The Red Keep of King's Landing, seat of Targaryen power, rose like a crimson shadow upon Aegon's Hill. Its great towers and walls loomed over the city below, a fortress built to remind all who gazed upon it that fire and blood had forged the realm.
Here, centuries past, Aegon the Conqueror had raised his banner of the three-headed dragon. With his sisters, Rhaenys and Visenya, and the might of dragons, he had swept across the Seven Kingdoms. Storm, Reach, Riverlands, Vale, Westerlands—all bent the knee. Only Dorne resisted, through fire and blood, and only the North yielded through wisdom, when Torrhen Stark, the last King in the North, laid down his crown rather than see his people burned.
Yet after conquest came rule, and rule was never simple. Aegon's son, King Aenys, proved weak in the eyes of lords and Faith alike. It was in his reign that the Faith Militant rose in rebellion, defying dragonlord rule. His brother, Maegor, known to history as the Cruel, crushed them in fire and steel—but his tyranny carved scars upon the realm that lingered even after his corpse was found upon the Iron Throne, cut and twisted by its blades.
Peace and balance returned only under Jaehaerys, the Conciliator, and his queen and sister-wife, Alysanne. Together, they healed the wounds of family and faith, binding the Seven Kingdoms anew with wisdom rather than terror. They were loved for their just rule, though not without fault, for even a wise king's decisions left bitterness in their wake.
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The Iron Throne Room
Now, in the present year, King Jaehaerys Targaryen sat upon the Iron Throne, its cruel steel looming about him like a nest of jagged fangs. At his side was his queen, Alysanne, serene though her eyes carried the weight of a thousand cares. Before them stood their son and heir, Prince Baelon, the Spring Prince, recently named crown prince after the death of his elder brother Aemon. With Baelon were his sons, Viserys and Daemon. The boy Viserys, already sturdy and affable, stood in contrast to his younger brother Daemon, who bore the arrogance of fire in his gaze.
The chamber was hushed but for the crackle of torches as the royal family conferred in private.
"We have had reports from the North," Jaehaerys began, his voice deep, measured. "This boy, Theon Stark. They call him the Good Wolf—or the Genius Wolf. He first crafted golden pens unlike any seen before, and now he sets Wintertown to building roads and drains. Remarkable, for one so young."
He leaned back against the throne, his eyes gleaming with thought. "Truly, the Old Gods have blessed Rickon Stark with a worthy son to carry his line."
Queen Alysanne nodded softly. "Aye. I never thought to see the North seeking help from the Crown, not after the bitterness between us. They still remember the New Gift I gave to the Night's Watch, though it was meant in kindness. To them, it was a wound."
At this, Jaehaerys sighed heavily. "Yes. One of our gravest errors. We never foresaw that giving bread from the North's table to the Watch would sour them so. That is why, when Rickon Stark asked aid, I agreed at once. I sent men and families from King's Landing northward, if only to cool their anger against us."
Daemon's voice cut across the chamber, sharp and arrogant. "Let them be angry, father. They may snarl, but like their ancestors, they will bow. The North can do nothing against the Iron Throne."
Baelon's face hardened, his voice rising with the weight of command. "Daemon, you forget yourself. Never underestimate the North. They are not southern lords, quick to break vows. Northerners keep theirs till death. They bow, yes—but once their oaths are given, they hold them tighter than iron. Show them respect."
Daemon smirked, unrepentant. "Respect? I do. They are better than wildlings, I'll grant them that."
"Daemon!" Baelon snapped, his temper flaring.
But Jaehaerys's voice rang out, commanding, silencing the chamber. "Enough! You may call them better than wildlings, boy, but never forget their history. Long before Valyria rose, the Kings of Winter ruled their frozen realm. They bent only when Torrhen Stark laid down his crown before Aegon. They are not to be mocked."
Daemon rolled his eyes, smirking still, but said no more.
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Jaehaerys turned the talk back to Theon Stark. "The matter is not their past, but their present. This boy—no older than my great-grandchildren—has made wonders. A golden pen. Roads. Drainage. All from his own mind. Tell me, Daemon, Viserys—what marvels have either of you wrought at his age?"
Baelon spoke with quiet pride. "Father, I've used that pen myself. The ink flows smooth, never blotting. My hands are unstained, my clothes unspoiled. It is a simple thing, but so clever. Writing becomes a joy, not a chore."
Jaehaerys nodded. "Indeed. Even in my hand it sits well."
Viserys, softer but earnest, added, "It amazes me, grandsire. My daughter is of similar age to the boy, yet I cannot imagine her making such things. Truly, it seems the Old Gods favor the Starks."
All nodded in agreement—save Daemon, who sneered faintly.
Baelon then asked, "But why volcanic ash, father? What need has the boy of Dragonstone's ash?"
Jaehaerys answered without hesitation. "For his roads, so my sources say. He means to bind stone with ash and lime, to make them endure against winter's bite."
Daemon laughed suddenly, harsh and mocking. "Or perhaps to keep warm. It is said the North is so cold their brains must be frozen stiff. Ash for fire, not for roads!" He chuckled at his own jest.
Jaehaerys's tone turned sharp as a blade. "Tell me, Daemon—what have you done at his age? At least the boy does something for his people. You do nothing but drink, whore, and fight like a sellsword."
Daemon's smirk faltered.
"And do I need to remind you," Jaehaerys pressed on, his voice now edged with kingly wrath, "that you are wed? Your duty is not only to sword and saddle, but to your wife. Viserys has already given me a grandchild. When shall I hear good news from you?"
Daemon's face twisted in anger. "I will not lie with that bitch. She is no better than a sheep, and less comely. Even the sheep are fairer than my wife."
Baelon roared, "Daemon!" but before his fury could break, Jaehaerys thundered over them all.
"Enough! Call her what you will, but she is your duty. You shall give her children, for the prosperity of our House. Do not forget that!"
Daemon fell silent, sullen, his smirk gone.
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It was Queen Alysanne who broke the tense quiet, her voice softer, full of sorrow. "Has there been any word from Rhaenys?"
The question soured the room further. Both king and prince lowered their eyes, remembering the bitter wound. Rhaenys, daughter of the late Prince Aemon, had been passed over when Jaehaerys named Baelon heir. The lords of the realm had made plain their will: no woman upon the Iron Throne. Corlys Velaryon, her husband, had resigned as Master of Ships in anger, and Rhaenys had turned her back upon the crown.
"No, mother," Baelon said at last. "She has not spoken to us since. Nor Corlys. They feel betrayed, and perhaps rightly so."
Alysanne's heart ached, though she hid it behind composure. She had argued long against Jaehaerys's choice, but her words had not swayed him. What was done was done.
Jaehaerys at last spoke, his voice heavy with finality. "Enough. The past cannot be changed. We must look to the future. Baelon, you are not only Hand of the King, but Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms. You must turn your mind to rule, and to the burdens it brings."
Baelon bowed his head. "Yes, father."
"Good," said the king, leaning back into the throne. "Then this council is ended."
The great hall fell to silence once more, the torches flickering against the cruel steel of the Iron Throne—sharp, unyielding, eternal.
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