The man poured a generous glass of Arbor Gold, the rich, fruity white wine swirling in his goblet like liquid gold. A drink of the ruling class, a luxury he had never tasted in his youth—his father had only served it to important guests, never to him. Yet here he was, in his father's chambers, savoring every drop.
The smirk on his lips grew as he took a slow sip, savoring it, savoring his victory. He walked to the window, glancing out over the quiet of the night, the vastness of the sea beyond, and the stars shinning like scattered jewels in the sky.
He had everything he wanted now. Power, recognition, wealth. Soon, perhaps, an heir to carry on his name and legacy. Nothing would have been possible if he hadn't dirtied his hands. He raised his hand, flexing his fingers as if the blood from that fateful day still stained his skin.
The Battle Beneath the Gods Eye loomed in his memory—the clash of steel, the roar of battle. A war fought alongside grandfather and uncle at his side, all of them hoping for greatness despite the hopelessness of their cause. That war had taken his grandfather's life—he still remembered seeing him slain by the enemy. His uncle had been crippled, nothing more than a burden as they retreated. His lip curled at the memory. His uncle, the man who never liked him, who would have continued to lord over him, had he survived.
But he hadn't.
The night his uncle met his end was seared into his memory. He could still see his uncle's unbelieving eyes as the blade sank into his flesh. Franklyn had whispered in his uncle's ear, "I'm sorry, uncle. I can't let you have what's mine," with an ugly smile on his face. His uncle had gripped his arm tightly at first, before the strength left him completely. No one had questioned his death—no one dared. There had been no witnesses left alive, and only Franklyn's words to speak for what had happened that night. Even though a part of him regretted killing his own kin, greed and ambition had kept him moving forward, pushing away any guilt.
What held him back, what still left a sour taste in his mouth, was the disappointment of his father. Marq Farman—the man without ambition, a man of too much kindness. It was that softness he despised most, though he had stayed his hand for the sake of his mother's love. As long as he was heir, that was all that mattered.
But there was another disappointment at home—his brother. A fool. A coward. Better he stay out of the way. But then the dragon bitch came, and suddenly everything was slipping from his grasp. Worse than that, his father allowed it. He let that damned queen play her games, swarming the island with her people and her dragon. It infuriated him beyond words. He was no longer the center of attention—everything was about her, about the former Queen's court, about those four-headed beast. The nobles laughed behind his back. The commoners whispered.
Something had to be done. But outright violence wasn't an option. Not yet.
He had thought of using the islanders, raising fear about the dragons. Her dragon's clutch of eggs had been the perfect excuse, enough to stir panic. He had even sent his begging brother(preacher) to spread the word. But his father, Marq, had locked the fool in the dungeon, and that was the day everything between them had truly fractured. The day Marq Farman had turned his back on him.
He sighed at the thought, remembering how he had watched his father choke on a bone at dinner. He hadn't moved, hadn't flinched, as Marq gasped for water. The entire hall had been his men by then, and no one had intervened. It had all gone as planned—except for one thing. His sister. She would have made a fine alliance, strengthening House Farman's ties with powerful noble families.
Instead, she had been taken from him, another thing stolen by Rhaena Targaryen. His hatred for the former Queen grown more.
He smirked again at the thought of Androw missing. If only his idiot brother didn't find his way back, then all would be perfect.
Just then, a distant shout and screaming, followed by the ringing of bells. Franklyn's smirk faltered, his cup slipping from his hand as the ground beneath him trembled violently. His castle shook, and he lost his balance, crashing to the floor. Confusion gripped him for a split second before a deafening roar shattered his confusion.
"Dragon?" he gasped, the word slipping from his lips in disbelief. He scrambled to his feet, rushing to his bedside to grab his sword as his men burst through the door.
"Lord! A dragon… it's atop the castle tower!" one of his men shouted, wide-eyed with terror.
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It looks like Androw intends to kick some ass, I guess. Well, I hope he won't go overboard. For more chapters, access my Patreon.
link: patreon.com/AmouxCreationX
]