The great wooden doors of the council chamber creaked open, and King Aerys II Targaryen, resplendent in his regal attire, strode into the room, his presence commanding immediate silence. The lords and council members rose from their seats in respect, their murmurs fading into an expectant hush.
King Aerys took his place at the head of the table, his expression calm and relaxed. The absence of Prince Rhaemon, who had often attended these meetings, was notable but not unprecedented; the young prince was frequently engaged in his studies and training.
Prince Rhaegar stopped attending—or rather—wasn't required to attend ever since it was clear that his young mind couldn't comprehend what they were discussing. Studious he may be, compared to his brilliant brother, he was but a normal child in the eyes of the council Lords. Until then, it was agreed that the young prince wasn't required to attend until he was older. Much older.
"Let us conclude the matter of the Dragonpit," King Aerys began, his voice carrying the weight of authority. "The rebuilding progresses well, despite the challenges."
The lords nodded in agreement, expressing acknowledgment. The Dragonpit had long been a symbol of Targaryen power, and its reconstruction was due to the late king, Jaehaerys, as he ordered it to be rebuilt upon the return of dragons.
"Now, to the matter of waste management in King's Landing," Aerys continued, a hint of distaste coloring his tone. "The stench is unbearable. It is high time we address this issue."
Lord Gyles Rosby, the Master of Coin, seized the opportunity to voice his concerns. "Your Grace, while the idea of a sewage system is commendable, we must consider the financial implications. The Iron Throne is already in debt to the Iron Bank. Such a project would require substantial funds, which we…. currently lack."
The council members exchanged glances, the practicality of Rosby's argument weighing heavily on their minds. King Aerys frowned, clearly displeased by the reminder of their financial constraints.
Lord Symond Staunton, the Master of Laws, leaned forward. "Your Grace, Prince Rhaemon's proposal for a phased approach could be the solution. We can begin with the most critical areas of the city, where the stench is the worst. By addressing these first, we can alleviate some of the immediate suffering and demonstrate the project's efficacy."
Lord Rosby was somewhat mollified and not entirely convinced. "And how do you suggest we fund even this initial phase, Lord Staunton?"
Staunton met Rosby's gaze with unwavering determination. "We can seek temporary loans from the wealthier noble houses, promising them favorable terms once the system proves its worth. Additionally, we can levy a small tax on certain luxury goods. The benefits of a cleaner, healthier city will far outweigh the initial costs."
The lords murmured amongst themselves, the practicality and foresight of the proposal evident.
King Aerys's expression scrunched into a displeased frown. "I will not beg, if that's what you're saying," he spat.
"Of course not, Your Grace," Lord Rosby replied quickly. "Our Master of Law is only… suggesting options," he reassured, and glanced at his fellow councilor, conveying silent communication.
Lord Symond cleared his throat and spoke again. "Your Grace, we could also consider asking the Hand, Lord Tywin Lannister, for a loan. No doubt he would agree with nothing in return. Unless we address our debt issues, we won't be able to proceed with any significant projects. Lord Tywin's return is expected in a few days, and we could present our case to him then."
King Aerys brightened at this proposal. "An excellent suggestion, Lord Staunton. I will speak to Tywin as soon as he arrives. His financial acumen and resources could prove invaluable."
The lords nodded in agreement, the tension easing as a plan began to take shape. The subject was concluded, and the discussion moved on.
Lord Qarlton Chelsted, the Master of Whisperers, coughed delicately before addressing the King. "Your Grace, there is another matter that requires your attention. The….. unwanted visitors have returned, seeking an audience with Prince Rhaemon. The red priestess and the Maesters of the Citadel have been persistent. Every year since the Prince's birth, they have sought to meet with him, but you have forbidden it each time."
Aerys's expression darkened evidently. "And what of it this time, Lord Chelsted?"
Chelsted continued, his voice cautious. "This time, they are more insistent. They claim they will not leave until they are granted permission to see him or else they will find a way themselves."
King Aerys's anger flared. "How dare they threaten the crown! My son is not a spectacle for them to gawk at. I will not have them meddling in our affairs."
The council members exchanged uneasy glances, aware of the King's temper. Lord Chelsted bowed his head. "Your Grace, perhaps we could use their insistence to our advantage. If we grant them a controlled audience, we might be able to extract useful information or even negotiate terms that benefit the crown."
King Aerys's eyes narrowed, considering the suggestion. "And risk them planting ideas in my son's head? Or worse, have them spread their nonsense around my castle?"
Being the voice of reason, Lord Symond spoke up. "Your Grace, we could arrange a closely monitored meeting. Allow them to see Prince Rhaemon under strict supervision. This way, we maintain control and can gauge their intentions. We cannot hold them off forever."
The room fell silent as King Aerys pondered the proposal. His anger simmered, but the practicalities of the situation began to outweigh his immediate fury. "Very well, Lord Symond. Arrange for a meeting, but ensure it is conducted under the strictest of conditions. I want a full report on their intentions and any information they may provide."
Lord Symond bowed his head in acknowledgment. "It will be done, Your Grace."
With the matter settled, King Aerys shifted his focus to the final items on the agenda. "Now, let us move on to the state of the realm's defenses. Lord Steffon, what news from the Master of Ships?"
~~~
Later that evening, King Aerys stood on a balcony overlooking the city. The sun was setting, casting a golden hue over the sprawling metropolis below. He was joined by Lord Symond and Ser Oswell Whent, who approached with their respectful nods.
"Your Grace, I have begun preparations for the meeting with the red priestess and the Maesters of the Citadel," Symond reported. "It will be held in the throne room under the watchful eyes of the Kingsguard."
Aerys nodded, his gaze still fixed on the horizon. "Ensure that nothing is left to chance, Lord Symond. I do not trust these outsiders, and I will not have them meddling in my grounds."
Symond inclined his head. "Of course, Your Grace. Every precaution will be taken."
As Symond turned to leave, Aerys called out. "One more thing, Lord Symond. Make sure my son is informed of the meeting, but keep him away from the details. He is still young, and I do not wish to burden him with unnecessary worries."
Symond nodded once more. "As you command, Your Grace."
When the Master of Laws was gone, Aerys finally regarded his Kingsguard, "I want to know why a red comet appeared in the sky earlier this afternoon."
He glanced back at Oswell, "Go see my son. I have a feeling it has something to do with him."
"At once, Your Grace." The Knight bowed and left.
Alone, Aerys pondered and recalled what a red comet would have meant—or few of the key interpretations the Maesters have studied.
For one, it could have meant a sign of the return of magic and the return of dragons. To another, it would have meant an omen of great change and upheaval. Lastly, it could also mean a sign that a great leader is about to emerge…
~~~
Rhaemon knelt on the floor, a sense of determination mingled with frustration etched on his young childlike face. Before him lay his two dragon eggs, one green-bronze and the other gold and cream, their surfaces smooth and lifeless. He picked up the green egg, feeling its cold, unresponsive shell against his palm.
With a deep breath, he closed his eyes and focused, raising his hands in a claw gesture and a small ball of flame appeared in his palm, bright and intense. He moved it towards the eggs, engulfing them in the fiery embrace, his hopes pinned on the magic within the flames. He channeled all his energy into the task, the flames dancing and swirling around the eggs.
After a few moments, he withdrew his hands, the flames still licking the eggs. He lifted the green egg once more, feeling its cold, unchanged surface. Disappointment came, and he sighed heavily, placing the egg back down.
What was he missing? He tried to remember the dreamlike state in which he had hatched the first three dragons, the vivid colors of the flames and the response from the eggs. Maybe he needed to approach this differently. He pondered the methods of the past Targaryen dragonlords, hatched in their cradles, hatched with fire, hatched with their blood rituals...
Blood. The realization struck him like a bolt of lightning. Blood and fire. Fire and blood.
Quickly, Rhaemon rose to his feet and grabbed a small knife left from his dinner plate. Returning to his position in front of the eggs, he sliced his palm, hissing slightly at the sharp pain. Blood welled up and spilled onto the eggs, darkening their surfaces with crimson streaks. Raising his bloodied hand, he ignited a flame once more, covering the eggs with his flames.
C'mon… C'mon…
He waited as the room filled with the crackling sound of burning wood and the intense heat of his flames. And Rhaemon's eyes widened in wonder as the eggs began to shake and crack, small fissures spreading across their surfaces. With a final, triumphant burst, the shells shattered, and two baby dragons emerged.
"Well, shit. It actually worked…ahaha," he chuckled disbelievingly.
One hatchling was forest green, its scales shimmering like emeralds in the firelight. The other was cream flecked with gold, its delicate wings unfurling as it took its first breaths. Rhaemon's heart swelled with joy and excitement as he laughed, the sound echoing through the chamber.
The green dragon crawled out of the fireplace with surprising agility, making its way towards Rhaemon's lap. He lifted the cream dragon into his arms, marveling at the warmth and life that now pulsed through its small body.
"Welcome to the world, little buddies," Rhaemon greeted, his voice filled with awe. At the same time, he couldn't help but wonder why his first three dragons didn't require blood to hatch like these two.
The moment was interrupted when he heard a firm knock on his door. He turned his head as his green dragon perched itself proudly on his shoulders. Cradling the cream dragon in his arms, he approached the door and opened it, revealing the faces of his sworn swords, Ser Oswald Frey and Dagmer, along with Lord Symond Staunton and Ser Oswell Whent of the Kingsguard.
The reactions were immediate and priceless.
Gasps and curses escaped the lips of all four men as they stiffened and took in the sight of the baby dragons. The green dragon on Rhaemon's shoulder preened at the attention, letting out a tiny, but fierce roar that echoed through the corridor, its small, yet imposing wings spread wide.
A deep, hearty laughter was suddenly heard as Dagmer guffawed, "I knew it was only a matter of time before you did something crazy again, my prince!"
Ser Oswald didn't even attempt to reprimand Dagmer, the shock in his eyes betrayed his composed facade. He couldn't tear his gaze away from the dragons.
Rhaemon, who also couldn't suppress his amusement, snickered at their reactions. "Meet my new friends," he said brightly.
As they tried to compose themselves, Rhaemon took pity on them and asked, "What brings you here, Lord Symond?"
The Master of Laws, still somewhat dazed, coughed to clear his throat and regain his composure. "Prince Rhaemon, we have visitors who wish to meet with you. The red priestess and the Maesters of the Citadel have been quite persistent in seeking an audience. The king has agreed to a closely monitored meeting, which has been arranged for the morrow."
Rhaemon raised an eyebrow, confused. "A red priestess and Maesters? What do they want with me?"
"That remains to be seen, my prince," Lord Symond replied blankly. "But rest assured, the meeting will be held under strict precautions."
Rhaemon nodded. "Okay. Thank you for informing me, Lord Symond."
The man bowed slightly, "Anything for my Prince."
"Congratulations, Prince Rhaemon, on your newly hatched dragons. They are truly remarkable. When did you manage to hatch them?" Ser Oswell finally remarked with an expression of genuine admiration.
"Oh Yes, a job well done indeed, my prince," Symond added, not to be outdone. "You truly are special to the Targaryen lineage."
Rhaemon's lips twitched at the clear flattery. "Thank you. In fact, I hatched them just now."
The two men exchanged a quick glance of surprise. "Just now?" Ser Oswell repeated, his voice filled with awe.
Rhaemon nodded. "Yes, with my own fire and blood."
For a moment, there was silence. Symond's polite facade cracked slightly as he processed the information. "Your own fire?" he questioned with disbelief.
With a bright, almost mischievous smile, Rhaemon confirmed, "Yes, I can wield fire now too."
Ser Oswell's eyes widened in astonishment, while Symond's face contorted as if he was barely holding on to his sanity. "I beg your pardon?" Symond asked again, his voice strained.
Rhaemon, still smiling, raised his uninjured palm face up. A ball of fire ignited in his hand, flickering brightly and casting a warm glow in the room. The undeniable proof of his powers left both men gaping in shock. His dragons squawked as they moved their heads, watching his fire dance on top of his palms curiously.
At the sides, Ser Oswald and Dagmer exchanged glances filled with indiscreet understanding and a touch of pity for the visitors. This only amused Rhaemon more as he kept his troll smile on.
"See?" Rhaemon said with a casual tone, as if holding a ball of fire was the most natural thing in the world.
Symond's polite mask slipped even further, a look of sheer bewilderment taking over. "Well, I... By the Gods—this is truly remarkable, my prince," he stammered, desperately trying to regain back his composure.
Ser Oswell, still in awe, managed to mutter, "Astonishing, truly astonishing. I must tell the King at once…."
Rhaemon extinguished the flame with a flick of his wrist and patted the green dragon on his shoulder. "This is nothing," he said with a grin. "Well, if there are no more surprises for tonight, I would like to go to bed now."
The men nodded, still somewhat dazed, bid their goodnights, and took their leave.
As Rhaemon began to close his door, Ser Oswald's eyes were drawn to the bloody cut on Rhaemon's other palm. "Your hand, my prince!" he exclaimed in worry.
Dagmer, quick to react, turned to a nearby wandering servant. "Fetch Maester Pycelle immediately!" he commanded.
Rhaemon, realizing the commotion his injury had caused, attempted to reassure them. "It's nothing, really. Just a small cut I did."
But his sworn swords didn't listen. Dagmer, though usually carefree, looked concerned. "Prince Rhaemon, even a small injury can cause harm if left untreated," he said, his voice uncharacteristically stern.
Oswald gently guided Rhaemon to sit down. "Please, sit and wait for the Maester."
Damn, Rhaemon sighed.
This was going to be a long night…