-fact certainty that sent a chill down all three adults' spines. "Silverwing won't take her up anymore. She knows Her Grace is too fragile now, knows that her bones are like bird bones—hollow and ready to break. Dragons are protective of their riders, especially when they're..." He paused, his young face growing thoughtful as he searched for the right words. "When they're preparing to say goodbye."
The three adults exchanged glances over the boy's head, each seeing their own worry reflected in the others' faces. There was something in Jaehaerys' tone that suggested knowledge far beyond his years—not the imagination of a precocious child playing at prophecy, but the certainty of someone who had seen something the rest of them had missed.
"And how exactly would you know that, little prince?" Ser Harrold asked gently, though his eyes were sharp with the interest of a man who had spent decades learning to recognize truth in unexpected places.
"The same way I know that Silverwing has grown restless in her cave," Jaehaerys replied simply, his small hands folding with unconscious dignity. "The same way I know that Vermithor has been singing—low, deep songs that echo through the Dragonpit day and night, songs that make the smallfolk cross themselves and whisper prayers. The dragons are all connected, Ser Harrold. They feel what we feel, know what we know. And right now, they're all preparing for change."
"What kind of change?" Rhea asked, though something in her voice suggested she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to hear the answer.
"The ending of the Old King's reign," Jaehaerys said with the sort of calm acceptance that was deeply unsettling coming from a four-year-old. "Great-grandfather's connection to the Iron Throne, to the realm itself—it's starting to fray like an old rope under too much weight. The dragons can sense it the way they sense storms on the horizon, the way they know when earthquakes are coming before the ground even trembles. They know that the time of choosing is approaching."
"Choosing?" Daemon pressed, his voice carefully neutral despite the tension that had crept into his shoulders.
"New riders for old dragons," Jaehaerys explained with the patient air of someone discussing something perfectly obvious. "Vermithor is getting ready for me, though not yet—there are still things that need to happen first, people who need to make their choices, paths that need to be walked to their end. But he's been growing larger, eating more, preparing his strength for what's to come. The Dragonkeepers have noticed, haven't they, Ser Harrold?"
The Lord Commander nodded slowly, his weathered features troubled. "Aye, they have, lad. The Bronze Fury has gained considerable size since your last visit—near on twenty feet in length, and his wings span the width of the great chamber now. And the singing..." He shook his head in wonder. "We've never heard anything like it before. Deep, thrumming songs that seem to come from the very stones of the Red Keep. The smallfolk in King's Landing speak of it in hushed tones, as if the sound carries prophecy in its notes."
"It does, in a way," Jaehaerys said thoughtfully, his young face growing troubled. "He's calling to me across the distance, letting me know he's ready when I am. But also..." He paused, his green eyes growing distant and somehow ancient. "He's mourning too. He knows Great-grandfather is fading, and dragons grieve just as we do. Perhaps more deeply, because their bonds run so much deeper than ours, reach into places we can't understand."
An uncomfortable silence fell over the group as they approached the ornate carriage. The implications of the boy's words were staggering—not just for what they suggested about the king's condition, but for what they revealed about Jaehaerys himself and the weight of knowledge he seemed to carry.
"Well," Rhea said finally, her voice determinedly practical as she lifted her chin with the sort of resolve that had made her a respected leader in the Vale, "perhaps we should continue this conversation somewhere with fewer listening ears. King's Landing has a way of turning private conversations into public scandals, and the last thing we need is the small council hearing rumors about royal prophecies and dragon songs."
"Too bloody right," Ser Harrold agreed fervently, glancing around at the various servants and guards who bustled about the Dragonpit. "These streets have more spies than a Lysene brothel has perfume, and twice as many people willing to sell what they hear for the price of a decent meal. Their Graces requested a private audience in the royal solar—family, not court business. No scribes, no small council members, no hovering courtiers looking for something to gossip about."
As they climbed into the luxurious carriage—all cushioned seats and gold trim that spoke of royal comfort—Daemon found himself studying his son's profile in the golden light of late afternoon. The boy sat with perfect posture despite his age, his small hands folded with unconscious dignity that seemed bred into his very bones. But there was something else in his bearing, a quality of patient waiting that spoke of burdens far too heavy for such small shoulders to bear.
The carriage began to move with a gentle rocking motion, the wheels clattering over cobblestones as they made their way through the winding streets of King's Landing toward the Red Keep.
"These visions of yours," Daemon said carefully, his voice pitched low despite the privacy of the carriage, "the things you know about dragons and kings and what's coming—do they frighten you, Jaehaerys?"
His son considered the question with the sort of grave attention that most children reserved for deciding between sweet cakes and fruit tarts, his green eyes growing distant as he stared out the window at the passing city.
"Sometimes," he admitted finally, his voice small but steady. "Not the dragons themselves—they're magnificent, and they love us even when we don't deserve it, even when we make terrible choices that hurt the people we're supposed to protect. But the things that are coming, the choices that will have to be made..." He paused, his green eyes growing distant and somehow ancient. "There's going to be so much pain, Papa. So much loss and fire and blood and the screams of dying dragons echoing across the sky. And some of it will be my fault, because I know what's coming but I might not be strong enough or smart enough or brave enough to prevent it."
"You're four years old," Rhea said firmly, reaching over to take his small hand in both of hers. Her voice carried the no-nonsense authority of someone who had spent years managing the practical realities of ruling a great house, commanding respect from mountain lords who would rather fight than negotiate. "You are not responsible for preventing disasters that exist only in dreams and nightmares and whatever strange knowledge lives in your head. That burden belongs to the adults—to the people who sit on councils and make laws and command armies. To kings and queens and lords paramount who have sworn oaths to protect their people."
"But what if they're not just dreams?" Jaehaerys asked, his voice suddenly small and achingly young, all the strange wisdom falling away to reveal the frightened child beneath. "What if they're memories from someone who lived through this before, who watched it all happen and failed to save the people he loved? What if I'm supposed to do better this time, but I'm still just a child who understands nothing important about how the world really works?"
The question hung in the air like smoke from a funeral pyre, impossible to answer and equally impossible to dismiss. Outside the carriage windows, the Red Keep loomed larger with each turn of the wheels, its red stone walls seeming to glow like embers in the setting sun.
Daemon and Rhea exchanged a look over their son's head—one of those wordless conversations that long-married couples had perfected, full of shared concern and the particular exhaustion that came from loving someone whose burdens you couldn't fully share.
"Then you do what you can with what you have," Daemon said finally, his voice carrying the hard-won wisdom of a man who had spent his life making impossible choices with incomplete information. "You learn everything you can learn, gather allies you can trust, build strength where you find it. And when the moment comes to act—whether you're ready or not, whether you're four or forty—you trust that you've done enough preparation to make the right choice."
"And if that's not enough?" Jaehaerys pressed, his young face troubled with fears no child should have to carry.
"Then you do your best anyway," Ser Harrold said unexpectedly, his gruff voice surprisingly gentle. "That's all any of us can do, lad—kings and hedge knights, lords paramount and common soldiers. We all face moments when our best might not be good enough to save everyone we want to save. But we try anyway, because the alternative is to surrender without fighting, and that helps no one."
"The dragons understand that," Jaehaerys said thoughtfully, some of the tension leaving his small shoulders. "They don't expect perfection from their riders, just... faithfulness. Loyalty. The courage to try, even when you're terrified of failing, even when you know the cost might be higher than you can bear to pay."
"Wise dragons," Rhea observed with a slight smile that softened her stern features. "Perhaps they have the right idea about leadership and responsibility."
As the carriage rolled through the gates of the Red Keep, past guards who snapped to attention and servants who bowed low, none of them could know that they were entering the final act of the greatest reign in Targaryen history. In the royal solar high above, two of the most remarkable monarchs Westeros had ever known waited to see their great-grandson—to pass on what wisdom and love they could before time claimed them both.
And in the depths below, in caves carved from the very bedrock of Aegon's Hill, ancient dragons stirred in their stone chambers. They could sense change on the wind, smell it in the very air like the approach of a great storm. The ending of one age and the beginning of another, written in fire and blood and the songs of dragons who remembered when the world was young.
The game was entering its final phase, and every word spoken, every choice made in the days to come, would echo through the generations like the songs of dragons in the deep places of the earth. The Dance was coming, though none yet understood the true price that would be paid when dragons danced and the realm burned.
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