Creak—
The door closed from the outside. Aegon wore a smug expression as he lightly stepped through the corridor.
Aegon was already awake—no wailing or furious outbursts as one might expect. He simply leaned against the bed, lost in some unknown contemplation.
Finding it dull to stay any longer, Aemond slipped out, intending to head to the Dragonpit.
As for the consequences of his actions—would there be punishment?
Aemond paused in his steps, glanced back disdainfully, and sneered, "I have a dragon. Father and Mother aren't in King's Landing. Who can punish me?"
"Boy, you think you can escape? Take your punishment like a man!"
Rhaegar's lips curled into a cold smirk, his tone dripping with menace.
The sun had yet to set. The burning clouds of dusk, like summer's crimson blooms, painted the sky behind them.
Aemond was utterly miserable, staring dizzily at his older brother, who appeared upside down in his vision.
He hadn't even managed to sneak out of the Red Keep before the Kingsguard had caught him.
"You discipline Aegon and then run to the Dragonpit for refuge? Are you underestimating me?"
Rhaegar stood with his arms crossed, gazing at his younger brother, whose head dangled downward as he hung from a gallows.
He couldn't understand—how did Aemond have the nerve to run to the Dragonpit?
At that moment, three freshly constructed gallows stood in the courtyard of the Red Keep, lined up side by side.
It was a place where crowds often gathered, and many people whispered among themselves as they observed the scene.
Aemond's face was deathly pale. His legs were bound, and his body dangled in the air, suspended between two ragged, lifeless corpses.
Rhaegar bent down, gripping Aemond's chin, and turned his face toward the two bodies. "Look at them. They died because of you. Any thoughts?"
"Such a waste. I had a whole bag of gold dragons saved up, and now no one can spend it," Aemond muttered, his face flushed red, mourning his lost money pouch.
Smack!
Rhaegar smacked him across the head in disgust. "Your money and everything in that pouch have been confiscated. I said so."
"Aegon snitched?" Aemond winced from the pain, baring his teeth.
"Not him. If it were, you wouldn't have even found the secret passage entrance."
Rhaegar shook his head, gripping Aemond's chin again, his disappointment evident. "Aemond, disciplining Aegon is between the two of you. Honestly, I'd have been quite happy to see you knock his sword out of his hand and then pummel him into the ground with your fists."
Aemond: "…"
Smack!
Rhaegar delivered another slap, his eyes cold. "But you're a coward. You bribed two lowborns to ambush Aegon—an utterly disgraceful way to retaliate against your own brother."
When Tormund reported this to him, Rhaegar had been momentarily stunned.
He hadn't expected Aemond to be so reckless—to the point of hiring thugs just to act tough.
"I… mmph—"
Aemond tried to argue, but a filthy rag, torn from one of the corpses, was shoved into his mouth.
Rhaegar straightened, brushing the dust from his hands, then wiped them off on Aemond's tunic.
"Your Highness, how should we handle this?"
Kingsguard Lorent stood beside him, his bald head and piercing gaze making for an intimidating presence.
Rhaegar gave Aemond a push, setting him spinning in midair. With a sigh, he said, "Leave him hanging until this time tomorrow. Give him water every now and then."
"Mmph! I need to pee—"
Aemond flailed violently, mumbling through the gag.
Lorent turned to the prince for further instructions.
Rhaegar rolled his eyes. "Forget the water. He can handle it himself."
A week passed in the blink of an eye.
Inside Maegor's Holdfast, in the council chamber.
The hall was empty. Rhaegar, dressed in plain white robes, sat at the head of the table, quill in hand, filling out a list.
A circular porcelain plate was embedded at the center of the wooden table, holding six differently colored stone spheres—a sign that a six-person meeting had just concluded.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
A rhythmic set of footsteps echoed down the corridor. A graceful silhouette appeared in the open doorway.
"Rhaegar, the meeting is over."
Rhaenyra leaned against the doorframe, pouting in dissatisfaction.
She wore a black corset gown today, her makeup subtle and refined. Her long silver hair was neatly tied back, exuding both elegance and authority.
Rhaegar paused his writing, brushing aside strands of silver-gold hair that had fallen over his eyes. With feigned exhaustion, he said, "Believe me, I wouldn't stay here if I had a choice."
"So, royal duties have tied you down, keeping you from flying with me?"
Rhaenyra's face remained emotionless as she gestured to Ser Steffon and Ser Lorent, who stood guard at the entrance.
The two white-cloaked knights nodded in understanding and silently stepped away.
Now alone with Rhaegar, Rhaenyra's brows furrowed in anger as she stormed closer. "Do you realize we haven't seen each other in four days?"
"Uh…"
Rhaegar blinked innocently. "But I feel like you're always with me."
"Enough nonsense!"
Rhaenyra glared at him, snatching a few opened letters from the table and skimming through them.
Though she had no interest in ruling, she figured if she didn't help ease his burdens, she might end up a widow far sooner than expected.
Rhaegar returned to his writing, a small smile playing on his lips. "No need to read that one. It's from the Citadel in Oldtown. They're electing a new Grand Maester."
Following Maester Marwyn's death, the court needed a replacement.
"You talk too much."
Rhaenyra bit down on her silver teeth in frustration and stomped on his foot.
Rhaegar let out a pained grunt and wisely shut his mouth.
Rhaenyra rolled her eyes and continued reading.
In the election list of the Citadel, Orwyle was the first to be selected, followed by several other knowledgeable elders.
At the end of the list, as an apology for Maelor's dereliction of duty, the Citadel sent an additional young scholar to serve as a record-keeping maester, splitting some of the Grand Maester's original responsibilities.
Rhaenyra furrowed her brows slightly and asked curiously, "A separate record-keeping maester? That feels a bit odd."
Rhaegar, without looking up, replied, "The Citadel harbors hostility toward our family's dragons. Orwyle won't obey them, so they're just using another excuse."
A clumsy maneuver—disgusting.
If the Citadel weren't so influential, and if Westerosi nobles didn't rely on maesters for counsel, he would have mounted Devourer and burned it all to the ground with dragonfire.
Rhaenyra raised her gaze in surprise, a flicker of light flashing in her violet eyes.
She had to admit, their father had good judgment—Rhaegar had always been more politically astute than she was.
Amused by a sudden thought, Rhaenyra covered her mouth to stifle a laugh and picked up another letter to read.
A dragon-riding excursion seemed unlikely today, so she might as well stay and assist with governance.
Glancing at the sender's name, she saw it was signed "Siryu Freyr."
Rhaegar continued writing swiftly, multitasking as he said, "The letter confirms that Daemon has indeed been raiding ships in the Stepstones, which could incite war."
After a moment of contemplation, he added indifferently, "Read the next one. It's from a Red Priestess in Volantis, describing the legend of the Red Comet. She's requesting permission to cross the Narrow Sea to spread R'hllor's faith in Westeros."
He had a vague idea of Daemon's intentions—using war as an excuse to seize territory beyond the Narrow Sea.
To be honest, it wasn't a bad idea, but timing was key.
When he had the chance, he would ask their father to give their dear uncle a warning.
The Red Priestess's letter, however, had some value. At the very least, it clarified that the so-called "red shooting star" was actually known as the Red Comet, which could stir fluctuations in magical tides.
According to her, the Red Comet only appeared once every few centuries.
The last time it had been seen was before the Doom of Valyria.
Now that it had returned, magic was rising again—but its fluctuations were highly unstable, sometimes surging and sometimes ebbing.
The Red Priestess warned him to be prepared and suggested allowing R'hllor's faith to take root in Westeros, so that the Crown and the Church could face the coming unknown together.
Rhaenyra read the letter carefully, a solemn look flashing in her violet eyes.
She didn't fully understand terms like "Red Comet" or "magical tides," but she did understand one thing—magic was tied to dragons.
When magic thrived, dragons endured.
When magic waned, dragons perished.
"We can't let R'hllor's faith spread in Westeros. It's too dangerous," Rhaenyra said uneasily.
"I already rejected the request," Rhaegar responded bluntly. "But I did agree to let Siryu bring her over for a visit."
Even the old High Priest of the Red Temple had failed to predict the fluctuations of magical tides, so a lesser-trained Red Priestess was even less reliable.
Still, there was value in a conversation—they might be able to exchange knowledge about the tides of magic.
"Well done." Rhaenyra smiled.
Rhaegar smirked and finished writing the final page of the ledger, then cheered, "Finally done!"
Kicking his heels against the floor, his chair creaked as it slid back. He stretched lazily and asked offhandedly, "What about Aemond?"
"He left this morning. He was waiting for you to see him off, but someone was too busy buried in paperwork," Rhaenyra teased, lifting the freshly completed ledger with a smirk.
Rhaegar nodded, propping his legs up on the conference table and closing his eyes for a brief rest.
Aemond had chosen to betroth himself to Cassandra and had officially set off to escort his fiancée back to Storm's End.
Rhaenyra scanned the ledger and read aloud, "Reclamation of barren lands within the Crownlands—allocation of 300 oxen, 1,000 wooden plows…"
After a moment, she looked surprised. "Didn't we already reclaim 3,000 acres last year to support over a thousand tenant farmers?"
"The treasury already made a withdrawal. We can't just stop at 3,000 acres—we have to continue the effort each year," Rhaegar explained matter-of-factly.
There was still a vast amount of undeveloped land in the Crownlands, especially around King's Landing—mountains, wetlands, and unused fields.
The Master of Laws, Otto, had taken the lead in recruiting over 2,000 impoverished people from Flea Bottom to clear a stretch of land near the capital.
A considerable amount of money and food had been withdrawn from the treasury for the project.
Fortunately, the results were promising—the royal family had gained 3,000 acres of decent farmland, sustaining over a thousand laborers who had worked from start to finish.
Rhaegar had decided to double down, continuing land reclamation to relocate more of King's Landing's destitute population.
Rhaenyra frowned slightly and murmured, "But last year, we ran out of surplus grain. All of it was used to feed the laborers. The treasury barely broke even."
"Self-sufficiency is a good thing."
Rhaegar remained unfazed and continued in an orderly tone, "Think long-term. In three to five years, the royal family will own tens of thousands of acres of farmland producing grain."
The land and climate in the Crownlands were favorable. A hundred thousand acres of cultivated fields could produce enough food to sustain an army of 5,000 soldiers.
Pop!
Before Rhaegar even opened his eyes, something soft and warm brushed against his cheek.
Before he could react, a pair of toned legs, clad in black trousers, straddled his waist, pinning him down effortlessly.
Looking up, he saw Rhaenyra's breathtakingly beautiful face, her smile teasing as she gazed at him.
Rhaegar adjusted his posture and looked at her expectantly.
"Father is too cruel to you—he's off enjoying himself while you're stuck here working," Rhaenyra murmured, leaning closer as her long, silver hair cascaded down.
Rhaegar tucked a stray lock behind her ear and sighed. "Father is just giving me time to adapt to power. But yes, he's certainly having too much fun."
He understood his father's intentions—giving him ample time to grow into his responsibilities.
After visiting Maidenpool, his father had taken Alicent on a dragon flight to Harrenhal, where, according to reports, he had spent three straight days lounging in the hot springs of the Isle of Faces.
Rhaegar was both exhausted and envious.
Pop!
Another kiss landed, this time at the corner of his lips. Rhaegar rather liked these rewards.
Rhaenyra's eyes sparkled as she leaned in even closer, her breath warm against his skin. "You owe me some time together today."
"It would be my honor." Rhaegar's voice was low and magnetic as he instinctively wrapped an arm around her waist.
Their twin silver-haired reflections drew closer in the stained-glass window, nearly merging as one.
Bang! Bang!
A loud knock shattered the moment, followed by an excited young girl's voice:
"Princess! My dragon egg hatched!"
Two dark-skinned girls rushed into the council chamber, each cradling a dragon egg.
The two figures in the chair quickly pulled apart, a thin thread of warmth lingering between them.
"Next time, don't bring up Helena. Your two adopted daughters also have a great sense of timing."
Rhaegar's hazy eyes suddenly became clear as he teased with a complaint.
"Get lost!"
Rhaenyra's cheeks were slightly flushed with anger. She attempted to dismount, but a pair of large hands stopped her.
"Rhaegar."
Rhaenyra raised an elegant eyebrow, her beautiful eyes flashing a warning.
Rhaegar playfully winked and pretended not to hear her.
Having no other choice, Rhaenyra straightened her posture, forced a smile, and asked, "Have your dragon eggs hatched?"
Banylla and Rhaenia stood by the meeting table, watching their cousin and adoptive mother with curiosity.
Hearing the key question, Banylla eagerly nodded her small head and said excitedly, "Look! My dragon egg has cracked."
She held a pale green dragon egg in her hands. The eggshell, covered in scale-like patterns, had started to fracture, revealing a thin layer of pinkish-white membrane.
Through this membrane, a small shadow could be seen wriggling inside, struggling against the barrier that separated it from the outside world.
Pop!
At that moment, a tiny green head burst through the weakened shell. Its amber-colored, slit-pupil eyes blinked as it looked around in confusion.
Under the gaze of those present, the baby dragon slowly broke free from its shell, squeezing its entire body out.
Its body was covered in pale green scales, adorned with a pearl-colored miniature crown of horns, and its wings were veiled in a moon-white membrane.
"Hisss~ Gaaah~~"
The newborn dragon tumbled and crawled onto Banylla's head, raising its tiny head high as it let out its very first cry.
Banylla was overjoyed. She carefully cupped her hands around the dragon and announced excitedly, "My dragon has hatched! Its name is Moon Dance."
(End of Chapter)