Chapter: the Realms choice
The ink had barely dried on the royal decree when the Red Keep's rookery burst into motion. Hundreds of ravens, each bound with the seal of House Targaryen three-headed dragon in crimson wax beat their wings into the gray morning sky. They carried the same message to every corner of the Seven Kingdoms.
King Viserys had decreed it:
Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, by virtue of birth and wisdom beyond his years, is henceforth granted full lordship and autonomous rule over Dragonstone, Driftmark, and Claw Isle. The Maesters of the Citadel are forbidden from conducting further studies on dragon physiology or control, their prior knowledge deemed crown property. The prince's word in matters of dragonkind shall be binding, second only to the King himself.
What began as ink and wax in the Red Keep became whispers, doubts, and fury carried on the wind.
Lord Rickon Stark received the raven in the great hall of Winterfell. The hall smelled of pine and smoke, banners stirring faintly in the draft. A steward handed him the scroll; he broke the seal and read it slowly, lips tightening only once before tossing it to his maester.
"Dragonstone this, Dragonstone that," Rickon muttered, settling back into his chair. "None of that nonsense crosses the Neck."
The maester hesitated. "Your Grace, it does speak of great changes in"
"I said it touches not the North," Rickon interrupted. "Let the dragons tear their own wings if they wish. So long as our hearths burn warm, I care not for their fire."
And that was all. The North, cold and distant, turned its face away.
In the airy halls of the Eyrie, the regent of young Jyne Arryn gathered his council. Lord Yohn Royce, broad and hard as the Vale's stone itself, stood with the scroll in hand. His bronze armor gleamed in the firelight.
"This is madness," he said, voice heavy with disbelief. "A boy of ten granted dominion over dragons, and the Citadel forbidden from studying them? Has the King gone soft, or has the boy's mother whispered him blind?"
A murmur rose among the assembled lords.
One old knight cleared his throat. "Still, my lord, the boy's mother is an Arryn by blood. It would look poorly on the Vale to speak against one of its own."
Royce's jaw tightened, then he gave a curt nod. "True enough. Blood binds us, even when reason protests. We shall support the King's decree for the Lady Aemma's sake, and the Vale's honor. But Seven save us if this boy grows to wield dragons like toys."
The council agreed in uneasy silence.
Lord Grover Tully sat in his solar, the fire dying low, the parchment trembling faintly in his wrinkled hands. He had ruled the Riverlands through two kings' reigns, watched floods and wars come and go yet never had he read such words.
"A child," he said aloud, his voice dry. "A child now holds the same authority as I."
His nephew Elmo shifted awkwardly. "The King must see wisdom in the boy, uncle."
Grover snorted. "Or madness in himself. The Riverlands have bled too many times for the games of dragons. Let us hope this boy's playpen does not spill into our fields."
Still, he affixed his seal to a letter pledging loyalty to the crown with a sigh that carried the weight of old men who had seen too much folly from the Iron Throne.
Far to the west, Lord Jason Lannister read the decree over a goblet of wine and laughed.
"Ha! So the boy rules Dragonstone now?" He passed the parchment to his twin brother, Tyland. "Tell me, does the King still sit the throne, or does he polish the boy's boots?"
Tyland smirked. "Perhaps both. The crown grows soft. When dragons start dictating laws, men cease to matter."
Jason leaned back, gold glinting in the firelight. "Good. Let them weaken themselves. The Rock endures it always does."
He raised his cup. "To the madness of kings and the arrogance of dragons."
Their laughter echoed down the gilded halls of Casterly Rock.
In Highgarden's perfumed halls, Lord Lyonel Tyrell's council read the decree in silence. The Hightower men among them frowned, whispering of hubris and rebellion.
One of the older knights finally said, "The Maesters will not stand for this. Nor will Oldtown."
But the Tyrell steward, a lean and cautious man, replied, "Perhaps. Yet let us not forget what happened to the Gardeners when they resisted Aegon the Conqueror. The Tyrells bloomed in their ashes because they bent the knee. Perhaps bending once more is wiser than burning."
Nods all around. The Reach had long memories and they remembered fire.
Lord Borros Baratheon slammed the parchment down on the table, his heavy hand splashing ale.
"So," he barked, "a woman was not fit to rule, but a child is?"
The lords gathered around exchanged uneasy glances. Everyone knew the barb was aimed at Princess Rhaenys Targaryen Velaryon the Queen Who Never Was his own .
Borros sneered. "Let the boy play king of Dragonstone. When dragons rule children, the realm grows brittle."
Still, his loyalty to House Velaryon and through them, to the crown held his hand. The raven flew back from Storm's End carrying words of feigned support, dipped in sarcasm.
In the gray halls of the Citadel, the Maesters gathered beneath the glass candles. Archmaester Vaegon, his face lost beneath silver links, read the decree aloud.
The study of dragons, their lore, and their blood shall cease under penalty of treason.
Silence. Then murmurs of outrage filled the hall.
"This is an affront to knowledge itself," hissed Archmaester Orwyle. "A child decrees what scholars may study?" another spat. "The boy knows nothing of science only superstition and fire."
Vaegon raised a thin hand. "And yet, the crown commands it. We obey, or we are silenced."
But beneath their obedience burned resentment. The Maesters had long distrusted dragonlords — and now, a boy's decree had bound their hands.
In the Hightower, Lord Hobert Hightower read the same decree with a calm face that fooled none. His son, standing by the window, watched the harbor glow in the dying light.
"So," Hobert said slowly, "the King yields more power to his son and bans the Citadel's work. That will not sit well with Oldtown."
His sons lips curved in a thin smile. "No. But it weakens him and weak kings make way for clever men."
Hobert nodded. "Our time will come. The realm forgets that faith and knowledge outlast dragons."
And beneath the tower's shining light, the first shadows of rebellion lengthened.
As ravens returned from every corner of the realm, the Red Keep's rookery filled with replies. Some were formal pledges of loyalty, others laced with veiled sarcasm.
Viserys read only a few before handing the rest to his council. He looked tired too tired. Across the table, Otto Hightower's face was stone, but his mind burned with quiet fury.
A child's decree had rattled the order of Westeros. A father's weakness had made it possible.
And though the ink was dry, the game had only begun.