The Red Keep was always quiet during the day.
Especially Maegor's Holdfast.
The tower named after "Maegor the Cruel" was the tallest building in the Red Keep. It was also a true castle within a castle. It was said that Maegor had lived here in his time, looking out over King's Landing from these windows, gazing down at his subjects whom he would burn and kill whenever he wished. Seventy years later, Maegor's ashes were stored in the crypts of the Red Keep, but the tower he built remained.
Aegon the Second sat in a chair on the balcony, holding Jaehaera in his arms.
The midday sun was warm, making one drowsy. Jaehaera was already asleep, her small face buried in his embrace, occasionally pursing her lips as if tasting something sweet in her dreams.
Aegon looked at her.
Jaehaera. His first child. A daughter. He had hoped for a son. Every king wants his firstborn to be a son. But when the fragile little thing was placed in his arms, all thoughts of heirs vanished. She was so small. So soft. So quiet. She did not need to do anything—just lie in his arms—and he would do anything for her.
Aegon's fingers lightly touched her cheek. Soft as freshly peeled eggs.
"Jaehaera," he said quietly. "Do you know that you have an uncle named Aemond?"
Of course Jaehaera did not know. She simply continued sleeping.
Aegon smiled and continued. "He is far better than your father. He can ride two dragons, fight, kill. Unlike your father... I can only drink. I can only hide."
He paused. "But Father will protect you."
At that moment, his daughter Jaehaera opened her wet violet eyes and looked at Aegon, and with her little hand grabbed his finger.
Aegon was stunned. He looked at that little hand, those five tiny fingers gripping his index finger tightly. His eyes grew a little hot.
"Your Grace."
Aelinor's voice came from behind.
Aegon looked up.
Aelinor stood at the balcony door, beside her a middle-aged maester in a grey robe. This maester was very thin, very tall, with black hair, brown eyes, and an ordinary face that could not be more ordinary. On his shoulder stood a raven. Blackfeather, with red eyes, looked at Aegon, head tilted.
Aegon's first reaction was that the bird was ugly. His second was that the maester looked uglier than the bird.
"Your Grace," Queen Aelinor introduced. "This is the new Grand Maester, Maester Norren. He has come from the Citadel in Oldtown to take up the post."
Maester Norren stepped forward and bowed deeply. He spoke slowly. "Your Grace, I wish you all the best."
Aegon the Second nodded. "Enter."
The new Maester Norren approached the balcony. He stood in the sun, head slightly bowed, his deep brown eyes watching Aegon the Second. Aegon held the child, wore a loose robe, his hair uncombed, his beard unshaven, lounging lazily in the chair.
It seems exactly as described, Norren thought. King Aegon, the puppet overshadowed by Aemond.
Maester Norren looked away, raised his head, and said respectfully. "Your Grace, I have come by order of the Citadel. In the future, I shall draft documents, record meetings, and offer counsel to Your Grace. I shall also endeavor to share Your Grace's burdens. If Your Grace is displeased with me, you may send a letter to the Citadel, and another will come to replace me."
Aegon looked at him and said quietly. "What is your name?"
"Norren. Your Grace may call me Norren."
"Norren." Aegon repeated. "Then what is your raven's name?"
Maester Norren was momentarily taken aback, then answered. "Crow."
Aegon the Second grumbled. "Crow? To be honest, that bird looks very much like you. Both are ugly."
Maester Norren was silent a moment. Then he bowed slightly. "Thank you, Your Grace, for your splendid praise of me."
The raven tilted its head and let out a hoarse "Caw."
Aegon was amused. "You maesters—you are somewhat interesting."
Maester Norren had no time to reply.
In the distance, a roar came from the sky. The sound was low and deep, like muffled thunder rising from the depths of the earth. It penetrated walls, windows, and human bones, gently shaking the flower pots on the balcony.
Jaehaera woke. She opened her wet eyes, her little mouth pouted, and she nearly cried.
Aegon the Second quickly lifted his daughter and gently rocked her. "Don't cry, don't cry—it's only a dragon..."
Queen Aelinor stepped onto the balcony and looked at the sky.
"Vhagar." She breathed.
Aegon the Second also looked up.
At the edge of the sky, a vast black shadow rose, followed by a younger dragon.
Vhagar. The oldest surviving dragon in Westeros, over one hundred and fifty feet long, its wingspan blotting out sky and sun. Its grey-green scales glowed with a dull golden sheen in the sun, and each beat of its wings raised a gust of wind. It flew northeast, its bearing calm.
Slightly behind and to the side, another dragon followed close.
Lothron. Black-scaled, far smaller than Vhagar, only fifteen meters long, but flying fast and agile as a hunting eagle. This was Aemond's second dragon.
The two dragons flew farther and farther, gradually becoming two small black dots, and finally vanished into the sky.
Maester Norren stood on the balcony, watching the two disappearing specks, and spoke with something like emotion in his voice.
"The largest dragon in the Seven Kingdoms today. Prince Aemond is truly powerful."
Aegon was displeased and snorted softly.
He handed Jaehaera to Aelinor and stood. He was not on crutches. His leg wound had long healed, but he did not want to participate in dragon battles. The last dragon battle had nearly killed him. Now he was still somewhat afraid.
He walked to the balcony and stood beside Maester Norren.
"Do you know Balerion the Black Dread?" he asked.
Maester Norren nodded. "Aegon the Conqueror's dragon, the largest dragon Westeros has ever seen."
Aegon said, "How long did he live?"
Maester Norren considered a moment. "According to records, the Black Dread died in the ninety-fourth year of the Conquest, at approximately two hundred years of age."
Aegon nodded. "How old is Vhagar this year?"
Maester Norren was silent a moment, then answered cautiously. "About one hundred and eighty years."
Aegon smiled. The smile was somewhat complicated.
"Wait until Vhagar dies," he said, "and my brother Aemond will be nothing."
Maester Norren said carefully. "But the prince has two dragons."
Aegon continued. "Now he can command two dragons, and he is very mighty. But once Vhagar dies, he will have only one black dragon left—Lothron, only four years old."
Maester Norren hesitated for a moment, then reminded him. "That black dragon Lothron, at four years old, is nearly twenty meters long..."
He paused.
"That dragon is simply a monster..."