The late morning sun filtered through the high windows of the Tower of the Hand, casting long streaks of light upon the polished floor. A stillness hung in the air, tense and waiting, as King Jaehaerys Targaryen, the first of his name, set down the letter.
The wax seal of House Baratheon lay cracked beside his plate, and his fingers lingered on the parchment as if weighing the truth of the words.
He exhaled slowly, eyes closing for a breath. Then, with deliberate calm, he raised his gaze to the small council gathered before him.
Jaehaerys's voice, when it came, was quiet, but filled with the weight of iron and fire.
"I have always valued peace," he said, his voice firm, "not from cowardice, nor weakness, but because I know the face of war. I have seen the cost it demands. I have smelled the burned flesh, heard the screams that linger long after the swords have fallen silent."
He paused, letting the silence settle over them like a heavy cloak.
"That is why they call me the Conciliator." He looked down at the table, and then back to each of them in turn, his violet eyes sharp now, cutting through the chamber. "But perhaps they forget what blood runs in our veins. Perhaps they forget that beneath peace… lives the fire."
A faint flicker of emotion crossed Aemon's face, and a slow breath escaped Septon Barth.
The king's voice rose, stronger now, ringing with finality.
"Then let them remember."
He turned his gaze to Prince Aemon.
"Let House Velaryon prepare the fleet. Corlys will take the sea, and he will strike first."
He paused, then locked eyes with his son.
"And you, Aemon… you will ride Caraxes. You will remind the Free Cities what it means to rouse the wrath of the dragons. Let them see you descend from the sky in flame and steel. Let them know who holds the sky above Westeros."
Alysanne's breath caught, and her hand moved subtly, instinctively, toward her son. Her voice, soft but sure, followed.
"He is my son… and the heir to the realm."
Jaehaerys turned to her then. His face, so often serene, was a mask of tempered steel.
"And he must be more than that. He must be seen. In their eyes, in their fears. A crown is not kept by love alone, but by strength. This is the hour for Aemon to etch his place not just in line, but in history."
Aemon gave a short nod, no smile on his lips. He bowed slightly to his father.
"I will ride, Your Grace. Caraxes and I are ready."
Jaehaerys shifted his attention to the aged Lord Beesbury, who had already drawn forth a ledger.
"You will oversee the war expenditure, Lord Beesbury. I want our coffers bled wisely, gold in the right hands, not spilled across the sea."
"Of course, Your Grace," Beesbury replied. "The treasury will bear it."
Jaehaerys stood slowly, the King in full. Light shone on the silver thread in his hair. His voice was now final, the hammer stroke at the end of the forge.
"Two months. That is all. I want the ports retaken and the pirates burned. Let the Essosi look westward and see fire. Let them speak of dragons, and tremble."
No one spoke. They rose as one, bowing low, and began to file out of the chamber, each man and woman off to fulfill their command.
Alysanne lingered a moment longer. She did not speak again, but as she passed her husband, she placed her hand gently on his.
Jaehaerys closed his eyes only briefly.
The peace was ending.
And the sky would burn.
The afternoon sun bore down on the Red Keep's training yard, heat clinging to the sweat-slicked skin of the two princes. Dust rose beneath their boots, scattered by swift movement, parries, and the sharp clack of wood striking wood.
"What are you thinking, brother?" Daemon grunted as he lunged, his wooden sword cutting the air with speed.
Aegon didn't answer immediately, his eyes narrowed, body pivoting on instinct. The blow came, and he caught it clean with his own blade. With a sharp twist and flick of his wrist, Daemon's guard opened, and Aegon's strike landed flat against his ribs.
"Fuck…" Daemon hissed, stumbling back a step. "Why is your skill so damn strong when all you do is bury yourself in books?"
Aegon exhaled, calm and unhurried. "Wisdom, brother," he said with a slight smirk, "is the edge that dulls the blade of recklessness."
Daemon scowled, teeth clenched as he charged again, but Aegon was already moving.
He pivoted, sidestepped, and delivered two quick blows, one to the shoulder, another to the leg.
The clash of wooden blades rang like bells in the courtyard.
Around them, retainers and guards had gathered, half their duties forgotten. Even a few knights paused their routines, eyes drawn by the display.
It wasn't every day that both princes dueled, and fewer still had ever seen swordplay like Aegon's. Controlled, efficient, elegant.
Daemon's strikes were passionate, fast, fierce, yet they were met and turned away each time.
Aegon knew why.
It was the weapon handling effect of max level [Knight's Squire] class. Every movement, every instinct was refined beyond what even some grown knights could boast.
"Fuck," Daemon muttered, stumbling back and dropping his sword with a loud clatter. "I can't even beat my little brother anymore, and you're three years younger."
Aegon wiped a bead of sweat from his brow and walked over, offering a hand.
"Yes," he said with a half-smile, "but I don't think anyone else here could beat you. Except me."
Daemon let out a short, frustrated laugh and took the hand, rising to his feet. "I want to go to war," he said, throwing the training sword to a waiting servant. "Ride out with Uncle Aemon. Put those Myrish bastards' heads on pikes in the Stepstones."
Aegon's expression turned thoughtful. "Guarding the city is important too," he replied. "Someone needs to watch the shadows while the others chase glory in the fire."
Daemon narrowed his eyes but didn't argue. Ever since their investigation into the mysterious rumors, and the strange enemy that had not surfaced again, he had returned to the City Watch.
Though restless, Daemon knew the importance, even if he wouldn't admit it aloud.
Aegon suddenly felt a presence. He turned.
Rhaenys stood on the balcony overlooking the yard, her long silver hair catching the breeze, her expression unreadable. He gave her a small, knowing smile.
"It's Rhaenys," Daemon muttered, noticing. His voice had a hard edge to it.
Aegon said nothing.
"Well then, brother," Daemon continued, brushing sweat from his face and heading for the courtyard gate, "I'm off to patrol the city. Keep your sword sharp."
He didn't look back as he walked away, his boots crunching the gravel with every step.
Daemon had never forgiven Rhaenys, not since she had bonded with Meleys, the dragon their mother once rode.
It had stung his pride in ways he never admitted.
Aegon watched him go, then turned to unbuckle his training armor.
The corridor was quiet, sunlight filtering through tall windows and casting golden lines across the polished stone floor. The Red Keep felt almost peaceful, at odds with the war raging across the narrow sea.
"You are quite the fighter, cousin," Rhaenys said, her voice soft but clear as she approached, her presence poised as ever.
Aegon turned, a hint of pride on his face. "Yup," he replied, allowing himself the smallest boastful grin. "Even Daemon can't keep up anymore."
Rhaenys chuckled lightly, but the laughter didn't reach her eyes. There was a quiet strain there, worry that couldn't be hidden behind courtly grace.
Her father and husband were both away, locked in battle on foreign waters, steel flashing in the Stepstones while she remained in the keep, waiting.
Her hand drifted gently to her belly, cradling it instinctively.
"So… have you decided on the name?" Aegon asked, trying to keep the tone casual as they walked slowly side by side.
Rhaenys's lips curved into a warm smile, eyes softening as her fingers traced the curve of her belly. "Not yet. We spoke of names before he left… but nothing final. I think I'll know when I see the child."
Aegon nodded. He smiled, but his throat felt dry.
The moment she had announced her pregnancy, public, radiant, loved, he'd felt something stir and settle bitter in his chest.
But he was mentally old enough not to let it bother him.
"The child will be strong," he said instead. "With your blood."
She touched his arm gently, thankful, but didn't speak for a long moment.
They talked a little longer, the way people do when time slows around grief and worry.
Old childhood memories. Dragons. Daemon's sulking. The absurdity of court politics.
Rhaenys laughed a little more freely by the end, though a shadow lingered in her eyes.
As they parted, Aegon bowed his head slightly, offering her a quiet farewell.
He walked back to his chambers with a steady step, though his thoughts weren't still. Tonight was important. Meditation awaited.
The final hours needed to unlock the [Mental Adept] class were slowly building, and every breath brought him closer.
As the door to his room closed behind him with a soft click, he sat cross-legged on his bed once more. The light dimmed. The world narrowed.
He cleared his thoughts.
Focused on the silence.
A windless hush settled over the darkened cove, broken only by the crash of distant waves against jagged rock.
Within the caves, once used by smugglers, now transformed into a makeshift war-camp, firelight flickered off damp stone walls.
The air smelled of salt, pitch, and sweat. Shadowed figures hunched around a long driftwood table, weapons within reach, eyes sharp.
A heavy silence reigned until one of the pirates finally spoke, his voice hoarse with fear.
"Commander… how long can we hide?"
He was younger, his beard still patchy, but his eyes betrayed the desperation of a man who had seen dragons in the sky.
"We will die if we face the dragonlord."
Around the fire, murmurs rippled. Someone spat on the stone floor. Another clenched his dagger tighter.
The pirate commander sat in the center, cloaked in a dark, salt-stained coat, his scarred fingers tapping the table in slow rhythm. He looked up, eyes reflecting the fire like molten iron.
"Who is it…Commander?" the younger pirate asked again.
The commander's voice was low, flat.
"Aemon Targaryen. Rider of Caraxes."
A chill passed through the group.
"The Blood Wyrm..." muttered one man, his voice barely above a whisper.
Another slammed his fist against the stone. "You saw what happened at sea. That beast boiled the waters! Burned three of our ships like they were driftwood."
But the commander didn't flinch.
"He is a man," he said coldly, standing now, his boots scraping on the stone. "And men can bleed."
"Aye, but arrows rarely touch him!" the younger pirate insisted. "The bastard's in armor, and the beast shields him like a mother hen."
The commander raised a hand, silencing them.
"Then we don't strike him in the sky. We strike when he sleeps. When he pisses. When he thinks himself safe."
He leaned forward into the firelight, the burn-scar across his cheek catching the glow.
"A sword in the dark will kill a king the same as a peasant."
A murmur of agreement now. Not enthusiasm, just grim resolve.
He turned to one of the silent men standing behind him.
"Send a raven to our brothers in Tarth. Tell them the dragon must not fly again. Not from the sky.
Not from the sea. We'll clip his wings while he walks the earth."
A nod. The man vanished into the shadows beyond the fire.
The pirate leader's eyes narrowed. He turned back to the others.
"We are not some broken rebels. We are exiles, yes, but we are sons of Myr, and this is our war. Tarth was only the beginning."
He drew a dagger and drove it into the map spread across the table, right into the heart of Westeros.
"Let the dragon come."
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