"What are you worried about, Rhaegor?"
Draezell cast a glance at his son and gestured for him to sit before him. The fire in the hearth crackled brightly, casting a warm glow over the sleeping children's faces.
In recent years, the family had welcomed new life. Not long after bringing back Brynden Rivers, Seryna was delighted to discover she was pregnant. After a long pregnancy, she gave birth to a healthy, beautiful girl.
Syrae Vaelarys.
She inherited her mother's beauty, with silky pale golden hair and violet eyes that seemed to shimmer like starlight. Even wrinkled and red as a newborn, it was clear at a glance that the child bore her mother's traits—destined to become a natural-born beauty.
After Syrae's birth, the family saw no new children for some time. However, new dragons hatched, bringing renewed activity to the Dragon's Nest.
Even Vermithor had grown increasingly sluggish, like its peers. The people of Summerfield had not seen the mighty dragon, with wings vast enough to blot out the sun, soaring across the skies for some time. Compared to its past energy, Vermithor now preferred resting in the mountains. Even Sendros had become calmer in recent years.
Draezell understood this fading activity in the dragons was closely tied to great changes unfolding across the world. Had his family not interfered, the dragons would have already vanished during this era, and the Song of Ice would be playing its opening notes—building toward its crescendo, plunging the world into the Long Night and heralding its rebirth.
Even though their interference had altered destiny, the Song of Ice and Fire remained the "main melody" of this world.
It would not change—only allow a few added interludes.
And that destined time… was drawing near.
"Father, I'm worried about the bastard child of Aegon and Princess Diana," Rhaegor said softly. "I fear the inheritance dispute he brings might upset your plans."
"You already called him a bastard, Rhaegor." Draezell stared into the dancing flames, as if something within the fire was slowly revealing itself—not clearly visible, but both he and Rhaegor could vaguely perceive the black shapes flickering in and out.
"You are the head of House Vaelarys. You yourself called the boy a bastard. Do I really need to explain what that means?" Draezell raised a curious eyebrow. He didn't believe his son had come just to point out something so obvious.
Clearly, Rhaegor had seen something more.
"I know." Rhaegor certainly knew what it meant. King Daeron had recognized young Daeron's right to inherit and declared his legitimacy—this was true. But the king's recognition alone wasn't enough. Just like Queen Rhaenyra and Jacaerys I long ago, the comparison might be imperfect, but the dilemma was familiar.
When the head of House Vaelarys publicly declared Diana's child a bastard, it solidified that status far more effectively than the king's vague endorsement.
Every noble who truly wielded power in the realm understood that in a kingdom where dragons symbolized royal authority, the one with the most dragons—and the strongest dragons—spoke the truth. Some lords might genuinely remain loyal to the Targaryens, but unless a Vaelarys was crowned on that iron chair and wiped out House Targaryen entirely—though technically speaking, House Vaelarys was also of Targaryen blood—the rest of the lords would take Vaelarys's stance as their compass.
After all, the dragons of Vaelarys were bigger, stronger. And Targaryen's fiercest dragon, Caraxes, was still a wild dragon.
The outcome was obvious.
Just like that wild, bloody storm of a war that ended in mere months—or could've ended in a single night if not for concern over appearances—if Vaelarys chose a side in a future conflict, that side would inevitably win.
As for the humiliation suffered by certain noble youths—those families insulted by Diana were ancient, thousand-year-old lineages. They valued honor, certainly, but interest always came first.
As long as they were given enough "dignity" and compensation, no one would care about a willful princess who had stained the royal name.
"Father, my concern isn't with the great lords," Rhaegor said, eyes fixed on the flickering flames. "It's the lesser lords I worry about—and those who didn't gain enough from the expedition."
He looked up at his father. "Even though we burned the local nobles and warlords and redistributed their lands, it still isn't enough to feed all the nobles—especially not with so many minor lords, second sons, and younger sons hungering for more land and more people. They will be the core of the next potential uprising."
Rhaegor spoke softly.
"Greed and endless ambition are the true roots of unrest, Father."
Draezell narrowed his eyes. "So what do you plan to do? Get rid of that bastard? Or eliminate the tens of thousands of little upstarts waiting to make a name for themselves and claim lands and titles? Or—"
"Do you want to launch another expedition and swallow up even more territory on the eastern continent?"
The old man looked at his eldest son, waiting for a reply from Rhaegor, who was now firmly in middle age.
After thinking it over for a while, Rhaegor realized that there was no solution that could root out the issue without causing serious harm.
Everything they did merely postponed the inevitable end.
Just like all the mystical preparations his father had been making.
The scattered pieces of Valyrian steel hidden in the vaults, reforged into ingots of Valyrian steel by the magical blacksmiths of Qohor, now filled several warehouses, waiting for the day they would be melted down and forged into weapons again.
The dragons, nourished by magic, had not perished as they were meant to in the original current of fate. Instead, they had grown stronger than ever.
The Night's Watch had, in recent years, found recruitment easier than during the days of peace. Thanks to generous funding and the resolution of many Wildling threats, the order had become a welcome refuge for landless knightly second sons, dispossessed peasants, bankrupt townsfolk, and wandering craftsmen.
The standards for joining the Silverblood Legion had also risen considerably. In turn, their pay, training, and equipment had all significantly improved.
Following his father's prophecy, Rhaegor had also begun searching for a wife with "ice-blood" to wed little Igon to.
Unfortunately, eligible girls from the ancient families of the North had grown unexpectedly scarce in recent years.
There was a suitable-aged girl from House Dustin of Barrowton, but she didn't meet the standards of "ice-blood." The most suitable—those from House Stark and House Bolton—shockingly had no daughters of appropriate age.
This frustrated both Rhaegor and Daenyra.
Cregan Stark, to this day, had not sired a single daughter.
Sons, on the other hand, he had in abundance. One could only wonder what the ever-healthy Alyssane Blackwood and the equally vigorous Lord Cregan had been up to in their later years.
"So, no need to be too tense," Draezell said softly. "Perhaps even a grim future brings its own opportunities. By the way, Rhaegor, on a different note—"
A trace of amusement flickered across the old man's face.
"What do you think of that boy from House Stark?"
"Which one?"