The morning began like any other in the Red Keep. Early sun spilled over the towers and battlements, catching the red rooftops of King's Landing in soft golden light. Sea birds wheeled over Blackwater Bay, and the scent of salt and smoke mingled in the breeze. King Viserys I Targaryen sat in the royal solar, breaking his fast with Queen Aemma and young Princess Rhaenyra, the chamber bright with the warmth of a late summer morning.
"You're certain she's taking well to her lessons?" Aemma asked, gently buttering a warm roll for Rhaenyra.
"She is," Maester Mellos said with a nod. "Her Valyrian improves faster than I'd expected for her age."
Rhaenyra smiled modestly but kept her eyes on her plate. She preferred dragons to scrolls, and her father knew it well. Even now, she wore a delicate dragon pendant around her neck—gold, the wings outstretched.
Viserys gave her an affectionate smile. "You'll be speaking like your ancestors in no time, little one. Perhaps even better than Daemon."
Rhaenyra giggled. "Uncle says he speaks with fire. Not words."
Before Aemma could reply, a distant, low tremor rolled through the Keep. At first it was barely felt—a strange shift in the stillness of the air. Then came the horns.
Three long notes.
Warning from the watchtower.
Not attack. Not fire.
Flight.
Viserys stood, nearly knocking over his cup. "Another dragon?"
Mellos frowned. "None were scheduled to leave the Dragonpit today."
Aemma rose to her feet as well, her face suddenly pale. "It's him."
The Queen wasn't wrong. They had seen the wild dragon once before on Dragonstone. A black and red beast, young but already dangerous. Larger than any hatchling they had ever seen, despite his age. Untamed. Unclaimed.
He had roared at them on the beach, sending a searing line of fire into the surf—not attacking, but warning.
Now, the sound of rushing air grew louder. Rhaenyra ran to the nearest window and looked out toward the city. She gasped.
A great shadow passed over the courtyard below. Wings as wide as a ship's mast spread from end to end, dark as ash, their undersides laced with crimson membrane. The beast soared not high, but low enough to be unmistakable. People below stopped in their tracks. Some cried out. Others simply stared, frozen.
It was the same dragon.
He had come to King's Landing.
In the Tower of the Hand, the Small Council was already assembling. Otto Hightower arrived first, robes in disarray, followed by Lord Beesbury and Lord Strong. Ser Harrold Westerling stood with arms crossed, armor freshly donned. Servants rushed in and out of the chamber, breathless with messages.
By the time King Viserys entered with Queen Aemma and Rhaenyra, the council table was awash in tension.
"The city's in uproar," Otto said at once. "People are fleeing the streets, locking their shops. Some say Balerion has returned from the dead."
"It's not Balerion," Viserys replied calmly, taking his seat. "We saw him with our own eyes on Dragonstone. This one is smaller. Younger."
"But growing faster than any recorded dragon," added Lord Strong. "He was the size of bull when he was first glimpsed. Now… he blots out sunlight."
"He flew directly over the Red Keep," Ser Harrold said darkly. "No provocation. No attack. Just… watching."
"He's wild," Rhaenys Targaryen said as she entered, uninvited but clearly expected. "And clever. More clever than he should be."
Aemma's eyes turned to her. "You think it was deliberate?"
"Yes," Rhaenys said. "And no one can claim otherwise. You saw him that day, did you not? On the beach. He flamed the water, not us. He was sending a message then. He's sending one now."
Otto leaned forward. "What message does a wild dragon send, my lady?"
"That he's watching us"
Far above, in the blue skies over the city, Jake glided.
He was no longer the clumsy beast who had scuttled in shadows. His wings carved the air with confidence now. His eyes—sharp, dark, and deep with a fire not yet released—swept over the city. His black scales shimmered faintly in the sun, edged with streaks of crimson like drying blood.
He had grown. More than expected. He felt it in the way his wings carried him further with each beat. His strength no longer just instinct—but control. His hunger sharpened not just by need—but decision.
The city stank of fire and waste. Of meat. Of life.
He didn't descend. Didn't roar.
He passed once over the rooftops, before turning toward the distant hills beyond the Kingswood. He didn't want to challenge them—not yet. But he would not remain hidden either.
They had seen him.
He would let them wonder.
Back in the Red Keep, the council remained divided.
"We must dispatch riders to Dragonstone," Otto said. "Daemon must take charge of this."
"No," Viserys interrupted. "This is not Daemon's mess to clean. The dragon is wild. He may have made Dragonstone his roost, but he does not answer to my brother—or anyone."
"Your Grace," said Lord Beesbury, "if it continues to grow, it will rival even our biggest dragons. The city will not be able to contain panic if it returns."
"And what do you propose?" Aemma asked coolly. "We chain it? Kill it?"
"That may be the wisest course," Otto said without hesitation. "Before it chooses to see us as prey."
Viserys stood. "No. We are Targaryens. We do not fear our own."
"That dragon is no one's own," Otto snapped.
"And yet it did not attack," Rhaenyra said quietly. "Not then. Not now."
Everyone turned to the young princess.
She looked up, eyes clear. "I don't think he hates us. I think he's… watching."