Chapter: The Decree
The solar was quiet save for the hiss of logs shifting in the hearth. Shadows stretched long across the walls, the flicker of firelight carving strange shapes across the carved beams above. King Viserys sat hunched at his table, one hand curled about his cup of wine, though he had not drunk from it. His eyes had grown tired in recent years, dulled by the weight of rule and the endless petitions of men who always wanted more.And yet the boy before him was not a petitioner, nor a lord. He was his son.
Rhaegar stood very still, his small hands folded neatly in front of him, the pale light of the hearth catching in his silver hair. He was only ten, yet his gaze was steady, unblinking, and heavy with something that unsettled the king.
"Father," the boy asked, his voice soft but clear, "do you trust me? Even if I am but ten days older now?"
The words struck like a sudden gust. Viserys blinked, unsure he had heard rightly. "What is this, Rhaegar?"
"Answer me." The boy's tone did not waver. "Do you trust me?"
Viserys' mouth opened, closed. He saw not a child then, but remembered another time, another voice. He had been younger than he was now, newly named heir, sitting in the shadow of the old king. Jaehaerys the Conciliator, his grandsire, had leaned close and spoken words that had never left him.
"If ever one of ours shows fire young, do not bind them. The blood of the Fourteen Flames burns brightest in childhood. Daenys was but a girl when she dreamt the Doom. Aenys was scarcely grown when Balerion first bore him. If a child of ours dares more than their years, let them. For sometimes the gods set fire in the smallest kindling."
Viserys drew in a slow breath. The memory was sharp now, as if Jaehaerys stood once more beside him.
"Why ask me this?" he said at last, voice low. "You are but a boy."
"A boy, yes," Rhaegar replied, his violet eyes unblinking. "But a Targaryen boy. And the blood of Old Valyria does not wait for years to ripen. It burns when it will. Do you trust me, Father?"
The king's throat tightened. He saw himself reflected in those eyes, but harder, sharper, as if tempered by some hidden flame. "I… I trust you, Rhaegar. Gods help me, I do."
The boy gave a small nod, as though confirming a fact he already knew.
"Then hear me," Rhaegar said.
Viserys straightened. "What is it you want?"
"I want independence," Rhaegar said, each word clean and deliberate. "Complete independence for Dragonstone. No lord, no maester, no councillor shall tell me how to tend it. I will answer only to the king to you. Not to the Small Council."
Viserys frowned. "That will rouse suspicion. The lords will whisper of division within House Targaryen. The council will say"
"Let them whisper," Rhaegar cut in, his voice firm. "Words cannot harm dragons. Fear and respect are twins, Father. Better they whisper in awe than laugh in scorn."
The king shifted in his chair. "And Driftmark? Claw Isle?"
"They must be vassals of Dragonstone," Rhaegar replied without hesitation. "The sea is a crown of its own, and it must circle Dragonstone, not King's Landing. Driftmark will comply Lord Corlys courts our favor too hungrily to resist. Celtigar of Claw Isle is weaker still. Bind them now, while they think you pliant."
Viserys rubbed his temples. "This is too much. You are a child."
"I am your son," Rhaegar countered. "And one day, your heir. Would you rather I come to you with empty hands and empty thoughts? Would you rather I smile and bow to men like Otto Hightower, who would leash dragons with ink and chains of law?"
Viserys flinched at the name. Rhaegar saw it and pressed on.
"You are the king. But you let them bind you with counsel, with parchment, with fears of what the realm may think. Tell me, Father did Aegon the Conqueror ask the realm's leave when he set his dragons upon it? Did Maegor ask leave of the Faith before he built the Red Keep? Did even Jaehaerys, conciliator though he was, ask leave when he stitched the realm together with marriages of his own design?"
The boy's small fists clenched. "They acted. And the realm bent. That is what it means to be Targaryen."
Silence filled the solar. Only the fire crackled. Viserys stared at his son, feeling old and worn, and yet stirred by something he had not felt in years the sting of truth.
"You speak boldly," he murmured.
"I speak plainly," Rhaegar replied. "Give me Dragonstone. Free it from their hands. And watch the realm learn again who rules.
Viserys' gaze shifted toward the carved bed where the box lay hidden. The weight of its contents the pact, the letters, the truths long buried pressed on him even when unseen.
"What lies in that box," he whispered, "could unmake the realm."
"Or save it," Rhaegar said simply. "If you trust me."
The boy walked to the bed, pressed his fingers against the carving, and a soft click echoed. The hidden compartment opened once more. With practiced ease, Rhaegar slid the box inside, closed the latch, and stepped back.
"Hide it well, Father. None must know of it until the time is right."
Viserys felt the air grow heavier. "And now?"
"Now I go to Mother and to Rhaenyra," Rhaegar answered. "If I do not, they will kill me if I'm late than this."
Viserys studied him, this boy who spoke like a man grown. He nodded slowly. "Go then."
Rhaegar bowed his head slightly, then turned and slipped from the chamber. The door closed with a soft thud, leaving Viserys alone with the silence, the fire, and the hidden weight beneath his bed.
For a long while he sat unmoving. His hand drifted to the crown on the table, fingers brushing the gold. He thought of Aemma, of Rhaenyra, of Daemon. He thought of the council, their endless voices clamoring in his ears, binding him in chains of caution and compromise.
"Do not bind the fire".
Jaehaerys' words rang in him once more. He closed his eyes and drew a steady breath. Then he lifted his head, and for the first time in years, there was steel in his gaze.
"Summon the Small Council," he said to the attendant beyond the door. His voice was calm, firm. "At once."
They came quickly, drawn by the urgency of the summons. Otto Hightower arrived first, his face pale and sharp as a blade, every movement precise. Behind him came Lord Lyonel Strong, heavyset, thoughtful, eyes watchful. Beesbury shuffled in next, muttering to himself, spectacles fogged. The Grand Maester followed, robes whispering, eager for answers. Ser Harrold Westerling brought the weight of the Kingsguard, white cloak flowing. Daemon, of course, came last, sauntering in with a faint smirk as if the chamber itself were a stage for his amusement.
They gathered about the table. The king sat waiting, crown upon his brow, eyes shadowed by the firelight.
Otto was the first to speak. "Your Grace," he said smoothly, "this summons is most sudden. We had thought to convene tomorrow regarding… the matter of Cannibal." His eyes flicked sideways. "And your son."
"Yes," Lyonel rumbled. "If it please Your Grace, we must understand what has happened. The boy's safety, the safety of the dragons"
"The prince is reckless," Otto pressed. "He must be guided, contained. Already whispers spread. A dragon like that"
"Enough," Viserys said, his voice low.
The words stilled them.
Otto recovered first. "Your Grace, I mean only to say"
"I said enough," Viserys cut him, sharper this time. His hand struck the table, the sound ringing through the solar. "I did not summon you for counsel."
The chamber fell silent. Even Daemon tilted his head, brows raised. Otto's mouth tightened, color rising in his cheeks. Beesbury blinked owlishly; the Grand Maester lowered his eyes.
Viserys rose slowly, the crown catching the firelight. His voice shook at first, but grew firmer with each word.
"You are not here to advise me. You are here because the crown has a decree to deliver."
The words hung heavy in the air.
Otto finally found his tongue. "A decree, Your Grace? Without counsel? Forgive me, but"
Viserys' eyes burned. "I am the king. You will listen."
Daemon's chuckle broke the silence, soft and amused. "Well, well. The dragon shows claws at last."
Otto shot him a glare, but said nothing.
Viserys' gaze swept them all, one by one. "Dragonstone will be made independent of this council's meddling. Driftmark and Claw Isle shall answer to Dragonstone as vassals. And henceforth, no maester shall study dragons save by the king's leave."
The words crashed upon them like a wave. Beesbury sputtered. Lyonel's brows knit. The Grand Maester blanched. Otto's jaw clenched so tightly the tendons in his neck strained.Daemon only smiled wider.
"It is done," Viserys said, voice hard. "The crown has spoken."
The chamber was silent but for the hiss of the hearth. The councillors stared, shocked and still. And for the first time in many years, the crown upon Viserys' brow gleamed as if newly forged.
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