Red Keep ― Dining room…
Silence filled the hall of the dining room. Aside from the sounds of forks and knives scratching the dinner plates along with the crickets chirping in the night, King Viserys shared a quiet dinner with his two remaining children by candlelight; Aeonar sat two seats away from him in the middle, Rhaenyra sat across from him. The distance was great, and Viserys felt compelled to mend the rift between his two remaining children.
"It's... nice that we could spend time together like this. As a family," Viserys broke the silence. "The three of us."
You are making this awkward on yourself, father. Aeonar noticed but did not say anything. Instead, he continued cutting the piece of pork in front of him before resuming his meal – only to stop to have a drink.
Rhaenyra noticed their father was the first to make the effort at initiating a conversation. "I agree," she said. "We haven't spoken much… since that day." Because it is not the same without mother around.
"One I'll always regret. We should be free to speak our minds to each other."
"You are the king."
Viserys gave a faint smile. "I… know I wasn't the best, both of you are all I have left." He briefly lowered his head. "Six months and I still miss your mother. Every day. I loved her… very much."
"As did I," Aeonar finally spoke.
"We all did," Rhaenyra echoed. She noticed her brother's posture. It is still a sensitive topic. I get it. I miss mother too, brother. Noticing the silence, she gently ripped apart a piece of meat before eating. "So Aeonar, I take it you've seen the reports I left for you?" she inquired.
"Yes, Rhaenyra. I have read them all. A list of tourney knights was selected to fill the vacancy on the Kingsguard, but only Ser Criston was the only one with actual combat experience. You did well on recommending him to Ser Harrold."
"So, you approve?"
"I approve."
"He's proving himself a fine knight of the Kingsguard," Viserys agreed.
"Now if he could only learn to slow down…"
"What do you mean?"
Aeonar raised an eyebrow. "Ser Criston stammers when he's nervous sometimes," he shook his head. "I suppose we'll work on that after our next sparring session tomorrow morning."
"You two train together?"
"Only on occasions. Helps keep us on our toes... should an incident arise."
Viserys somewhat nodded. "I… see," he remarked. "Well, so long as you are unhurt. You are my only son and lawful heir. The thought of―"
"Father," Aeonar interrupted. "If I can handle six months by myself in the far east, I can deal with a couple of scrapes, bumps, or bruises."
"That still doesn't keep me from worrying."
Rhaenyra moved to change the subject. "Aeonar, I'm told you were quite the adventurer overseas. I'm sure you must have seen plenty of exotic places."
"Oh?" I know what you are trying to do, sister, and I am thankful. "The city-states not hostile to us had their sense of charm... and exoticism. Braavos, Pentos, Lorath, Norvos, Volantis, and many others. They all had their unique likeness, but the more exotic ones are the ones further east than them."
Okay, now you got me curious. "Tell me."
"Well, there was Meereen – glorious, with massive yet ancient architecture. The Great Pyramids has more than thirty-three levels which are considered sacred to the gods of Ghis. Yes, there are few lesser pyramids, but none stand even as tall as them."
"But isn't that close to where Valyria once stood?" Rhaenyra pointed at one of their father's models of the ancient Valyrian Freehold. "You were there too. Was it exciting?"
Aeonar grimaced. "I'd rather not go there again," he shuddered. If that model is a depiction of what Old Valyria looked like in what remains of our history books, then it pains me to even think of what might have been if the Doom had not nearly destroyed us. "Where once a mighty empire stood is now a pile of rubble infested with Stone Men. Perhaps that's why we've heard so many stories of any who ventured into those ruins are never seen again."
"Goodness…" even Rhaenyra looked aghast.
Thank the gods for Vaelor…
"But none come close to the Golden Empire of Yi Ti. Since the fall of the Ghiscari Empire and Valyrian Freehold, it is one of the oldest and most advanced societies in the known world still standing. It is also where I got this," Aeonar reached over to grab his longbow to present to Rhaenyra and Viserys. It was asymmetrically tall, 7-feet long, made of laminated bamboo, wood, and leather with the grip about one-third the distance from the lower tip with the upper and lower curves differing in shape.
Viserys examined the bow. "Where'd you even acquire a bow that big?" he asked surprised upon measuring it.
Rhaenyra recognizes it as the same bow Aeonar used to shoot an arrow near Daemon's feet to reclaim Dragonstone at a greater distance while mounted on Vaelor's back.
"The Yi Tish call them the luó. As you can see, the luó is designed to give it greater accuracy than the traditional Westerosi longbow or crossbow over long distances. Its steel-tipped arrows are said to be able to penetrate armor as thick as plate. Say what you want about them, but the Yi Tish are master archers." Aeonar set the bow down. "Their warriors live by a code, just as our knights based on the founding tenants." He mentioned. "For the Yi Tish, their ideology before going to war is... 'Shàng zhàn chǎng jué xīn sǐ qù, nǐ huì huó xià lái. Shàng zhàn chǎng xī wàng huó xià qù, nǐ kěn ding bù huì.' It means 'Go into battle determined to die, and you will survive. Go into battle hoping to live, and surely you shall not.'"
"Wha…?"
"It's Yi Tish. You'd be surprised when learning a multitude of languages."
"Then…"
"Egó boró hataa yatakalam Palaiós Nkískari. (I can even speak Old Ghiscari.)" Aeonar spoke in another language. "Old Ghiscari. Difficult to learn but it can be useful."
"Ao dōrī sia mēre naejot sit iēdrosa, sia ao? (You never were one to sit still, were you?)" Rhaenyra inquired in High Valyrian.
Aeonar shook his head. "Hāedar, nyke va moriot emagon naejot gaomagon nykēla mire. (Little sister, I always must keep myself busy.)" He replied in the same dialect.
Viserys was intrigued by the stories his son shared, the places he traveled to, the people he met, and the languages he learned… some part of him wished that he had done the same when he was younger. But the king could not. Instead, his children continued trading stories – watching on as any proud father would. But it would not be long before the conversation shifted again.
"Soooo…~" Rhaenyra raised an eyebrow cheekily. "Don't you have something else you want to share with father tonight?"
"Rhaenyra, don't you dare," Aeonar pointed a sharp finger.
"'Something else'?" Viserys asked curiously. "Is there something you wish to share with your king?"
Damn it, Rhaenyra. I am going to kill you later. "I proposed marriage to Alicent in the gardens earlier this morning. To join our houses. And she accepted," Aeonar informed his father. He then slowly turned his head to Rhaenyra. "Yet this little weasel couldn't help but eavesdrop on the entire private affair."
"Oh, come on! Do you know how long we were waiting for you to finally ask her that? How could I not resist?"
"I cannot say I am surprised," Viserys said after a moment. "You have known her for many years since childhood. She is practically like a sister to Rhaenyra and an honorary member of our family." He set his utensils down on the table. "As your father and your king, I do not object to the match. House Hightower is an ancient and noble bloodline. But there are risks to marrying for love. You of all people must know that some will take it as an insult. Marrying the daughter of the Hand, who is himself not but a second son."
"I know," Aeonar reiterated. "But mother was already aware and gave us her blessings months ago. And yes, I am certain of my decision. I wish to marry Lady Alicent Hightower. All that is required to move forward with the proceedings is your approval."
Viserys was surprised to hear how his late wife not only knew about their relationship but also approved of it. "My son… You have my permission." It is the least I can do for you as a father if it will make you happy. "I'll speak with Otto later and see what we can do to arrange a royal wedding for you two as tradition demands. Even your grandfather had to arrange a betrothal with Lord Rodrik and my aunt Princess Daella before marrying your mother."
"If that's what duty and protocol dictate."
Viserys nodded in understanding with Aeonar. Now that he knows (yet not surprisingly) of the bride his heir had chosen, preparations would have to begin for a royal wedding - with his Hand of the King, Ser Otto. For quite some time, the king had been longing to learn the identity of the young maiden that captivated his only son - but the pieces slowly came together during the tournament months ago when Viserys noticed how close Aeonar and Alicent had become. They were young, but a union would further strengthen relations.
"Which reminds me," Aeonar spoke up, "I've heard Ser Otto and Lord Strong have already approached you to take a new wife, father."
"Well... that's what was discussed earlier this morning," Viserys awkwardly confirmed. "No one could ever replace your mother. Her absence is a wound that will never heal. Without Aemma, the Red Keep has lost a warmth that I dare say it will never recover." He raised an eyebrow. "What brought this topic up?"
"Because I had an interesting conversation with Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys at around the same time."
"Did they have any concerns? Why not come to me instead?"
"Because the lands of Claw Isle, Driftmark, Sharp Point, and Sweetport Sound are sworn to me. You named me Prince of Dragonstone when I was ten, remember?"
"Ah, of course. How forgetful of me. Well, what did he say?"
"House Velaryon wishes to reconcile with you."
"Oh?"
"He's offered the hand of his daughter, the Lady Laena, in marriage. To unify the two great Valyrian houses in the Seven Kingdoms and demonstrate your reign's strongest days are ahead, not behind. Quite the offer, wouldn't you say?"
Viserys cringed at the notion. "Laena is a child, she only turned what… twelve?" he said as he shook his head. "Still… I'd rather this had been discussed in the Small Council chambers."
Aeonar placed his utensils down. "I'm also a member of your council, father. Advising you in important matters such as this."
"Well... what is your advice, my son?"
"I understand your reservations. But should you choose to consent to the arrangement, it would mend the lingering rift caused by the Great Council and demonstrate your sincerity in retaining the crown's strongest ally. A betrothal with Lord Corlys's daughter would not formally begin until Laena comes of age; so, think of it as a long-term engagement. Besides, it would go a long way at home and abroad."
Viserys hesitated. "Well…" he turned to his daughter. "What do you think, Rhaenyra?" he asked. "I worry what my children would think. I would have imagined you joining with your brother against me marrying anyone else."
"You want my honest opinion?" Rhaenyra replied bluntly. "Driftmark would make a far more valuable ally to have rather than a dangerous enemy. If you want a strategic advantage, then yes, I think you should wed Laena Velaryon. You are the King, and so, your first duty is to the realm. Mother would have understood this. Just as I do."
"You've been given one last opportunity to retain Lord Corlys at your side," Aeonar pressed. "I recommend not squandering it by spurning him again. He is not likely to take any further rejections well this time. House Targaryen's relations with House Velaryon are already strained enough."
To think my children are a man and woman grown that they would counsel me. Oh Aemma, how I wish you were here with me to watch them start a new chapter in their lives. "If… that's what your advice is… what is to be expected of me…"
"It is, Your Grace." Aeonar nodded.
"And by marrying again, I may begin to ensure that we are better defended."
"Against whom?" Rhaenyra inquired.
"Whoever may dare to challenge us," Viserys answered.
"Good," Aeonar nodded. "Now, I've already taken the liberty to arrange a meetup with Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys for you in the courtyard in the coming days. From there, you will spend the next few days away from court intrigue to spend time with Laena Velaryon. Get to know her, understand the benefits of such an arrangement…"
"Already?" Viserys said with surprise.
"Just bear with it for as long as possible."
"Wouldn't be more appropriate to―"
"Deal. With. It." I am doing my duty, father, now you must do yours. Please, for once in your life, make the right decision.
Rhaenyra and Viserys realized it was a calculated move on Aeonar's part. Sure, the age gap was a concern, but it was also a politically strong move as well. Viserys came to realize his son had essentially backed him into a corner, trapping him in a political yet strategic stranglehold.
Haaaaah… if it will not make us estranged again…
Red Keep ― Training courtyard…
In the middle bailey, a growing assembly gathered around two combatants training together. Among those in attendance were King Viserys, Princess Rhaenyra, Ser Otto, Alicent, and the Kingsguard observing an archery round. Arranged with practice dummies set 250 yards away, and a few sets with breastplates and ironclad helmets, it served to simulate almost realistic targets.
Aeonar, donning his dark leather tunic with a shirt of black scales underneath, held his luó in his left hand as he used his right to reach into the quiver strapped to his back and drew one of the many arrows containing specialized armor-piercing tips. Nocking the arrow, the prince drew the bowstring back as far as he could and aimed down sight. Quick feet, fast hands, keen eyesight, deadly precision. "Target on the left... rib cage," he called out.
Releasing his grip on the bowstring, the arrow pierced the armor on the left dummy. An audible thud was heard, followed by a tiny piercing sound. Drawing back with another arrow, the prince aimed again.
Quick feet, fast hands, keen eyesight, deadly precision. "Target on the right... right shoulder, sword arm." Once again releasing, the arrow whistled through the air and hit the dummy. Quick feet, fast hands, keen eyesight, deadly precision. "Left pectoral."
Again, Aeonar released his hold and watched the arrow hit his designated target. Ser Harrold, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, observed from the sidelines as his former apprentice proceeded to hit his mark. Listening to the breastplate giving audible sounds when the arrow tips contacted the surface and the arrows sinking further in, the veteran Kingsguard determined that the arrows used could indeed penetrate a knight's armor.
"Not bad," Ser Harrold said under his breath.
Quick feet, fast hands, keen eyesight, deadly precision. "Target in the middle... shield arm." Loosing another arrow, the object again hit the designated target announced.
"He's pretty good with a bow," Ser Erryk complimented.
"But how will he fare when the enemy gets in too close?" Ser Arryk questioned. "That bow will then become useless in close-quarters combat."
"I suppose we'll find out soon enough when Ser Criston faces him," Ser Steffon theorized.
Quick feet, fast hands, keen eyesight, deadly precision. "Arrow to the throat." Aeonar drew his arrow back, letting it loose to hit the dummy in what would be the equivalent of the human jugular. Reaching into his quiver, he had three arrows remaining – all of them with armor-piercing tips. "All three targets… straight to the eyes."
"I'd love to see you try," Rhaenyra called her brother's bluff. "Do it!"
Accepting his sister's challenge, Aeonar drew out all three of his remaining arrows from his quiver and lined them up along the bowstring. Tilting the luó slightly to the right, Aeonar leaned back and drew the string to its maximum length, exhaling slowly with his eyes locked onto his targets. Quick feet, fast hands, keen eyesight, deadly precision. Then, at the last second, the left and right arrows shifted in between Aeonar's fingers before setting them loose. One by one, the left, middle, and right dummies were hit in the equivalent of a real human being's sockets.
"Holy shit…" Ser Lorent gasped in surprise.
Ser Harrold walked over to remove the arrows from the dummies one by one, though the ones penetrating the breastplate armor proved more resilient. Once removed, the Lord Commander surveyed the damage.
"What's the verdict, Lord Commander?" Viserys inquired.
"The shoulders, if these arrows do indeed hit their mark, it would cause quite an amount of damage to a man's muscle and tissue – they would have a hard time trying to raise their shields or even their swords." Harrold turned to the center mass. "Now here in the chest, I see the arrow managed to pierce all the way through, but if it hits deep enough, you could break the ribs and puncture or cause a man's lung to collapse. And if they aren't medically treated in time, they could potentially suffer a slow agonizing death within minutes." He turned to the eyes of all three dummies. "And here, targeting the eyes would take incredible accuracy from a greater distance. But from this range, the amount of trauma inflicted is much worse. And, unfortunately, you are going to be feeling the pain until you hemorrhage out. It'll be a quick death, but the last thing you'll probably remember is the arrow going through your eye." He turned to the king. "The realm's strongest man would not be able to take an arrow in his head, Your Grace."
Aeonar set the bow down and unstrapped the quiver from his back. "Well? Does that satisfy your curiosity?" he inquired.
"It's an impressive display of marksmanship, my prince," Ser Harrold answered, "but if it comes down to close-quarters combat, how you perform on the battlefield could tip the scale in your favor... or against you. And for that, you will be paired against Ser Criston Cole in a test of arms until one party yields."
"I understand."
Ser Criston, donning the Kingsguard armor and armed with his flail, bowed. "Good luck to you, my prince," he spoke respectfully.
"And to you, Ser Criston," Aeonar replied. Unsheathing his blade from its scabbard, the longsword had a unique design to it; the blade was forged from smooth, silver metal, with its crossguard shaped like a dragon's wings and the pommel in the motif of a dragon's head with ruby eyes. And with the black-coated shield painted with a red three-headed dragon for defense, the prince remained cautious. He had heard Ser Criston defeated his uncle Prince Daemon during the tournament – both at the joust and melee. Despite his training as an assassin, Aeonar had to be cautious.
"Ready?"
"Are you?"
Ser Harrold eyed the two. "Begin!" he ordered.
In an instant, both Aeonar and Ser Criston engaged in close-quarters combat. Many in attendance began to applaud, chant, and cheer – occasionally making bets on who would win. The ball and chain of Criston's flail clanked before it swung in the air, forcing Aeonar to keep his distance. A series of repeated strikes hit by that flail would shatter his shield to pieces and potentially break the bones in his forearm with even one hit if he is not careful. Aeonar would not make the same mistake Daemon did. No, the prince saw how Criston moved and fought – but Criston had not seen him fight.
Both grunted, swords swooshed, and clanking chains whirled through the air. Aeonar and Criston shifted their positions before moving again. The prince angled his shield slightly before thrusting his blade, only for it to get caught in the flail's chain which wrapped itself around the blade. Seeing his opportunity, Ser Criston pulled Aeonar in close for a headbutt before kicking him in the torso. The prince quickly recovered and shook it off. Readying himself again for another move, Aeonar swung and flashed – however, Criston dodged and swung his flail again. Seeing the attack coming, the prince quickly raised his shield to block – but the flail shattered the upper corner.
Aeonar quickly composed himself but was forced to drop the shield. That was fine, of course, it was merely slowing him down. Resuming the Knight's Dance fighting style, it was a stance Criston recognized when he was an ordinary foot soldier. Both combatants circled the arena, sizing up the other before Criston swung the flail forward. Aeonar, anticipating it, quickly spun around to smack the flail – though the sword got caught in the chains. Criston twirled the flail down and snapped the blade in half. Aeonar backed up before performing an acrobatic aerial cartwheel to create enough distance.
Do not count me out just yet.
Now his secret weapon came into play.
Reaching behind him to his leather belt, Aeonar swiftly unveiled two 16-inch daggers held in each hand. Each was distinctive for its deeply curved, double-edged blade. Now dual-wielding two weapons in a reverse grip and employing a sideways stand, Aeonar's fighting style changed yet again into one that was unfamiliar to Westerosi natives. This stance favors using greater agility to dodge or deflect incoming attacks. But now the prince would have to get closer to deliver such strikes. If he can disarm his opponent of his flail, then the duel is over. As such, both Aeonar and Criston were back to square one.
"Well, this changes things," Ser Erryk commented.
Criston began the next phase by swinging the flail in an overhead strike to the left, but Aeonar easily side-steps to the right; Criston again moved to hurl the flail to the left, but the prince again avoids the spiked ball and chain by strafing in the opposite direction. The attendees observed Aeonar was moving much faster now, easily dancing circles around Criston. The Kingsguard moved to swing from left to right in center mass, but the prince jumped back. Preparing for another overhead strike, Ser Criston took one step forward, but Aeonar quickly sidestepped again and dropped to the ground to perform a sweep kick, knocking his opponent off his feet.
"Ugh!" Criston fell on his back with a thud.
Quick feet, fast hands, keen eyesight, deadly precision.
Aeonar then rose to his feet and performed a triple back walkover to create a safe distance and readied himself to attack or defend again. This allowed Criston to get back to his feet, shrugging his shoulders and retaining his hold on the flail. It was evident his opponent was skilled, utilizing techniques that are not native to the Seven Kingdoms. Aeonar did not fight as aggressively as Daemon did, instead the attacks were swifter and calculated. He would have to keep his guard up. The chains clanked again with Criston moving to confront Aeonar, ball and chain missing and occasionally colliding with one of the two daggers the prince wielded. As the flail bounced off, Aeonar twirled the dagger in his left to ensnare the chain and swiped it away before moving in close.
Quick feet, fast hands, keen eyesight, deadly precision.
Criston moved back to avoid the thrust and slash, realizing these peculiar double-edged daggers were a multi-purpose weapon designed for slashing, stabbing, and cutting. One mistake could cost him the match. If he could snap them with the flail just as he did to Aeonar's sword and shield, then Criston would bring an end to the duel. But the prince would not make it any easier on the Kingsguard knight. Aeonar moved in close with both blades in each hand to deliver a flurry of strikes forcing Criston on the defense before the Kingsguard ducked sideways to use the flail's chain to sweep Aeonar's legs out from under him.
Aeonar landed on his back but quickly recovered with a kip-up from a supine position. Again, he was back on his feet and ready for more. When Criston swung the flail overhead, Aeonar ducked and performed a somersault kick. The prince's kick made contact with Criston's chin and the Kingsguard stumbled back, suddenly feeling dizzy and disoriented. While Criston felt his world spinning, he heard five rapid footsteps approach and momentarily regained consciousness to see Aeonar deliver a flying kick to his chest. The force of the impact knocked Criston to the ground before the Kingsguard felt something heavy on his chest. Looking up, he could see Aeonar sitting on him with the dagger in his right hand pressed against his throat while he used the other in his left to point the tip of the blade at his wrist.
"Wh-What the…?" Ser Arryk stood stunned in disbelief.
Criston, once his surroundings stopped spinning, realized the prince had him right where he wanted and raised his hands in submission. "I yield," he conceded.
"Who would have thought Prince Aeonar would defeat the man who bested Prince Daemon?" one of the spectators commented.
He's changed so much. Ser Harrold observed. But I have trained you since you were a small boy, Aeonar. I know that distinct gleam in your eyes, like that of a predator stalking its prey. Do not let your darkest nature consume you. This is not who you are. I know it.
Aeonar then got off Criston and offered him his hand, which the Kingsguard accepted.
"Well done, my prince," Criston brushed his shoulders. "You'll win tourneys in no time."
"Perhaps. Time will tell," Aeonar dismissed.
"Where did you learn to move like that?"
"Nah uh uh. That would be telling."
Once the crowds dispersed, Aeonar stayed behind to assist Ser Criston to place the weapons away. The prince strapped the bow and quiver to his back and sheathed his daggers in the scabbard behind his belt. He examined the broken sword but was not concerned overall.
"I'll have the smiths get you a new one," Criston offered.
"I appreciate it, Ser Criston," Aeonar said. "Until then, I'll stick with the bow and daggers. The longsword is a reliable weapon, but it is practically useless in close-quarters… especially if you find yourself in such a confined space. Daggers, on the other hand, are much faster on the draw and need less space."
"You served in battle too?"
"No, but I was trained to fight if war were to ever break out."
"Then those moves from before…?"
"Were not of Westerosi origins, no. Ser Harrold didn't teach me that."
"The Lord Commander?"
"Yes, Ser Harrold was the one who trained me in the art of combat. That's what you've seen me display when the match started." Aeonar glanced over his shoulder. "I've read your dossier, Ser Criston. How you came to be."
Criston wiped his brow. "Yes, my prince. Your sister… I mean, the princess, once said you collected a… frightening amount of information on me." He slightly stammered. "You were… what was it, Whispers?"
"Whisperers," Aeonar corrected. "I am the king's Master of Whisperers and Lord Confessor." I understand you are new to this, Ser Criston, so it is only natural for you to ask such questions. "And when you've been raised at court as the king's heir, your outlook changes."
"What do you mean?"
"Being heir to the Iron Throne is more than being a courtier. It involves a keen understanding of politics, the ebb and flow of influence. My ancestors refer to it as 'the game of thrones' – a source of intrigue where a sharp mind can be sharper than any blade or often as fatal as poison. The best way to learn how to play is to immerse yourself in it. It is what I have known since I was ten years old. Best learn while you're still young."
"But what, exactly, does a… Master of Whisperers do? You never spoke about it in detail."
"What do you think? The king always has enemies – not always in public, but from within the shadows. And there are those at court who will seek to use him for their gain. I protected him and the crown's interests. I watched, had an ear at every door, identified threats, and if necessary, dealt with them. My agents are everywhere. They are my eyes and ears and my blade. That is what a spymaster does. I manage situations that can't normally be resolved through diplomacy."
"Sounds rather shady… if not dishonorable."
"To an outsider, it would seem that way. But that's how the world works." Aeonar lowered his head and narrowed his eyes. "And this 'integrity' will one day prove invaluable in building my regime."
Criston looked surprised. "My prince? What are you…?" he inquired.
"Under my great-grandfather's rule, peace and prosperity have been allowed to flourish. But my father's leadership is flawed. Unlike the Old King, his inconsistencies and inaction threaten to bring the House of the Dragon to ruin. When I'm king, I will create a new order modeled upon the old." Aeonar picked up his bow and aimed down sight at the same dummy he hit earlier. "So, I intend to aim for the top."
Releasing the bowstring, Aeonar watched as the arrow plunged straight between the dummy's head. Ser Criston observed the prince staring off into the distance, almost uncertain as to what path the Seven Kingdoms will take if Aeonar Targaryen ascends the Iron Throne.