**The Dragonpit - King's Landing - 103 AC (One Month Before Their Sixth Nameday)**
The Dragonpit smelled like smoke, sulfur, and centuries of accumulated dragon musk—a combination that would have been overwhelming if Percy hadn't spent the last three years acclimating to it. Now it just smelled like *home*, or at least the closest thing to home he'd found in this world.
"Hold still, *riña*," the senior dragonkeeper murmured in High Valyrian, his scarred hands working one of the final leather straps through the embedded metal hoops that had been set into Typhōnas's scales three years ago. "Almost finished."
Typhōnas—now the size of two warhorses, his distinctive ray-like wings folded against his streamlined body—made a low rumbling sound that Percy felt through their bond. Not pain, exactly. More like *this is annoying but I will tolerate it because you ask me to*.
*Sorry,* Percy sent through their connection. *I know it's uncomfortable. But we need these if we're going to fly together.*
*Know this,* Typhōnas replied, his thoughts carrying the flavor of water flowing around obstacles. *Still don't like. Scales itch where metal-things-that-don't-move sit.*
The "metal-things-that-don't-move" were the anchor hoops—bronze rings that had been carefully inserted into Typhōnas's back and neck when he was barely a year old, small enough that the procedure hadn't required restraints or sedation. Just patient dragonkeepers and a very brave young dragon who'd trusted that his rider wanted this.
The hoops had grown with Typhōnas, fusing with bone and scale until they were as permanent as his teeth. Now, at nearly six years old—dragon years, not human years, though the timeline was confusing—they provided secure anchor points for the elaborate harness being fitted around him.
The saddle itself was a work of art. Percy had worked with the master saddler for *months* on the design, translating his vague memories of "comfortable" and "secure" into something that could actually be built with medieval technology and dragon-appropriate materials.
The result was: a reinforced leather seat positioned just behind Typhōnas's shoulders, anchored to the embedded hoops with thick straps that distributed weight across the dragon's body rather than pulling on any single point. The stirrups were adjustable—necessary since Percy was currently five years old and would hopefully continue growing. Additional straps looped around Typhōnas's neck and chest, creating a cage of leather that would keep the rider secure even during aerial maneuvers.
The whole thing was decorated with Velaryon seahorses worked in silver thread, because apparently even practical equipment needed to be fancy when you were nobility.
"The weight distribution is good," Percy observed, running his hand along one of the main straps. His voice had changed over the past three years—less baby-talk, more actual words pronounced correctly. He still *sounded* like a child, but an articulate one. "And the chest strap won't interfere with his breathing when he dives?"
"The design is sound, Lord Perseon," the dragonkeeper confirmed. He was one of the older keepers, a man named Baelor who'd been working with dragons since before Percy was born—either time. "The straps follow the natural lines of his body. When he moves, they move with him."
"And the hoops—they're not pulling? Not causing pressure points?"
"Feel for yourself, young lord. The dragon would tell you if something was wrong."
Percy closed his eyes and reached out through his bond with Typhōnas, sinking deeper into the connection than usual. It was like—like swimming in another person's thoughts, if that person was a massive reptile who thought in images and feelings rather than words.
He felt: the weight of the saddle, distributed evenly. The slight tightness of the chest strap, not painful but *present*. The cool pressure of the metal hoops, no longer foreign after years of growing around them. And underneath it all, Typhōnas's steady acceptance—*This is part of being bonded. This is what we do.*
*You'd tell me if it hurt,* Percy sent.
*Would tell,* Typhōnas confirmed. *Always tell. But doesn't hurt. Just... aware of. Like you aware of clothes.*
That was actually a perfect analogy. The saddle was to Typhōnas what clothing was to Percy—not part of his body, but worn so constantly it became background noise.
"He's okay with it," Percy reported, opening his eyes. "Thank you, Keeper Baelor. The work is excellent."
Twenty feet away, Syrax was undergoing similar treatment, though the golden dragon was being significantly less patient about it.
*Don't like,* Syrax was broadcasting through her bond with Rhaenyra, loud enough that Percy could feel the edges of it. *Straps too tight. Metal too cold. Want OFF.*
"The straps need to be snug," Rhaenyra said, standing beside her dragon with the patient tone of someone who'd been having this argument for thirty minutes. At five years old, she was tall for her age—all three of them were, actually, growing faster than normal children—but she still had to crane her neck to look at Syrax's head. "If they're loose, I'll fall off when you fly. Do you want me to fall off?"
*No falling,* Syrax agreed reluctantly. *But also no uncomfortable straps.*
"Then we compromise. Straps stay, but we adjust them until they're as comfortable as possible. Deal?"
Syrax made a sound like brass bells clanging—her version of a sigh—and settled down enough for the dragonkeepers to continue working.
Rhaenyra's saddle was similar to Percy's in basic design but decorated differently—Targaryen dragons worked in black and crimson, with small garnets set into the leather. It was ostentatious in a way that would have made Percy uncomfortable, but Rhaenyra wore her royal status like armor. She'd been a princess in name. She'd been a titaness in truth. She knew how to use appearance as a weapon.
Brightfire, being fitted with her own saddle on Syrax's other side, was handling the process with what could only be described as intellectual curiosity.
*Interesting,* the silver-pearl dragon thought, her amber-gold eyes tracking every movement the dragonkeepers made. *How do the weight-distribution-points connect to the stabilization-straps? What prevents the configuration from shifting during inverted flight?*
"She's asking about the engineering," Annabeth—Annara—translated for the confused dragonkeepers. The grey-eyed princess stood with her arms crossed, watching the process with the critical eye of an architect evaluating a structure. "She wants to know if the saddle will stay secure if she's flying upside down."
"Dragons don't fly upside down," one of the younger keepers said uncertainly.
"*Most* dragons don't fly upside down," Annara corrected. "Brightfire does. Or she will, once she's large enough. She's been planning aerial maneuvers since she hatched."
This was, unfortunately, completely true. Brightfire had somehow developed an obsession with combat flying—studying the way other dragons moved, calculating optimal attack patterns, planning for battles that hopefully would never happen. It made her saddle requirements more complex than her siblings', because she needed something that would stay secure during aerobatics.
The result was a saddle with *more* straps and *more* anchor points, creating what looked like a full-body harness instead of just a seat. It was beautiful—worked in silver and grey with small sapphires—but it was also functional in a way that suggested whoever wore it was planning to do some seriously aggressive flying.
"The configuration is secure," the lead keeper finally said, tugging on one of the straps to demonstrate. "Even during extreme maneuvers. Though I would advise, Princess, that extreme maneuvers should wait until both rider and dragon are fully grown."
"Obviously," Annara said with the patience of someone who'd been receiving that advice for three years. "We're not idiots. We're just *prepared*."
Ser Harrold Westerling, standing at a respectful distance with his white cloak pristine and his expression long-suffering, made a sound that might have been a suppressed laugh.
The Kingsguard knight had drawn the short straw—or perhaps the *long* straw, depending on perspective—of being assigned to guard the three children during their dragon training sessions. He was in his early thirties, competent, and had the kind of face that suggested he'd seen too much already and would really prefer not to see more.
"You three," he said, his voice carrying that particular tone of someone who wanted to sound stern but couldn't quite manage it, "are going to give me grey hair before I'm forty."
"You'll look distinguished," Percy offered, walking over to where Ser Harrold stood. "Very knightly. People will think you've survived great battles."
"Surviving *you* will be battle enough," Harrold muttered, but his lips twitched.
Percy grinned and turned his attention to the object he'd been trying not to obsess over all morning: his new training sword.
It was beautiful, even if it was temporary.
Three feet of carefully shaped hardwood—oak, specifically, chosen for its density and durability—worked in a design that Percy had spent *months* perfecting with the master-at-arms. The blade was leaf-shaped, widening slightly in the middle before tapering to a blunted point. The balance was exquisite, with the center of gravity positioned exactly where Percy needed it for his fighting style.
The hilt was wrapped in black leather with a bronze crossguard shaped like waves—actual bronze, because even training swords needed some metal for proper weight distribution. And set into the pommel, small enough not to be ostentatious but large enough to matter, was a sea-green stone that caught the light.
It looked nothing like Riptide. It looked *exactly* like Riptide. Somehow both at once.
"Stop fondling your sword," Annara called over. "You're making Ser Harrold nervous."
"I'm not fondling it. I'm *admiring* it." But Percy reluctantly set the blade back in its sheath—leather and bronze, matching the sword's aesthetic. "Besides, Father promised me a real one soon."
"A real one?" Ser Harrold raised an eyebrow. "You're five years old, my lord. Training swords are appropriate for—"
"A real *Valyrian steel* one," Percy clarified, and couldn't quite keep the excitement from his voice. "Father's been acquiring pieces from Essos. Small jewelry, daggers, that sort of thing. He's having them remelted and reforged into a proper sword."
Harrold's other eyebrow joined the first. "Lord Corlys is commissioning a Valyrian steel blade?"
"He says it's about time House Velaryon had one," Percy said, trying to sound casual even though his heart was racing at the thought. "The Targaryens have two. The Lannisters have Brightroar—well, had it before it was lost. Even House Stark has Ice. But the Velaryons? The richest house in Westeros, with the largest fleet, directly descended from Old Valyria? Nothing."
"That's because Valyrian steel is impossible to forge," Harrold pointed out. "The secret died with the Doom. You can't just *make* new blades."
"But you can reforge existing steel," Annara said, walking over now that Brightfire's saddle was finished. "The smiths in Qohor still know how. They can't create new Valyrian steel from raw materials, but they can reshape what already exists. Take three small daggers, melt them down, forge them into one sword."
"That's what Father's doing," Percy confirmed. "He's been collecting pieces for two years. Says he has almost enough now. Maybe three more months and they can start the reforging."
"And you designed it?" Rhaenyra joined them, brushing dragon scales off her riding leathers. "Like you designed this training sword?"
"Based it on Riptide," Percy admitted quietly, pitched low enough that only his cousins and Ser Harrold would hear. "The sword I used before. I can't have that exact blade, but I can have something close. Something that feels *right*."
"Your mother paid a fortune for that training sword," Rhaenyra pointed out, nodding at the wooden blade. "And your father's probably spending ten times that on the Valyrian steel version."
"Mother is Hand of the King and Father is the richest man in Westeros," Percy said, echoing her earlier words with a grin. "They can afford it. Besides, I designed the training sword first so I could practice with the exact weight and balance I want. When the real one is finished, I won't have to adjust. I'll already know how it moves."
"That's actually smart," Ser Harrold admitted. "Most lords just commission a blade and hope it suits them. Training with a matching wooden version first..."
"Means I'll be competent with the real thing immediately," Percy finished. "That's the idea."
"Your father is building you an heirloom," Rhaenyra observed. "A Valyrian steel blade that will stay in House Velaryon for generations. That's... significant."
"I know." Percy touched the pommel of his training sword, feeling the sea-green stone embedded there. "He's having the real one made with a larger version of this—a piece of sea-green jade from the Summer Isles. Says every legendary blade needs a distinctive feature, and the Velaryon sword should have the color of the sea."
"What are you going to name it?" Annara asked.
Percy had been thinking about this for months. "Tidecaller, maybe? Or Stormbreaker? Something that sounds impressive but isn't too pretentious."
"Stormbreaker is very pretentious," Annara said.
"Fine. Tidecaller then."
"Still pretentious."
"You're pretentious."
"I'm Athena's daughter. I'm allowed to be pretentious. It's genetic."
"Everything with you is genetic," Percy muttered, but he was smiling.
The twins looked older than five. Both had grown tall for their age, inheriting the Targaryen tendency toward height. Rhaenyra wore her silver-gold hair in a complex braid that was already coming undone from working with Syrax—she'd given up on perfect presentation around age four, deciding that comfort mattered more than courtly appearance. Annara kept her hair shorter, barely to her shoulders, because she claimed it was "more practical for training."
Both wore riding leathers rather than dresses—specially made small riding leathers, because apparently children needed protective gear just as much as adults when dealing with creatures that could accidentally set you on fire.
Percy wore similar leathers in Velaryon sea-green. His hair had grown longer—nearly to his shoulders now, because he kept forgetting to have it cut and eventually just decided to keep it long. It made him look more Valyrian, which was useful for avoiding "why are your eyes green" questions.
"We're almost six," Rhaenyra said suddenly, watching the dragonkeepers finish Brightfire's saddle. "Five years down. Seven more until the events that led to the Dance would start in the original timeline."
"Eight years until Viserys names you heir," Annara corrected. "Five years until Aemma dies. Four until Baelon—" She stopped. "Wait. Baelon already died. When I'm Rhaenyra I forget that Baelon isn't around in this timeline."
"The overlapping memories are confusing," Percy agreed. He had the same problem—sometimes he'd think about his mom and couldn't remember if he meant Sally Jackson or Rhaenys Targaryen. Both were real. Both mattered. Both existed in his head simultaneously.
"We need to focus on what's coming now," Rhaenyra said. "King Jaehaerys. He's seventy-nine. He's not going to last much longer."
"The histories said he died this year," Annara confirmed. "103 AC. We don't know when exactly, but—"
A commotion at the Dragonpit entrance interrupted her. Voices, urgent. Running footsteps.
Ser Harrold straightened immediately, his hand going to his sword hilt. "Stay here," he commanded the children, moving toward the disturbance.
But Percy had already recognized one of the voices. "That's Mother's steward," he said. "Something's happened."
The three children exchanged glances—a moment of silent communication that had become second nature over five years.
*Jaehaerys,* they thought in unison.
The steward emerged from the entrance tunnel, breathing hard, his face pale. "Ser Harrold! Lord Perseon, Princesses—you must come immediately. King Jaehaerys—his health has deteriorated rapidly. The maesters say—" He swallowed. "They say it's a matter of hours. Princess Rhaenys requests your presence. The king is asking for his family."
Ser Harrold turned to look at the children, his expression grave. At five years old, they shouldn't have to face this. Shouldn't have to watch a king die. But they were royal, and this was their great-grandfather, and duty didn't care about age.
"Can you ride?" he asked.
"We have horses," Annara said immediately. She'd been training in horsemanship since she could walk—all three of them had. Horses were easier than dragons for everyday travel, and they needed to be competent at all forms of transportation.
"Then we ride. Now. Leave the dragons—the keepers will finish here."
Percy turned back to Typhōnas, pressing his forehead against his dragon's snout. *Have to go. Family emergency. Stay here. I'll come back.*
*Will stay,* Typhōnas promised. *Be careful, small-rider. Sad-times-coming. Can feel.*
*I know. I'll be okay. Promise.*
Syrax and Brightfire received similar farewells from their riders. Then the three children were running—really running, with the coordination of five-year-olds who'd been training their bodies since they could walk—toward the Dragonpit's stables.
The ride back to the Red Keep was a blur of hoofbeats and controlled panic. Ser Harrold set a pace that was just barely safe, and the children kept up because they'd been taught to ride well and because their bodies, while young, were *strong* in ways that normal five-year-olds' bodies weren't.
Percy's new training sword bounced against his hip. He'd insisted on taking it—some instinct said he might need it, even though he couldn't imagine fighting anyone in the Red Keep. But Riptide had always been with him when things went wrong. This blade was close enough.
They clattered into the Red Keep's courtyard and dismounted before their horses fully stopped—technically dangerous, but they all stuck the landing. Ser Harrold looked like he wanted to scold them but didn't have time.
"The royal chambers," he said. "Quickly."
They ran through corridors that Percy had learned over five years. Past startled servants. Past guards who stepped aside. Past courtiers who whispered as three children and their Kingsguard escort sprinted toward the king's quarters with grim purpose.
The royal chambers were crowded. Maesters. Lords. Family. Everyone who mattered, gathered to witness an ending.
Rhaenys saw them first. Percy's mother looked exhausted—she'd been Hand of the King for two years now, and it had aged her in ways that worry lines couldn't hide. But when she saw her son and the twins, relief flooded her face.
"You came," she said unnecessarily.
"Of course we came," Percy said. "How is he?"
"Dying." Prince Viserys appeared beside Rhaenys, his face blotchy from crying. "Grandfather—the king is asking for you three specifically. He wants to see his great-grandchildren before—"
His voice broke.
Annara stepped forward and took Viserys's hand with the solemn gravity of a much older person. "We'll see him. Take us to him."
---
**The Royal Bedchamber**
King Jaehaerys I Targaryen looked small in his massive bed.
That was Percy's first thought, and it was a *wrong* thought. Jaehaerys had ruled for fifty-five years. He'd unified the Seven Kingdoms under law. He'd built roads and established the King's Peace and survived more tragedy than most families faced in generations. He'd been a giant of a man, metaphorically speaking.
Now he was just... old. Frail. Diminished.
He was awake, though. Those purple eyes that had seen so much were still sharp when they landed on the three children being ushered into his presence.
"There they are," he said, his voice weak but audible. "My strange, brilliant great-grandchildren. Come closer. These old eyes can't see as well as they used to."
The three approached the bed. Percy had to swallow past a lump in his throat. This was *Jaehaerys*. The king who'd believed them. Who'd helped them. Who'd given them the tools to try to prevent the Dance.
And he was dying, just like the histories said he would.
"Your Grace," they said in unison—they'd stopped trying to avoid speaking together. By now, everyone just accepted that the three of them were synchronized in weird ways.
"None of that," Jaehaerys said, waving a weak hand. "You're family. Call me grandfather. Or great-grandfather if you insist on formality." He studied each of them. "You've grown. All three of you. Strong. Healthy. *Ready*."
"Ready for what?" Rhaenyra asked quietly.
"For what comes next. The work you've been preparing for." Jaehaerys gestured, and somehow the room cleared—maesters and lords and even Viserys filing out to give them privacy. Only Rhaenys remained, standing quietly by the door.
When they were alone—as alone as a dying king ever was—Jaehaerys said: "I'm dying. You know this already. You predicted it."
"Yes," Annara confirmed. "103 AC. We didn't know the exact date, but—we knew it would be this year."
"And after I'm gone, Viserys becomes king."
"Yes."
"He'll need guidance." Jaehaerys's eyes went to Rhaenys. "You'll help him?"
"Of course, Your Grace."
"Not as Hand." Jaehaerys shook his head slightly. "Viserys will want his own Hand. Someone he chooses. Someone who makes him feel independent. You'll remain on the Small Council, but the Hand's position—let him have that choice."
Rhaenys looked surprised. "You're asking me to step down?"
"I'm asking you to give your cousin room to grow." Jaehaerys turned back to the children. "You three. You've been working toward something. Preventing something. Tell me—has it worked? Have you changed enough?"
The three children exchanged glances.
"We don't know yet," Percy admitted. "We've set things in motion. Changed precedents. Made alliances. But the critical points—Aemma's death, Viserys's remarriage—those are still years away. We won't know if we've succeeded until..."
"Until it's too late to change course," Jaehaerys finished. "That's the problem with prophecy. You never know if you've averted it until the moment passes." He was quiet for a long moment. "I wish I could see it. Your success or failure. But I'll be gone."
"We'll succeed," Rhaenyra said fiercely. "We have to."
"Perhaps." Jaehaerys reached out a trembling hand, and Rhaenyra took it. "You have fire in you, child. All three of you do. Use it well. But remember—" His eyes found each of them. "—fire destroys as easily as it protects. Be careful what you burn."
"We will," Annara promised.
"Good." He released Rhaenyra's hand and settled back against his pillows. "I'm tired. But before I sleep—one more thing. A gift."
He gestured to the bedside table, where a small wooden box sat. Rhaenys retrieved it and brought it to the children.
Inside were three dragon-bone rings, worked with small gemstones: sea-green for Percy, gold for Rhaenyra, purple for Annara.
"These were Alysanne's," Jaehaerys said. "She wore them in her youth. Before children and duties made jewelry impractical. She wanted you to have them. To remember that you're not alone in this. You have each other. You have your dragons. And you have the memory of a queen who believed in you."
Percy slipped the sea-green ring onto his finger. It was too large—he'd grow into it—but the weight felt *right*.
"Thank you," he said, his voice thick. "We won't forget her. Or you."
"I know you won't." Jaehaerys's eyes were starting to close. "Now go. Let an old man rest. And when I'm gone—when Viserys is crowned and the realm moves forward—remember what you're fighting for. Not crowns. Not thrones. *People*. All the people who'll die if you fail."
"We remember," the three said together.
"Then I can rest."
They left quietly, filing out past maesters who immediately moved back in. In the hallway, Viserys waited with Daemon—the younger prince had arrived at some point, his usually sardonic expression replaced with genuine grief.
"He asked for you specifically," Viserys said. "What did he say?"
"That we should help you," Annara said simply. "That we should work together. That family matters."
"It does," Viserys agreed. "It's all that matters, in the end."
He moved back into the bedchamber, taking his place by his grandfather's side for the final hours.
The three children found a quiet corner and sat together, processing.
"He's really dying," Percy said unnecessarily.
"We knew he would," Annara replied. "The timeline said—"
"I know what the timeline said. It's different when it's happening." Percy touched the ring on his finger. "We're losing our ally. The one adult who completely understood what we are."
"We have Mother," Rhaenyra pointed out.
"Aunt Rhaenys doesn't know everything. She knows we're *different*, and she knows we have knowledge of future events, that Jaehaerys explained as Dragon Dreams. She doesn't know about the reincarnation. The other world. The god who sent us here."
"Should we tell her?" Annara asked.
"No," Rhaenyra said immediately. "Not yet. Maybe not ever. The more people who know the full truth, the more dangerous it becomes. Jaehaerys was dying anyway—he had nothing to lose by helping us. But Mother is Hand of the King. She has political considerations. If she knew *everything*..."
"She might feel obligated to tell Viserys," Percy finished. "Or the council. Or someone who'd use it against us."
"Exactly."
They sat in heavy silence.
"This is really happening," Annara said quietly. "Jaehaerys dies. Viserys becomes king. In eight years, he names you—" She looked at Rhaenyra. "—heir. And then the timeline accelerates toward the Dance."
"Unless we stop it," Rhaenyra said.
"Unless we stop it," Percy agreed.
Through the walls, faint but audible, they heard a sound: dragons keening. Vermithor, sensing his rider's approaching death. Other dragons in the Dragonpit joining the cry—an instinctive mourning for the passing of a dragonlord.
And far away, in the Dragonpit, three young dragons added their voices to the chorus. Typhōnas's water-song. Syrax's brass-bell cry. Brightfire's crystalline keen.
*My rider is sad,* Typhōnas sent across the distance. *Want to fly to you. Want to comfort.*
*Stay there,* Percy sent back. *I'll come to you soon. But right now I have to be here.*
*Understand. Will wait. Will always wait.*
The comfort of that—of knowing his dragon was there, was *his*, would wait forever if needed—steadied Percy in a way nothing else could.
"We need to be ready," Annara said, pulling out the small notebook she'd started carrying everywhere. At five, her handwriting was still childlike, but legible enough. "When Jaehaerys dies, things change. Viserys becomes king. The council shifts. New opportunities, new dangers."
"Otto Hightower will make his move," Rhaenyra predicted grimly. "He's been positioning himself for two years. Once Viserys is king and needs a new Hand—"
"He'll nominate himself," Percy finished. "Or have someone else nominate him. Either way, he gets the position."
"Can we prevent that?" Annara asked.
"Should we?" Rhaenyra countered. "Otto as Hand is dangerous. But Otto as an enemy outside the council might be *more* dangerous. At least if he's Hand, we can watch him. Know what he's planning."
"Keep your enemies closer," Percy murmured.
"Exactly."
They planned quietly, three children who'd saved worlds before working to save this one. By the time a servant came to tell them King Jaehaerys had passed peacefully, they had the skeleton of a strategy.
It wasn't perfect. It relied on too many variables. But it was a start.
And starting was all they could do.
---
**The Sept of Remembrance - One Week Later**
The funeral for King Jaehaerys I Targaryen was the largest gathering King's Landing had seen since his coronation.
Percy stood with his family—his mother Rhaenys, his father Corlys, his siblings Laenor and Laena—all dressed in formal black with silver accents. The twins stood with their father Viserys, whose grief was so profound he could barely function. Daemon stood between his brother and the twins, a hand on each of their shoulders, providing the strength Viserys couldn't muster.
The Sept was packed. Every lord of significance. Every landed knight. Representatives from Essos. Even Dornish observers, which was unprecedented but somehow appropriate—Jaehaerys had always believed in unity.
The High Septon delivered a eulogy that lasted an hour. Viserys tried to speak but broke down halfway through. Daemon finished it for him, his voice steady even as tears tracked down his face.
And through it all, Percy felt the weight of that dragon-bone ring on his finger. Alysanne's ring. A reminder that they were doing this for more than politics or prophecy.
They were doing this for people who'd believed in them. For the realm that Jaehaerys and Alysanne had built. For the future that should have been peaceful and wasn't.
When the ceremony ended and Jaehaerys's body was carried to the pyres where Vermithor waited to give his rider a proper dragonlord's funeral, Percy found himself standing beside Alicent Hightower.
The girl was eight now—still small, still carefully perfect, but with something new in her eyes. Over the past two years, their friendship had grown genuine. She laughed more. Questioned more. *Thought* more, in ways that Otto probably didn't appreciate.
"He was a good king," Alicent said quietly, watching the procession.
"The best," Percy agreed.
"What happens now?"
"Now Uncle Viserys rules. And we see if he can be as good as his grandfather."
Alicent was quiet for a moment. Then: "Father says Prince Viserys will need advisors. Strong advisors who can guide him."
"Your father would be right about that."
"Father wants to be Hand of the King."
Percy looked at her. "How do you feel about that?"
Alicent blinked, surprised. "How do I—? I'm eight. My feelings don't matter."
"They matter to me," Percy said. "Your father as Hand means you'll be here more. At court. Is that what you want?"
She considered this with the seriousness of a child who'd learned that her opinions were rarely asked for. "I like it here. I like having friends. But Father says friends are different than *allies*, and I should always know the difference."
"Do you?"
"I... I don't know." She looked up at him with those big brown eyes. "Are we friends, Lord Perseon? Or are we allies?"
"We're friends," Percy said firmly. "The political stuff doesn't matter. You're my friend because I like you. Not because of who your father is or what position he holds."
Something in Alicent's expression softened. "I like you too. You and the princesses. You're the only people who don't expect me to be perfect all the time."
"Good. Because perfection is boring and impossible. We'd rather you be real."
The pyre was lit. Vermithor's flames consumed the king's body, and the bronze dragon's keening echoed across King's Landing. Other dragons joined—a chorus of grief for a dragonlord who'd ruled well and long.
Percy felt tears on his face and didn't bother hiding them. Let people think he was crying for Jaehaerys. He was. But he was also crying for the weight of what came next. For the responsibility of trying to save a world when the one person who'd fully understood what they were trying to do was gone.
Alicent slipped her small hand into his. A gesture of comfort. Of friendship.
Of something that might, years from now, save both of them from the futures they weren't supposed to have.
*We're going to make it,* Percy thought toward Annabeth and Calypso through their bond. *We have to.*
*We will,* they answered together. *One step at a time.*
*Together.*
*Always together.*
The dragons sang. The king burned. And three children who'd died once already faced a future that was simultaneously written and unwritten, fixed and fluid, certain and unknown.
The Dance was years away.
They had work to do.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there!