37 AC, Dragonstone
3rd POV
The day was one of tragedy and sorrow. It marked the death of Aegon the Conqueror, the man who had brought the Seven Kingdoms to their knees. It had begun like any other day for the king. He had his grandchildren with him: nine-year-old Aerys, eleven-year-old little Aegon, and fourteen-year-old Rhaena. It was said Aegon had been telling his sweet grandchildren stories of his conquest of the Seven Kingdoms when, without warning, he fell.
The children were shocked, but the one who reacted the most was Prince Aerys. In the years past, the young prince had grown very close to his grandfather. Some whispered he cared more for the old king than for his own father, Maegor. On the day Aegon was put to rest, it was not Balerion who set the dragonfire. It was Aerys's own dragon, Caraxes.
Caraxes was already the size of Quicksilver, his uncle's dragon, and was faster and more agile besides. Aerys had first ridden him at four, becoming the youngest dragonrider in House Targaryen. This filled his father, Maegor — a Targaryen yet to claim a dragon — with pride. From then on, his grandmother Visenya personally trained the boy in the sword. It was said he was already better than his cousin Aegon, so much so that by the age of seven he had to train with older squires. He was taller than most of his peers and stronger too.
The days following the Conqueror's death were marked by mourning, followed swiftly by the coronation of his son, Aenys Targaryen, First of His Name, upon the Iron Throne.
POV: Aerys Targaryen
It had been two days since Grandfather passed, and I rode toward King's Landing atop Caraxes. It hurt to know I would never see him again, but in the skies it felt as though he was with me, pushing me forward. Now I flew to the coronation of my uncle Aenys.
To be honest, I didn't much like my uncle. He was weak, and Father said weakness could get you and those you loved killed. Still, he was a good man, and there were not many of those in the Seven Kingdoms. Now that he would be king, people would challenge him. Of that I was certain — and so were my father and grandmother.
I shuddered at the thought of my grandmother. She was not an average woman. She was beautiful for her age — such was the blood of the dragon — but she was strict, and in turn so was my father. Though I could say my father was soft when it came to me, that didn't mean he babied me. Far from it. He made sure I worked for everything I wanted, and I thanked him for that.
Below me, the sea rolled like hammered steel, and Caraxes screamed into the wind. His cry echoed across the clouds, long and sharp, a sound that made my heart race. I leaned forward, gripping the saddle.
"We will show them," I whispered into the gale.
King's Landing soon appeared on the horizon, a smear of smoke and stone beneath the rising sun. Even from the sky I could see the crowds gathering. Banners fluttered. Bells rang. The city celebrated a new king, yet the air felt heavy with fear. A crown was never worn lightly.
Caraxes circled once before descending. Soldiers scattered as we landed outside the Red Keep. The ground trembled beneath his weight. Men stared at him with wide eyes. Some bowed to me. Others bowed to the dragon.
I slid from the saddle and placed a hand on Caraxes's warm scales. His red hide pulsed with heat.
"Guard the sky," I told him softly.
He hissed in answer.
Inside the castle, the halls buzzed with voices. Lords and ladies whispered behind jeweled hands. I saw my father standing beside my grandmother, both watching the throne room doors like hawks. When Father noticed me, his stern expression softened — only slightly.
"You came quickly," he said.
"I did not wish to be late," I answered.
Grandmother Visenya studied me. Her eyes were sharp as blades. "Good. A dragon does not arrive after the fire has burned."
The doors opened.
The throne room smelled of incense, hot wax, and too many bodies packed into too small a space. Lords in silks and velvets whispered beneath the high vaulted ceiling, their voices crawling like insects along the stone. The Iron Throne loomed above them all — jagged, cruel, and hungry.
Aerys stood beside his father and grandmother near the front of the hall. He could feel Caraxes somewhere above the city, circling. The bond between them hummed faintly in his chest.
The High Septon approached the throne in a cloud of white and crystal. Behind him walked Aenys Targaryen, pale in silver and gold. His crown had not yet been placed upon his head, yet already it seemed too heavy for him.
Father leaned down slightly. "Watch them," Maegor murmured. "Not the crown. The faces."
Aerys obeyed. The lords did not look united. Some clapped politely. Others stared as if measuring the new king's spine. A few did not clap at all.
Visenya's voice slid in cold as winter steel. "They smell softness," she said quietly. "Men are wolves. They bare their teeth when they smell softness."
"I am not soft," Aerys whispered.
Her lips twitched faintly. "I know."
The High Septon raised his hands. The hall fell silent.
"Behold Aenys of House Targaryen," the old man called, "First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm."
Aenys climbed the steps slowly. Each footfall echoed.
When the crown touched his head, a roar filled the hall. It was loud — but Aerys heard the cracks in it. Applause without heart. Celebration without fire.
Aenys turned to face the crowd. His smile was gentle, uncertain.
"My lords," he began. His voice carried, but barely. "My father united these lands with dragonfire. I would unite them with peace. Let this be a reign of healing. Of prosperity."
A murmur rippled through the hall.
A fat lord near the back laughed under his breath. Aerys heard it. So did Maegor.
Father's jaw tightened.
Aenys continued. "The age of conquest is ended. The age of rule begins."
Silence followed.
It was Visenya who clapped first. Slow. Sharp. A command disguised as praise.
The rest joined in, louder now, afraid not to.
Aerys leaned closer to his father. "They don't believe him."
"They don't have to," Maegor said. "They only have to fear the crown."
"And do they?"
Maegor's eyes flicked toward the throne. "Not enough."
Aenys descended the steps and approached them, smiling with relief when he saw his family.
"Brother," he said to Maegor, embracing him. "You stand with me, as always."
Maegor returned the embrace, but his arms were stiff. "I stand with House Targaryen."
A flicker crossed Aenys's face, gone in a heartbeat.
He knelt before Aerys, smiling warmly. "And here is my fierce nephew. I saw your dragon above the city. The people were awestruck."
"He was restless," Aerys answered. "He does not like crowds."
Aenys laughed softly. "Then he is wiser than most kings."
Visenya stepped forward. The warmth drained from the air.
"The realm will test you," she said plainly. "They always do."
Aenys met her gaze. "I know, Mother. But I will not rule by fear alone."
Her eyes hardened. "Fear is the mortar between stones. Without it, walls fall."
A tense silence stretched.
Finally Aenys sighed. "I hope to prove you wrong."
Visenya did not smile. "So did many kings."
Trumpets blared, cutting the moment apart. Servants opened the great doors to the feast hall. The crowd surged forward, eager to drown politics in wine.
Aerys looked back at the Iron Throne as they turned to leave. It sat empty again, blades glinting in torchlight.
Waiting.
He felt a chill crawl up his spine.
Father noticed his stare. "Do you know why the throne is made of swords?" Maegor asked quietly.
"To remind kings of war," Aerys said.
"No," Maegor replied. His voice was low and certain. "To remind them that ruling is war."
Aerys looked at the crown on his uncle's head, already disappearing into the feast.
And for the first time, he wondered how long it would stay there.