Red Keep, the Great Hall.
Despite the murmurs left in Tyland Lannister's wake as he exited with a dark cloud over his features—chastised before the court by King Viserys himself—the banquet pressed on. Musicians played, goblets clinked, and servants weaved through the crowd carrying trays of roast meats, lemon cakes, and Arbor gold. The air was heavy with perfumed sweat and quiet gossip.
"Lord Lyonel, it has been some time since we last spoke."
King Viserys, perched uncomfortably atop the high-backed chair beside the dais, offered a forced smile as he summoned the Master of Laws with a faint wave of his hand.
Lyonel Strong, heavyset and unassuming, turned at the voice. He'd been speaking softly with his youngest son, Larys, across a table weighed down with cherry tarts and sugared almonds. At the king's call, he immediately rose.
"Your Grace," Lyonel said, bowing with measured respect. He was no fool—his position was one of duty, not affection.
Once a maester-in-training at the Citadel, Lyonel had forged six links of his chain before abandoning a scholar's life to serve House Strong. Age had left him broad and slow-moving, but his wits remained keen, and his loyalty unshaken.
"I won't mince words, Lord Lyonel," Viserys began, voice pitched low. "Rhaenyra has vanished again. Ser Criston Cole informs me she's taken young Aemond to the Dragonpit."
Lyonel raised an eyebrow. "Prince Aemond seeks the company of Princess Rhaenyra? That is… encouraging. Noble blood should bind noble hearts."
Viserys gave a hollow chuckle, the smile falling from his lips almost instantly. "You misunderstand. It's not the boy I worry about—it's her. Rhaenyra holds no affection for me anymore. Every word I speak is met with silence, or worse, defiance."
There was a tired sadness in his tone, one that spoke of more than paternal disappointment. It was the melancholy of a ruler whose family was fracturing before his eyes.
"What would you have me do, Your Grace?"
Lyonel's response was careful, aware that palace walls had ears and rumors had wings.
Viserys leaned in, lowering his voice to a whisper. "She is nearly of age. I wish to secure her future… and by extension, the realm's. Tell me, Lord Lyonel—who among the noble houses would make a suitable consort?"
Lyonel blinked.
The question hung heavy in the air, but its implications were heavier still. Viserys was not replacing Rhaenyra as heir—that much was clear. And if she were to be wed soon, then the whispers about Prince Aegon, Otto Hightower's grandson, angling for the throne were moot.
Most startlingly, this meant that Otto—recently dismissed—was no longer among the king's inner circle. Lyonel was being tested.
"Your Grace," he began cautiously, "the Small Council has often spoken of Ser Laenor Velaryon as a match. A union with House Velaryon would reinforce your daughter's claim with naval strength and ancient Valyrian blood."
Viserys frowned. "And yet, I wonder if there might be a better choice."
Lyonel straightened. "Laenor is heir to the wealthiest fleet in the realm. The Velaryons trace their line back to Old Valyria itself. And unlike other candidates, his loyalty to the Crown is unquestioned."
The king's fingers drummed the arm of his chair. "Since the Great Council of 101, when the lords named me heir over Princess Rhaenys… Corlys Velaryon has never truly forgiven me. I sense it in his gaze—the same way I felt it when I rejected his daughter Laena's hand in marriage."
He took a long pull from his goblet. "He's never forgotten."
Lyonel's mind raced. The king was clearly weighing old grudges against present alliances. "If I may speak freely…"
"You may."
"Then allow me to say this: the Small Council backs Laenor precisely because your refusal to marry Lady Laena still casts a long shadow. When Lord Corlys resigned as Master of Ships, the realm took notice."
The implication was clear—there had been damage done. A marriage could mend it.
Viserys scowled. "You think I should placate Corlys like some petulant lord?"
"No, Your Grace," Lyonel said, his tone calm, "but peace is often brokered through bonds of blood. Corlys will not yield easily. Not unless he sees his house firmly tied to the Iron Throne."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then he may seek other alliances," Lyonel warned. "Perhaps not openly… but quietly. And with the war in the Stepstones, we cannot afford division."
Viserys gritted his teeth. "So he seeks to coerce me."
Lyonel raised a placating hand. "You are king. No one would dare. But politics and pride are fickle things. House Velaryon's fleet is essential, especially now."
The tension hung thick between them. Viserys mulled over his wine, eyes distant.
"Daemon fights beside Corlys in the Stepstones," he said eventually. "Whatever rift remains, they bleed together now."
Just then, a piercing scream echoed through the Red Keep.
"What now?" Viserys muttered, rising abruptly. The shriek was followed by a deafening roar that reverberated across the stone corridors.
It was not a cry of pain—but joy.
"Sgaa!"
A dragon's screech rang through the halls like thunder. Servants dropped trays, knights looked skyward, and lords scrambled to courtyards. Viserys and Lyonel rushed to the nearest balcony.
There, soaring across the bright blue sky, was a light blue dragon—elegant and swift, weaving through the clouds like a silken kite.
"Seven hells," Lyonel breathed.
Viserys's eyes scanned the creature carefully. Dreamfyre. But she was wild and untamed. Who had dared release her?
No rider was visible. But Rhaenyra had gone to the Dragonpit. So had Aemond.
Was this her doing?
The dragon let out another shriek, circling King's Landing thrice, drawing crowds of spectators, both terrified and thrilled. Finally, it dipped low, gliding over the rooftops of Silk Street, before disappearing back into the great domed Dragonpit.
"Rhaenyra..." Viserys muttered.
---
Dragonpit
Within the massive stone dome, the air was thick with heat and the heavy scent of dragon musk. Prince Aemond Targaryen stood, eyes wide with joy, as he watched Dreamfyre land gracefully.
"Beautiful," he whispered. "Dragons are meant to fly… not to rot behind walls."
He'd spent countless hours staring at them from afar, imagining the freedom of the skies. Now, seeing Dreamfyre soar had stirred something in him—something ancient.
Another roar echoed through the chamber.
Startled, Aemond turned. From the shadows emerged Rhaenyra, walking confidently alongside her own dragon.
The beast was majestic—deep amber scales, crowned with two sweeping horn-like crests, glowing eyes like molten gold. It walked with regal grace, matching the princess step for step.
"Sgaa!"
The creature let out a guttural rumble, wings rustling like thunderclouds.
"Rhaenyra!" Aemond beamed, running toward her with boyish eagerness. "May I touch it? Please?"
She smiled faintly but did not answer. Her gaze was fixed on the skies above, where freedom still lingered on the breeze.
The dragons of House Targaryen
were stirring.
And so too, it seemed, was the storm to come.
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