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King Jaehaerys listened to Gaemon's explanation and gave a slow nod, clearly on board with every word.
"Let's not rush this," he told Gaemon and Baelon. "We still hold the advantage. We'll take it one step at a time—chip away at the Citadel quietly, without tipping them off. We've got time."
Baelon's jaw tightened, but he forced out a curt "Yes, Father," then tossed back the rest of his wine in one angry swallow.
Gaemon, on the other hand, stayed calm. He knew destroying the Citadel right now wasn't smart. The Targaryens weren't the same conquering force they'd been under Aegon. There was an old saying that fit perfectly:
You ride to war. You walk to rule.
Conquering and governing were two different games. As the royal house of Westeros, the Targaryens had to protect order, not shatter it. If they ruled with nothing but blood and fire, Maegor's reign would have collapsed even faster than it did.
One quick blast of dragonflame could turn the Citadel to ash—no problem. But the Citadel had sunk its roots into every corner of the continent for thousands of years. Burn it down and the backlash would cost House Targaryen dearly.
Gaemon's plan was smarter: divide the maesters first, build their own academy, slowly bleed the Citadel's influence dry, then replace it entirely. When the old Citadel finally faded, it would feel natural. No panic, no uprising.
Once he saw both sons understood, Jaehaerys dropped the subject. He picked up his cup and took a quiet sip.
With the heavy talk over, the banquet warmed up again. Laughter rolled through the hall as if the tense moment had never happened.
The next morning
They were heading to Dragonstone today, so Gaemon and Baelon rose before dawn. After a quick breakfast with the family, they split up—each walking toward his dragon.
Bahamut still roosted on the tower roof of the Red Keep. Baelon had to head down to the Dragonpit for Vhagar, so Gaemon waited for his brother to fly over.
Dressed in his tight-fitting riding leathers, Gaemon climbed the tower stairs two at a time, boots ringing on the stone.
Bahamut had already hit twenty meters long, swelling like a balloon on fast-forward. No dragon in Targaryen history had ever grown this fast—not even Vermithor the Bronze Fury, who was considered quick.
The sound of Gaemon's approach woke the sleeping dragon. Bahamut stretched his long neck, then lifted his platinum head crowned with golden horns. Golden eyes locked onto Gaemon immediately.
The second he spotted his rider, Bahamut perked up. He let out a soft, musical roar toward the sky—deep but sweet, like a stag calling through the woods.
Gaemon stepped in front of the massive head and waved. "C'mere."
Bahamut never argued. He lowered his snout until it rested near Gaemon's chest.
Gaemon wrapped both arms around the front of the dragon's head the best he could—Bahamut was simply too big now for a full hug. He rubbed the scales hard, enjoying the rough, warm friction.
Bahamut rumbled happily and gave Gaemon a gentle nudge with his snout, pushing him back a step.
Gaemon just laughed. He knew it was the dragon's version of puppy love. Bahamut couldn't curl up in his lap anymore; this was as close as he could get.
After a moment of roughhousing, Gaemon patted the dragon's cheek and murmured, "Good boy. Gonna ask you to work again. When we reach Dragonstone, you can have all the goats you want."
Bahamut's eyes brightened. He roared once more, then flattened himself to the roof so Gaemon could mount easily.
Gaemon gave the neck scales one last affectionate slap and walked around to the side. The rope ladder and harness waited there.
As he climbed, he muttered under his breath, "There's got to be a better way to get on a damn dragon. This feels ridiculous for a dragonrider."
His body and magic still weren't enough to vault onto a back several meters off the ground without help. And Bahamut wasn't even fully grown yet. Once he reached adulthood, just lying down would put his back twenty meters in the air. They said Balerion the Black Dread, when crouched, looked like a living castle wall.
Luckily Bahamut was still manageable. Gaemon reached the saddle, gripped the front handles, and locked the safety chains around his waist. No chance of being thrown off by wind or speed.
The platinum saddle was his own design—silver fittings, golden grips, everything flowing perfectly with Bahamut's body. Two dragons were carved along the sides, and the handles looked suspiciously like modern motorcycle bars. Any guy from his old world would've done a double-take.
He'd changed them on purpose. Regular reins were useless to him—he controlled Bahamut with pure magic and will, the same way he moved his own limbs. No leather straps needed. Just thought and trust.