The afternoons in the Red Keep were always quiet.
Especially in Maegor's Holdfast.
This tower, named after Maegor I Targaryen the Cruel, was the tallest structure in the Red Keep.
A castle within a castle, in every sense.
It was said that Maegor himself once lived here, gazing out from these windows over King's Landing, looking down upon subjects he could burn or kill at a whim.
Seventy years had passed. Maegor's ashes lay in the cellars beneath the Red Keep, but the tower he built still stood.
Aegon II Targaryen sat in a cushioned chair on the balcony, holding Jaehaera Targaryen in his arms.
The afternoon sun was warm, enough to make one drowsy.
Jaehaera had already fallen asleep, her small face nestled against his chest. Every now and then, she pursed her lips, as if tasting something sweet in a dream.
Aegon lowered his gaze to look at her.
Jaehaera.
His first child.
A daughter.
He had hoped for a son.
Every king hoped his first child would be a son.
But when this tiny, soft little creature had been placed in his arms, every thought of heirs and succession had vanished.
She was so small.
So soft.
So quiet.
She did not need to do anything. Just lying there in his arms was enough to make him willing to do anything for her.
Aegon gently brushed a finger against her cheek.
Soft as a freshly peeled egg.
"Jaehaera," he said softly.
"Do you know you have an uncle named Aemond?"
Of course, she did not know.
She simply continued sleeping.
Aegon smiled faintly and went on.
"He's far more capable than your father."
"He can ride dragons, fight wars, kill men."
"Unlike your father…"
"—who only knows how to drink and hide."
He paused.
"But your father will protect you."
At that moment, Jaehaera opened her wide violet eyes and looked at him. Her tiny hand moved, grasping his finger.
Aegon froze.
He stared at that little hand—those five slender fingers wrapped tightly around his own.
His eyes grew warm.
"Your Grace."
Alyn's voice came from behind him.
Aegon lifted his head.
Alyn stood at the balcony doorway, beside a middle-aged maester in grey robes.
The man was tall and thin, with black hair and brown eyes, his face utterly unremarkable.
A raven perched on his shoulder.
Black feathers. Red eyes. Its head tilted slightly as it stared at Aegon.
Aegon's first thought was: That bird is ugly.
His second thought: That maester looks even uglier than the bird.
"Your Grace," Queen Alyn said in introduction.
"This is the newly appointed Grand Maester, Maester Norren."
"He comes from the Citadel in Oldtown to take up the office."
Norren stepped forward and bowed deeply. In a measured tone, he said: "May Your Grace be in good health."
Aegon gave a slight nod.
"Come in."
Maester Norren stepped onto the balcony.
Standing in the sunlight, he lowered his head slightly, his deep-set brown eyes taking in Aegon.
The king held a child in his arms, dressed in a loose robe, his hair uncombed, his beard unshaven—lounging lazily in his chair.
Just as the rumors described: a puppet king, sidelined by Aemond.
Norren withdrew his gaze, lifted his head, and spoke with proper deference.
"Your Grace, I come at the command of the Citadel. From this day forth, I shall draft your letters, record your councils, and offer counsel."
"I will do my utmost to ease Your Grace's burdens."
"If I should fail to satisfy Your Grace, you may write to the Citadel. They will send another in my place."
Aegon studied him and said softly, "What was your name again?"
"Norren. Your Grace may call me Norren."
"Norren," Aegon repeated. "And what is your raven called?"
Maester Norren paused for a moment, then answered, "Raven."
Aegon snorted.
"Raven? To be honest, that bird looks quite like you."
"Just as ugly."
Norren fell silent for a moment.
Then he inclined his head slightly.
"My thanks for Your Grace's kind praise."
The raven tilted its head and let out a hoarse "caw."
Aegon laughed.
"You're an amusing maester, I'll grant you that."
Norren had not yet replied—
A roar rolled in from the distant sky.
Low and deep, like muffled thunder rising from the depths of the earth.
It pierced through walls, through windows, through bone itself, making the flowerpots on the balcony tremble faintly.
Jaehaera woke with a start.
Her watery eyes opened wide, her lips quivered—on the verge of tears.
Aegon II quickly lifted his daughter and rocked her gently.
"Hush now, hush… it's only a dragon…"
Alyn stepped to the edge of the balcony and looked up at the sky.
"Vhagar," she said with a soft sigh.
Aegon also raised his head.
On the horizon, a vast shadow was rising into the sky, with a younger dragon following behind.
Vhagar.
The oldest living dragon in Westeros, over one hundred and fifty feet in length, her wings wide enough to blot out the sky.
Her grey-green scales shimmered with a dark golden sheen in the sunlight, and each beat of her wings stirred fierce winds.
She was flying northeast, her posture unhurried.
A short distance behind her, another dragon followed closely.
Lothorne.
Black-scaled, far smaller than Vhagar—barely fifteen meters long—but swift and agile in flight, like a hunting hawk.
That was Aemond's second dragon.
The two dragons flew farther and farther, shrinking into two small black dots, until at last they vanished beyond the horizon.
Norren stood at the balcony, gazing up at the place where they had disappeared. There was a trace of emotion in his voice as he spoke.
"The mightiest dragon in the Seven Kingdoms today."
"Prince Aemond is truly formidable."
Aegon gave a dissatisfied snort.
He handed Jaehaera to Alyn and rose to his feet.
He did not take up a cane.
His leg had long since healed. He simply had no desire to take part in dragonriding battles—the last one had nearly killed him.
Even now, a trace of fear lingered in him.
He walked to the edge of the balcony and stood beside Norren.
"Do you know Balerion, the Black Dread?" he asked.
Norren nodded.
"The Conqueror's dragon. The greatest dragon Westeros has ever known."
Aegon said, "How long did he live?"
Norren thought for a moment.
"According to the records, Balerion died in the ninety-fourth year after the Conquest, at roughly two hundred years of age."
Aegon nodded.
"And how old is Vhagar this year?"
Norren fell silent for a moment, then answered cautiously.
"Around one hundred and eighty."
Aegon smiled.
It was a complicated smile.
"When Vhagar dies, my brother, Aemond, will be nothing."
Norren spoke carefully.
"But the prince has two dragons."
Aegon continued, "He can command two dragons now. Quite impressive."
"But once Vhagar dies, he will be left with only that black dragon, Lothorne—and that one is only four years old."
Maester Norren hesitated for a moment, then reminded him, "That black dragon, Lothorne—at just four years old, its body is already nearing twenty meters…"
"That dragon is… a monster."
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