YEAR 116 AC
The Riverlands ― Crossroads Inn…
Rhaenyra and Ser Criston had strolled down the kingsroad within the Riverlands for the past four months after ending her visit to the Twins. She hated having to do things she didn't like; her father pressuring her to get married, word reaching her that her stepmother Beatrice had finally given birth two months ago to another half-sibling – a baby girl they named Helaena, her brother and childhood best friend touring the realm together… so many lords vied for her hand in marriage, wanting to take her away from the only home Rhaenyra had ever known and strip her of her royal titles. But what more could she possibly do? Where Viserys had demanded one thing from her, Aeonar, however, gave her four options to choose from: the king arranges a suitable match for her, he gets a suitor for her, she finds a potential match of her own volition worthy of a princess of her station, or… she could refuse altogether but be left with absolutely nothing to her name, no support, forever a social outcast, a disgrace to the royal family.
Long before any man had reason to doubt her innocence, the question of selecting a suitable consort for Rhaenyra had been of concern to King Viserys and his council. Great lords and dashing knights fluttered around her like moths around a flame, vying for her favor. She was flattered, of course, but Rhaenyra did not find any of them attractive nor could she see any benefits they proposed to her. Stopping with Ser Criston to rest at the Crossroads Inn, Rhaenyra unpacked her belongings and set them beside her. However, even then, that didn't stop curious onlookers and eager minor lords in the area from noticing her.
"Can I get you anything, princess?" an innkeeper asked.
Rhaenyra sighed. "Whatever ale you have is strong," she requested.
"I can offer some brown ale if you'd like, princess."
"Yes, please."
The innkeeper left to fetch some brown ale for Rhaenyra and Criston. Upon returning and setting them down on the table, she left the two alone. Rhaenyra, detesting the search for a suitor, merely grasped the goblet and didn't hesitate to take a big gulp. Not used to the acquired taste or alcohol content, she couldn't hold it down and began choking.
"Um, princess?" Criston looked concerned. "I… I think you might want to slow down a bit."
"*Ack!* *Ack!* I think after what I've had to endure at the Twins― *Ack!* *Ack!* I think I'm entitled to at least blow off some steam, Ser Criston," Rhaenyra coughed. The memory of a younger son of House Frey, Ser Forrest, made so bold as to ask openly for her hand. He was thereafter referred to as 'Fool Frey' for his directness. "Fool Frey. Huh! Who does he think he is, thinking of himself as an equal to me?"
"Reckless, I agree. Disrespectful. But you must admit he didn't beat around the bush as some of the nobles did. Like Lord Jason, for example."
"That's… hah, a fair point. How… how much more do we have left?"
"Well, we still have the Stormlands to go to. Lord Boremund already has some of his bannermen at Storm's End, as well as a few river lords who unfortunately couldn't meet us at the Twins."
"Storm's End, huh?"
Criston nodded. "Yes, princess," he confirmed. "And don't worry. I'm from the Stormlands so I know the region like the back of my hand. If we continue on this route," he points to the map, "through the Gate of the Gods, and resupply in King's Landing before going past the Mud Gate, we should reach the Bronzegate which is directly above Storm's End." I wonder if father or Lord Dondarrion will be there. It would be nice to see them again. They'll be proud of me once they see me in the white cloak.
Rhaenyra hummed. "You seem lost in thought, Ser Criston," she raised an eyebrow teasingly. "Thinking of your homeland recently?" she asked.
"Oh, sorry. It's just… I haven't set foot in the Stormlands since being appointed to the Kingsguard. It'll be nice to see everyone again."
"Any siblings back home?"
Criston shook his head. "No, princess," he replied. "I'm an only child. My mother passed on a few years back. It's just been me and my father at Blackhaven."
"Oh. Then… I suppose I went a little too far by being intrusive."
"Oh no, no, no. It's all right. You were simply curious. I think it was only fair since I asked about you during the grand hunt."
Rhaenyra rolled her eyes. "Yes, before everything happened, it was just me and my brother Aeonar. I give him a tough time, yes, but I do love him, nonetheless." She drank more of her ale. "*Ack!* *Ack!* Still, I'd rather prefer someone I know instead of a complete outsider."
"You mean the Queen?" Criston inquired.
"Her too."
"I heard she had a daughter not too long ago."
"Helaena is what I'm told my half-sister's name is." Not that any of it concerns me. Rhaenyra looked down at her plate. "Not sure what the staff here in the inn serve, but the food is good. You should try some, Criston. Fills you up."
Criston glanced at his plate. "It's a lot better than what most of us in the garrison normally get back home," he agreed. Digging his fork into a piece of lamb, he ate the piece of meat before swallowing it. "Aah! Before the commander assigned us on a patrol run along the Dornish Marches, we had to hunt for our food since we couldn't wait another few weeks for more rations to come in. Mountain goats, snakes, lizards, bugs… whatever we could find, we had to catch it and cook it fast before another Dornish incursion."
"Was life in the Dornish Marches that bad?"
"Rockslides, cave-ins, outlaws, Dornish ambush units… It had its difficulties, but it helped get the rest of us prepared for anything. Otherwise, we wouldn't have lasted on the frontlines as long as we did."
Rhaenyra placed a hand under her chin, leaning in with intrigue. "Surely there must be more interesting stories as a foot soldier," she implied.
Criston, oblivious to the princess's gaze, merely scratched the back of his head. "Oh, I'm sure I have some more interesting tales somewhere. There was this one time when we―" he noticed a hedge knight approaching. Instinctively, he rose from his seat calmly. "State your business, ser. You approach the princess," he warned.
"Ser Oswald Wode," he introduced himself. "I bring a message for Princess Rhaenyra of House Targaryen," he handed a sealed scroll before leaning in. "It's from the Young Dragon, ser," he whispered.
"'The Young Dragon'… you mean Prince Aeonar?" Criston whispered inquisitively.
"I figured that'd get your attention. Anyway, the instructions said to give it directly to her."
Criston eyed Oswald cautiously, still on high alert. Slowly reaching his hand, the Kingsguard took the letter. As he watched the river knight turn to leave, Criston sat back down. "Pardon me, princess," he said. "But I was told to give you this," he presented the letter.
Rhaenyra looked at it. "What for?" she asked.
"It's from your brother."
"My brother?" Rhaenyra's ears perked. Breaking the wax seal, she opened the letter and traced each wording with her eyes. This was Aeonar's handwriting. She recognized it anywhere.
"Rhaenyra,
I pray this message finds you well. If you are reading this, then Alicent
and I have already left the Vale and continued with our royal progress
in the Reach.
House Tyrell was generous enough to accommodate our needs during
our stay in Highgarden. I wish you could have seen it. Lush, green,
agricultural fields as far as the eye can see and pleasure boats sailing
along the Mander. We'll try to send over some freshly picked fruits before
they spoil. The only problem I had was that there were too many flowers
and vines everywhere. Turns out I'm allergic to lavender.
We later stopped in Oldtown to visit Alicent's relatives in the Hightower.
The seat, not the family. Be sure to pay attention! Anyway, Lord Hobert
has offered to have Jaehaerys fostered in Oldtown once he was old
enough. We haven't made an official decision, but only said we'd think
about it. I'm sure you know well enough to notice what he's suggesting.
Lady Lynesse is doing well, as is her son, Ser Ormund. Although not as
large as King's Landing itself, Oldtown remains the oldest city in the
realm dating back to the First Men. Once our business at the Citadel
and morning prayers in the Starry Sept have concluded, our next stop
will be at Horn Hill.
Afterward, we will be returning to Dragonstone for a moment's
respite.
Before we part, remember the most important thing. If you've come
this far on your tour of the realm, then maybe you'll go a little further.
There are those who will seek to use their position for their benefit,
but keep in mind to do that they'll have to go through me first. You are
a princess of House Targaryen, but you are my sister first and foremost.
I love you. Even if you are still a pain in my ass.
And one more thing: stop sending us risqué drawings!
Respectfully yours,
Aeonar Targaryen · Prince of Dragonstone"
Rhaenyra nearly chuckled at the last part. But overall, she loved that her brother was staying connected with her and was emotionally moved when Aeonar told her how much she meant to him, how he loved her despite giving him a tough time growing up. She loved her brother dearly, yet often felt a pang of jealousy when he talked about his travels. Rhaenyra wished she were there with him and Alicent. Maybe one day when all this is over. "Always finding ways to make me feel better," she remarked.
"Good things?" Criston asked curiously.
"In a way, Criston, but… yes. Good things." Rhaenyra finished her plate and drank her ale more steadily this time. "Now, I think it's time we get things underway, wouldn't you agree?" As she rose from her seat, she left behind a generous tip.
"As you command, princess."
The Stormlands ― Bronzegate…
A month and seven days had passed since leaving the Crossroads Inn, resupplying at King's Landing, and making another ride on horseback to their next destination: Storm's End. But Rhaenyra and Criston had arrived in the Stormlands, stopping to take a break and admire the view in front of them. The seat of House Baratheon and regional capital of the Stormlands, Storm's End is one of the mightiest fortresses on the entire continent that has endured many sieges but has never fallen to any attacker in its millennia-long history. Its seaward wall is eighty feet thick with a 150-foot drop into the sea below. The castle is said to be protected by spells woven into its walls that prevent magic from penetrating its defenses.
"So… this is it," Rhaenyra admired the view.
Criston nodded. "Storm's End," he said. "And it looks like we have some company along the main road," he pointed further down the kingsroad.
"Ugh! I should have expected it. More of them want to seek my hand in marriage. Hah… ah well, let's proceed. We wouldn't want to keep Lord Baratheon waiting," Rhaenyra shook her head and saddled onward with Criston following closely behind. Once they stopped at Bronzegate, the seat of Buckler, both gave a moment to rest and feed their horses. Rhaenyra dismounted and groomed her horse, gently brushing its mane.
"Rhaenyra?" a familiar voice called out.
Rhaenyra's ears perked up and turned in the direction of the person calling out to her. To her surprise, it was Alicent along with an entourage of maids and Jaehaerys. But there was something different about her as well. It wasn't too long before Rhaenyra realized the size of Alicent's belly before she embraced her tightly. "Alicent! You're pregnant again?" she asked almost excitedly.
Alicent, though groaning from being hugged too tight, could help but reciprocate and nod. "Yes," she smiled. "Ngh! C-Can you please let me go? I can't breathe…" Once she felt her sister-in-law's hug loosen, Alicent slowly inhaled and exhaled. "I'm… almost five months along now." She motioned for one of her maids carrying Jaehaerys. "Jay, sweetling, can you say hi to auntie Rhaenie?" she beckoned.
"Ga… ge- n-ñāmar (aunt)," Jaehaerys reached his tiny hands out.
"'Rhaenie'?" Rhaenyra raised her eyebrows with amusement. "Is that what you're having him call me?" she shook her head and poked her nephew's cheek. "And he already knows that word?" she poked again.
"Bits and pieces, but so far yes. Aeonar says it's easy for a child to learn another language if they're introduced to it this early. I honestly don't understand it myself sometimes."
"Yeah, that would be for the best. High Valyrian is not an easy language to learn."
Alicent noticed Criston. "Good morning, Ser Criston," she greeted.
"Good morning, my lady," Criston acknowledged. His eyes glanced to see Vaelor near Storm's End watching passersby and often hissing a warning at those who dared get too close to the dragon. "I take it Prince Aeonar is also with you?" he inquired.
"Yes. We just concluded our business in Horn Hill. He said he wanted to pay his respects to Lord Boremund before we head home." Alicent massaged her growing belly. "I think this baby has much to do with it lately, Rhaenyra. It's becoming exhausting to move around, my feet hurt from standing longer than I should, and on top of it, my emotions are running all over the place. So we'll be wrapping things up here. I take it things have been going well?"
Rhaenyra frowned. "You're seriously asking me that?" she scoffed.
Alicent blinked. "I… guess I'll take that as a 'no' then," she said wearily. "Try to hold on just a little bit longer. You only have two months left and that's it."
"Yes, and if I don't find myself a proper husband then I'll be in an even worse position."
"Don't lose hope, Rhaenyra. You still have us."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence." The princess turned to Storm's End. She noticed Aeonar speaking with Boremund. "Shall we?"
Alicent nodded. "Yes. Let's be on our way."
Storm's End ― Main hall…
Seven hells, how I wish to not be here! Rhaenyra felt herself getting increasingly frustrated. So many suitors, but none of them were appealing. All were merely making their cases on why they should be chosen as her suitor, seeing only her beauty and not what lies beneath the surface. They only see her as a broodmare to produce children. Father, brother… why are you making me do this? Twirling her Valyrian steel necklace in her fingers, Rhaenyra sighed and adjusted herself while another lord stepped forward, ignoring what he said initially.
"…the wall Blackhaven are unscalable vassalstone. And the castle is surrounded by a deep, dry moat. It is well fortified against any future Dornish incursions," chuckled Beric Dondarrion. The son and successor of the late Lord Simon, the elderly Beric was among the large group of suitors who have come to Storm's End to ask Rhaenyra's hand. "And though my seat may be lesser in size, it is situated most pleasingly." He cleared his throat, groaning as he poured himself a cup of wine.
Rhaenyra and Criston looked at each other. "Your father's the steward for this man?" she whispered.
"Yes, princess," the Kingsguard confirmed silently. "Lord Dondarrion has guarded my family well, though he often likes to talk."
Aeonar stood between Alicent and Rhaenyra, with Steffon and Erryk guarding the steps leading to the Storm Throne whereas Criston remained at Rhaenyra's left side. Lord Boremund, on the other hand, sat beside Alicent and closely monitored the extensive line of suitors. Although they were guests in his hall, he would not tolerate any who behaved irrationally.
"The view across the Marches is inspiring, so said Queen Alysanne herself when she honored my father and I―"
"And tell me, Lord Dondarrion," Rhaenyra interrupted, "did you think my great-grandmother as beautiful as they say?" she inquired.
Beric adjusted his collar. "This was half a century ago, princess," he answered.
"Yes, it was."
The crowd laughed. But Aeonar, Alicent, and Boremund, however, did not find Rhaenyra's rudeness at all entertaining.
"Rhaenyra, you promised to behave," Alicent quietly scolded her.
"That was unseemly, princess," Boremund agreed.
Rhaenyra scoffed. "Please, Lord Baratheon. The man is older than my father. It's unseemly for him to put himself forward as a contender for my hand― OW!" she winced as she felt Aeonar pinching her cheeks.
"Shut. Up," Aeonar reprimanded her silently. He was clearly in no mood for childish games.
"Next!" Boremund called out.
Feeling humiliated, Dondarrion begrudgingly stepped aside. Another potential suitor came forward. To Rhaenyra's surprise, this one looked quite underaged. The youth wore a gray silk outfit with a red collar around his neck depicting three black ravens on each side. Giving a bow, he composed himself.
He can't be more than fourteen years old. "Willem Blackwood of Raventree Hall," Aeonar spoke, "you have the honor of presenting your case next. Please explain to us in exact detail what you have to offer to Princess Rhaenyra of House Targaryen and why you think you are a more suitable match for her."
"O-Of course, my prince," Willem said nervously.
"A child?" Rhaenyra looked bewildered.
Boremund leaned in close. "The Blackwoods are an ancient house with a formidable army. In the Riverlands, they once ruled as kings. The blood of the First Men still flows in their veins," he explained. "Go on," he instructed the lad.
"Y-Yes, my lord." Willem turned to Rhaenyra. "My princess… ours is a bond that has long endured, since Lucas Blackwood, the grandfather of my grandfather, aided Aegon the Conqueror in his war of conquest―"
"Aye, the Blackwoods truly turned the tide on that one," Jarrel taunted, causing laughter.
Aeonar glared at the group, quickly silencing them. Ah, of course. A red stallion on a gold field, the Brackens of Stone Hedge. It was no secret that House Blackwood and House Bracken shared an ancient rivalry when they competed against each other for control of the Riverlands when it was an independent kingdom centuries ago. The enmity and competition continued to this day and increased greatly when House Bracken converted to the Faith of the Seven whereas House Blackwood refused to surrender its worship to the Old Gods of the Forest. "Ser Jarrel Bracken, remember where you are," he warned sternly. The threatening look in his eye was enough to silence the main hall. "Continue."
Willem nodded but struggled to compose himself after enduring such insults from a Bracken. "Coursed with the blood of the First Men, our history is deeply rooted in this land," he continued, "which your house has made its home. If chosen as your match, princess… your days shall be easy and nights safe under my protection."
Rhaenyra waved him off. Feeling rejected, Willem walked away. "I could learn to like that Bracken," she mentioned with amusement.
"If he remembers to mind his manners in Lord Boremund's hall, he'd best learn to hold his tongue next time," Aeonar shook his head.
"Ugh, let us have the next so we may go to supper."
"Bah! Why wait for supper when we can have our own festivities *Hic!* within my father's hall!" Borros stumbled into the main hall. In contrast to his stoic, hard, and stern father, the heir to Storm's End was more temperamental, belligerent, and illiterate and placed what serves his own interests before loyalty. And judging by his wobbly, uneven posture, Borros was drunk. "We're all here for the glory of taking the princess to wife and *Hic!* get her popping out one heir after another, so why bother *Hic!* hiding it behind words that don't make sense?"
There was an audible gasp.
"E-Excuse me?!" Rhaenyra said in an offended tone.
"Boy!" Boremund rose sharply from his seat. "Shut your cockhole this instance! You speak before His Grace's children!"
Aeonar's gaze slowly turned to Borros. "Ser Borros Baratheon," he spoke authoritatively, "I highly advise you apologize to my sister at once for your drunken misconduct."
"Speak in words that make sense, prince! *Hic!* Mis-what? *Hic!*"
"This is your last warning. Apologize to Rhaenyra, or else…"
"Borros, apologize to House Targaryen this instant!" Boremund shouted again.
Gossip was being murmured throughout Storm's End. Those close to Aeonar could feel the intense heat emanating from him, his pale lilac eyes burning into the drunkard standing before him. Rhaenyra and Alicent could see the Young Dragon was growing increasingly angry.
"Or what? *Hic!*" Borros dared drunkenly, very much in his cups. "You gonna― *Hic!* You're going to feed me to your dragon? *Hic!* While we're on the topic of… of babymakin', *Hic!* why not start with your pretty one," he pointed at Alicent. "Womb's gettin' pretty big there! *Hic!* How many times ye gotta fuck her until― *Hic!* until she grows all fat and swollen with child? *Hic!* All I know is it took me one try with my wife to get her pregnant! *Hic!* Has your wife's tits gotten any bigger? Or were they ruined by all the nursin'? *Hic!*"
"How dare you!" one spectator shouted.
"You're speaking about the Young Dragon's consort, you drunk bastard!" another exclaimed.
Alicent was shocked. She was being made fun of for being a pregnant woman and crude comments were directed at her. She felt so humiliated! No matter how hard she tried to calm down, Alicent felt her eyes watering and bit her trembling lip.
That's it, you drunk bastard! No one insults Rhaenyra and hurts Alicent and gets away with it! "Lord Boremund," Aeonar said in a frighteningly calm tone, "I fear your son has forgotten his place. Perhaps he needs to be reminded," he turned to Borros. "I gave you plenty of chances to withdraw your filthy remarks, but instead you doubled down." He stepped down to approach him. "Borros Baratheon, you are like a slobbering dog at a bone. You insult your princess, your future queen, you insult my very house." He spoke firmly. "Such insolence cannot be forgiven, nor can it be forgotten. As such, I hereby sentence you to trial by combat."
Shock echoed through the halls once again.
"Borros, you dumb cunt!" Boremund reprimanded his son harshly.
"Hahaha!" Borros bellowed in laughter. "Now we're talking!" He wobbled to compose himself. "So… who's it going to be?" He turned to Steffon. "Feelin' lucky to take me on, Darklyn?" He turned to Erryk. "Maybe your luck will hold out?" He then turned to Criston. "Or will the Dornish bastard try against me again? I've been meaning to get you back for what you did at the tourney a couple of years ago."
Criston readied himself, eagerly waiting for the word to be given.
"Aye," Aeonar noticed. "I have no doubt that Ser Criston is more than capable of putting you into the dirt again," he redirected his focus. "But it's me you'll fight."
"What?!" Rhaenyra stood. "Brother, you can't be serious!"
"Aeonar, please!" Alicent struggled to contain her emotions, reeling from the humiliation. "L-Let's just go home!" she pleaded. Jaehaerys started to cry.
"Outside. NOW," Aeonar pointed to the courtyard.
Storm's End ― Courtyard…
What was supposed to be a tour seeking a potential suitor turned into a derogatory insult that soon escalated into a trial by combat between Aeonar Targaryen and Borros Baratheon. As is customary of law and justice in Westeros, a trial by combat serves as a means by which an accused party can prove their innocence or be condemned in the eyes of the gods if they fail. For slighting the royal family, Borros fought to prove his innocence.
Aeonar studied his adversary. He knew that well-trained, healthy Baratheon men in their prime were among some of the most powerful warriors in the Seven Kingdoms. The Young Dragon understood that he would sustain heavy damage if struck in combat. So even though he remains confident in his abilities, Aeonar still must be cautious when dealing with a physically stronger opponent. However, he had a few specific advantages over Borros: not only was he faster and had a strategic approach to fighting, but Borros was too intoxicated, his senses were impaired, was more belligerent than his father Lord Boremund which made his movements more predictable, and it was easy for him to make a mistake. If he can debilitate Borros to yield, then he would win and take him out of the duel before it even begins. But if he refuses to surrender, then House Baratheon ends with him as Borros only had four daughters.
"I wouldn't have pissed off my brother if I were you, Baratheon," Rhaenyra taunted.
Criston noticed yet couldn't help but smirk. "I've seen him fight before. You've no idea what you're clearly getting into," he echoed.
"You two aren't helping!" Steffon scolded.
Aeonar unsheathes the two daggers from his back horizontal sheath, flipping them in his fingers several times. "It was Lord Commander Ser Harrold Westerling who taught me how to fight. But it was the Lykirī Mēre's art of assassination that made me what I am today."
Borros, his breastplate barely hanging off, swerved from side to side with a sword in hand. "Still forgetting that― *hic!* it's because of us that we won Storm's End from― *hic!* the Storm Kings." He slurred. "I'll… crush you like all the― *hic!* others!"
"Sheathe that steel, you twat!" Boremund demanded angrily.
Borros drunkenly raises his sword to a fighting posture. He moves to strike at Aeonar who quickly sidesteps and parries the attack. Borros attacks again and Aeonar sidesteps once more, dodging multiple strikes, and parries while tucking his legs to perform a side-flip technique.
"Hmmah! Stand still!" Borros shouted angrily.
The Young Dragon strikes at Borros and hits his hand causing the Baratheon to flinch and lose his two-handed grip on his sword. Borros stumbles before regaining his composure and starts to circle Aeonar who is waiting for an attack with his hands behind his back. Borros strikes and Aeonar sidesteps left and right, spinning around and stabbing behind his back before ducking down to a crouching position to avoid an overhead swing from Borros's blade and sweeping his right leg 180 degrees to kick Borros's legs out from under him, sending him to the ground.
"Oompf!"
Before Borros could get back up, Aeonar quickly pins him down and puts his dagger near his neck.
"Enough!" Boremund interfered. He leaned down to retrieve Borros. "Stupid boy!"
Aeonar shook his head. "You're not even worth killing," he said with contempt. Even if he didn't get the confession he planned for, the Young Dragon was certain he would get the results he wanted in the end.
"Due to outside interference, Ser Borros Baratheon hereby loses the duel," Ser Steffon declared, "Prince Aeonar of House Targaryen is declared the victor. Let it be known that those who disrespect the royal family, as well as their consorts, will be punished accordingly."
"Ser Steffon, Ser Erryk," Aeonar called out. "Take my wife and son back to Dragonstone. I'll be with you shortly." As he watched them escort Alicent and Jaehaerys away, he turned back to the gathered assembly. "It seems that some among you have mistaken peace for complacency. My great-grandfather, the Old King, spent 60 years of his reign creating an unprecedented era of peace, prosperity, stability, and justice. And this is how we repay him? This is how we honor his legacy? By spitting in our faces? It's just disrespectful, my lords. So here's a reminder."
A faint rumbling was heard. As they looked up, Vaelor crawled over the ramparts and hissed, baring his teeth in an aggressive manner. "*Grrrrrrrr!*"
"When I first started my royal progress, I began by listening to the concerns among our lords paramount and their bannermen. The people of the Seven Kingdoms are like children. They grow and excel if properly taken care of. But those who misbehave like entitled brats will be punished accordingly." Aeonar glanced up at Vaelor, who lowered his head low enough. "House Targaryen unified each of the individual kingdoms into a single realm. Those who bent the knee to our ancestors were permitted to keep their lands and titles to be inherited by their sons and their sons after them. So if any of you have concerns, please speak it now."
Silence.
"No one? Good. Then that's settled. Now… I want no more of this petty unruly behavior. So don't give me a reason to come back again." Aeonar then climbed aboard Vaelor and strapped himself in. "Have a pleasant day, my lords. Enjoy the rest of your evening." He patted his dragon three times. "Māzīs, Valor. Sōvēs. (Come, Vaelor. Fly.)"
"*Raaaaaaaaaaah!*"
Beating his wings, Vaelor took to the skies and flew over Storm's End, through Shipbreaker Bay, and over the Narrow Sea. Once the Swiftrunner was out of sight, Rhaenyra couldn't take her eyes off her brother's dragon. "I've got to know how he does that. Command with respect and intimidate unruly men," she uttered under her breath. Still, what that Baratheon bastard said really upset Alicent and Jay. "We're leaving," she announced. "Send word to the harbor and have Captain Oswin ready the ship."
"Now?" Criston stammered. "But princess, we're due in Bitterbridge in three days' time."
"I would happily row myself back to King's Landing if it brought an end to this ridiculous pageant." And leave the unwanted rabble to scurry about unchecked.