In the fair harbor-town of Gulltown, a dragon wheeled through the sky.
Gulltown was white. White as marble quarried from the Mountains of the Moon, white as salt crusted on dockside stone. It stood as a symbol of order and wealth, a jewel of the Vale untouched by the worst depredations of war.
The Cannibal was black.
Black as soot and starless night, a creature forged of flame and savagery, the very image of ruin given wings.
Three times the great dragon circled the harbor, his vast shadow sliding across tiled roofs and whitewashed walls. His presence pressed down upon the town like an iron weight. Below, nobles gathered along the docks and balconies, their silks snapping in the sea wind as cheers broke out, half awe and half terror.
Merchants shaded their eyes and craned their necks. This was no hatchling nor half-grown mount. This was a dragon of old blood and monstrous size, a living relic of Valyria's fury. Many there had heard tales of the Black Dread, passed down by fathers and grandfathers. None had thought to see such a creature again in their lifetime.
The Cannibal's wings blotted out the sun. His roar rolled across the harbor like thunder over open water, rattling shutters and sending children shrieking into their mothers' arms.
At last, the dragon descended.
Stone groaned beneath his weight as he settled upon the docks, talons biting deep into the pale rock. Smoke curled from his nostrils as the crowd beheld the riders who dismounted before him.
Prince Aegon stepped forward first, offering his hand to Princess Rhaena as she descended. Both were clad in rich velvet of black and red, the colors of House Targaryen. Their silver-gold hair caught the light, and their violet eyes shone with youth and confidence, unmistakably Valyrian.
Aegon's fingers tightened briefly around Rhaena's hand, a silent reassurance. Together they passed through the throng, flower petals raining down upon them as cheers swelled from every side.
They came at last before Queen Rhaenyra and Lady Jeyne Arryn, the two greatest ladies of their age.
The people adored them. The clever, fearless prince. The graceful, noble princess. To the crowd, they were promise made flesh, a new flame rising from the ashes of war.
"We bring tidings of victory, Mother," Aegon said, bowing low. Rhaena followed, her skirts gathered neatly in her hands.
Queen Rhaenyra's gaze lingered on them both. Then her composure broke, just for a moment. She stepped forward and drew them into her arms, pressing a kiss to her son's brow before straightening and lifting his hand high.
"My children have done a great deed," she declared, her voice carrying across the docks. "You have upheld the honor of our house. You are worthy of its glory."
A roar answered her.
"Aegon the Victorious!"
"Aegon the Victorious!"
The cry rolled through Gulltown like surf against stone.
With the death of Aegon II, the balance of the war had shifted beyond doubt. The Blacks now held a male heir and the greatest dragon alive. One mighty dragon and one lesser, yet more than enough. Peace no longer seemed a dream, but an inevitability.
Rhaenyra raised her hand for silence.
"I proclaim once more," she said, "that my only son, Aegon Targaryen, is Prince of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne."
The words had already spread through the Vale, yet spoken here, beneath dragon wings and open sky, they carried new weight.
"And further, I decree the betrothal of Prince Aegon to Princess Rhaena Targaryen. Their wedding shall be celebrated in King's Landing with all due splendor."
She joined their hands together and lifted them before the crowd.
"Long live House Targaryen!"
"Long live the Queen!"
"Long live Prince Aegon, the Heir!"
The cheers rose higher still, faces bright with hope. The realm was wounded, but not broken. Once an heir was born of this union, the kingdom would stand firm again.
...
Celebration faded swiftly, as all such moments did.
Behind closed doors, only a few remained. Queen Rhaenyra, Lady Jeyne, Aegon, and Rhaena sat together, the air heavy with unspoken matters.
At length, Lady Jeyne folded her hands upon the table. "You and Rhaena may need to return to King's Landing first," she said carefully. "The queen and I will follow in due time."
Rhaena stiffened, her brows knitting. This was not as before. When King's Landing had first fallen, Rhaenyra had hurried forward, eager to seize her victory.
"Why wait?" Aegon asked.
Rhaenyra did not look at him at once. Her fingers tightened in her sleeve.
"I do not wish to see King's Landing," she said quietly. "Every stone there is stained with loss. My Joffrey. My dragon."
Her voice faltered.
After the riot, after the Dragonpit burned and Prince Joffrey lay dead, the city had become a place of ash and sorrow. To return was to reopen wounds that had never closed.
Aegon understood. The queen carried her grief like a second crown, heavier than the first. Some victories left scars that no throne could heal.
Yet there were colder truths as well.
In King's Landing, Rhaenyra's name had become a curse whispered behind closed doors. Rumors claimed she had driven her sister Helaena to her death. Her taxes, imposed in desperation, had bled the smallfolk raw. Whatever love they had once held for her had curdled into resentment.
The people loved bright faces and easy smiles. They loved Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaena. They did not love the queen. Nor did the queen wish to bow and smile for them in return.
Better, then, to remain apart. Dragonstone or Gulltown would serve well enough, a royal progress in name if not in spirit.
"Mother," Aegon said after a pause, inclining his head, "if you do not return to King's Landing, it would seem improper for me to go alone."
Appearances still mattered. And truth be told, Aegon judged his mother's talent for rule to be little greater than his uncle's had been. Neither had been truly hungry for power. Both had relied upon sharper minds and harder hands.
The Blacks had Prince Daemon. The Greens had once had Lord Otto and Ser Criston Cole. Kings and queens might wear crowns, but it was such men who truly set the realm ablaze.
Rhaenyra studied her son for a long moment. Then she spoke.
"I will name you Prince Regent," she said evenly. "In my absence, you will preside over the governance of the realm."
Aegon straightened at once.
"I shall remain in Gulltown or Dragonstone," she continued. "A progress, or a period of rest. King's Landing no longer brings me peace. This harbor does."
"Prince Regent," Aegon repeated softly.
His eyes brightened despite himself. It was no small trust to place the reins of power into such young hands. Once, regents had bound him. Now he would be the regent.
At last, he would move without restraint.
"Your Grace," Rhaena said quickly, her fingers tightening in her lap, "Aegon is still very young. Can he truly bear such a burden?"
Regencies were common enough. His age was not. To many lords, he remained little more than a boy with a dragon.
Rhaenyra turned to her, her expression firm but not unkind.
"You are clever," she said to Aegon, "and now a dragonrider as well. I trust you. You will not rule alone. Once you are wed, Lord Corlys will stand beside you. His name still carries great weight.
"The Vale, the Riverlands, and the North remain loyal. As for the Stormlands, the Reach, and the Westerlands, there is no need for further bloodshed. The fury of the smallfolk is a weapon no lord should ignore."
Her gaze darkened. The memory of the riot had never left her. Water could bear a ship gently, or drag it beneath the waves.
At least now the lines were clear. Black and Green. Loyalist and rebel.
"You speak of trust," Aegon said slowly, "but how am I to answer the people of the Seven Kingdoms?"
Rhaenyra's voice softened.
"You answer no one. You feed them. You secure the lords. Power is not proclamations or crowns. Power is bread in the market and peace in the streets."
She stepped closer and placed a hand upon his shoulder.
"You are brave. You are thoughtful. That is enough. And you will have Lord Corlys, Lord Cregan, and others at your side."
She drew a breath.
"I will return to King's Landing in time. For now, let me pray for the dead."
"Do not be troubled, Prince Aegon," Lady Jeyne said, her tone measured. "The queen does not abandon the capital. She merely rests here awhile. When true peril arises, we will return."
The queen was placing her son before the realm.
But she had not yet loosened her grip upon the reins.
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