Time passed in a blur, and now it was March.
King's Landing, Dragon Gate.
The grand avenue was bustling with traffic, the hardened road repeatedly trampled into a muddy mess, with lush grass growing on either side.
A team of cavalry clad in furs led the way, guarding a caravan with wheels rolling steadily forward.
At the center of the convoy, a tall carriage moved slowly, bearing an ancient banner adorned with the head of a direwolf.
"Envoy from Winterfell approaches!"
The cavalry captain rode up to the city gate and announced the identity of the caravan's owner.
"Screech!"
A dragon's roar echoed from above, spreading down through the air.
Perched lazily atop the towering Dragon Gate, a magnificent golden dragon gazed down at the approaching visitors with an air of arrogance.
"A dragon!!"
The northern cavalry was terrified—even their normally confident captain instinctively pulled his horse back in alarm.
On the city wall, two Unsullied officers exchanged glances. Then, one of them raised a small signaling flag.
"Let them pass!"
After a brief pause, the northern convoy slowly entered King's Landing.
They had arrived with pride, but entered the city with caution.
Among them, the young Cregan carried the massive Ice sword on his back, riding a tall warhorse as he blended into the caravan.
The streets of King's Landing were teeming with hurried pedestrians, their conversations filled with gossip and speculation.
For instance:
"Look at those Northerners. The winter didn't freeze their balls off, but that golden dragon nearly scared them to death."
"Shhh! They're noble lords!"
"So what? With the coronation happening, the whole city has been filled with noble lords for half a month now."
Cregan listened intently, rationally analyzing the useful information hidden within the chatter.
"Let them pass!"
Suddenly, another loud call rang out from the city wall.
Cregan remained composed, turning to look at the new arrivals trailing behind their convoy.
On the muddy avenue, a group of well-equipped, richly dressed cavalrymen advanced ahead, clearing the way.
As they moved forward, a tall blue banner bearing a crescent moon and falcon unfurled in the wind.
"The Arryns of the Vale."
Cregan muttered to himself, urging the convoy to quicken their pace.
They were all here for the same reason—to attend the coronation ceremony.
Or, perhaps more accurately, the abdication of the old king.
---
### Red Keep
"Hurry, hurry! The guests are filling the banquet hall! Bring out the pastries and wine!"
Leonard was flushed with anxiety, bustling around as he directed the servants.
The staff were in a frenzy—some carrying tables and chairs, others clearing plates.
Throughout the Red Keep, not a single corridor was empty of moving figures.
"Lord Leonard, the throne room has been prepared."
"Good. This was a direct order from the prince."
Leonard wiped a thin layer of sweat from his forehead, turning his head as he spoke.
To his surprise, he was greeted by a panting Tyland Lannister.
Tyland was equally drenched in sweat, his usually well-groomed golden hair slightly disheveled as he jogged toward Leonard.
Leonard glanced at him and tactfully reminded him, "Lord Tyland, you don't have to… be so unrefined."
"Oh, do I look that bad?"
Tyland glanced at his attire, then laughed sheepishly. "This ceremony is too important—I have to give it my all."
"I appreciate your effort," Leonard said with a sigh, patting Tyland on the shoulder.
Tyland, deeply touched, nodded before hurrying off again.
Just a month ago, the Prince's Palace had finally been completed.
After three years of reconstruction, Tyland had returned to King's Landing to take over the position of Master of Ships from the retiring Sea Snake.
Determined to make an impression, he had ignited a wave of intense competition within the court.
Leonard cast him a glance before turning to a nearby attendant and shouting, "Hang those banners properly! We don't want the noble ladies laughing at us!"
---
### Noon
Guests from across the kingdom arrived one by one, entering the Red Keep for the coronation ceremony.
Hundreds of noble lords gathered in the grand hall.
Setting aside past grudges, they stood solemnly, waiting for the ceremony to begin.
Ser Erryk, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, personally led a group of high-ranking nobles through the castle's back garden.
Some observant individuals noticed that the location seemed rather remote.
Among them, Jason Lannister—an impatient fool—couldn't resist counting the castle's floors behind his back.
"One, two…"
When he reached the third level, he noticed a gaping hole in the wall, as if it had been blasted open by a catapult.
"Wait, that's the throne room!"
Jason let out a sharp cry, his eyes landing on the Iron Throne—its jagged edges forged from countless swords.
How bizarre—who would tear down a perfectly good wall in the middle of a coronation?
The gathered nobles all turned their attention toward the sight, murmuring among themselves in curiosity.
Just as speculation was reaching a peak, the Hand of the King rushed in, sweating profusely and taking small, hurried steps.
"Lords and ladies, let us welcome His Majesty and the Prince!"
At his words, everyone instinctively turned their heads toward the entrance, their anticipation palpable.
Yet—
No one was there.
"Lord Leonard, where are His Majesty and the Pr—"
Jason Lannister, his face twisted in frustration, was just about to complain about the absence of the main figures—
When suddenly—
"Screeeech—"
A deafening roar, as deep as rolling thunder, descended from the sky.
The sound reverberated through half of King's Landing.
Being closest to the Red Keep, the shockwave hit immediately.
Jason didn't even finish his sentence before the sound nearly ruptured his eardrums. His knees buckled, and he almost collapsed to the ground.
"Screech!"
"Roar!"
"…"
Before Jason could even curse, one roar after another resounded, like thunderclaps on a clear day.
Some people covered their ears and cautiously looked up.
What met their eyes was not just the vast blue sky but…
Dragons! A whole flock!
A massive black dragon spiraled overhead, splitting the sky into black and blue halves.
Against this two-toned backdrop, over a dozen dragon shadows streaked across in various colors, like an artist splattering paint across a canvas.
"Devourer, Dragonflame!"
A clear and resonant voice rang out, as crisp as flowing water.
Rhaegar looked down from above, clad in a black ceremonial robe, gripping both true fire and a dragon-whip in his hands.
"Screech—"
Devourer dived straight into the clouds, its eerie green flames staining the sky before it burst through the fiery clouds again in a rapid descent.
"Screech!"
"…"
Behind the lone rider and dragon, over a dozen dragon silhouettes flickered past.
The massive Vermithor, whose bronze scales gleamed like armor and whose size rivaled mountains.
Silverwing, with vibrant green scales and silvery-white wing membranes.
The crimson-scaled Meleys and Caraxes, each unique in form.
The golden-forged Syrax and Sunfyre.
And among them, the legendary dragons known across the continent—Dreamfyre, Sheepstealer, Tessarion, Grey Ghost, and more.
Trailing behind this majestic fleet of dragons were a few smaller figures—tiny hatchlings.
The young dragons Blizzard, Shrykos, Araxes, and Moondancer flitted in their wake.
Together, over a dozen dragons emerged at once, circling above the Red Keep, their flight paths forming a giant, swirling palette of colors.
"Vermithor, land!"
Viserys, riding atop his dragon, flushed unnaturally red, panting as he gave the command.
Vermithor broke away from the group, swooping around Maegor's Holdfast before slowly descending.
Boom—
As the dragon folded its wings, waves of heat rolled across the ground.
Viserys slid off his massive steed, his heavy body moving sluggishly. He waved off the approaching Kingsguard, his gaze locking onto the stunned nobles before him.
Staggering forward a couple of steps, his face broke into a radiant, sun-like smile.
"Lords and ladies, welcome to the coronation. And you are fortunate—"
"To witness a dragon gathering unseen in a century."
"Screech—"
"…"
Just as his words fell, the sky erupted in a deafening chorus of dragon roars.
Viserys slowly closed his eyes, spreading his arms wide as if embracing the moment, reveling in the glory of dragons soaring in unison.
Moved by their king, the nobles lifted their gazes skyward, witnessing firsthand the legendary dragons in flight.
Among them, the more superstitious ones began whispering—
Were the Targaryens seeking to awaken the Fourteen Flames and revive the fallen Freehold Empire?
White clouds drifted across the heavens.
Rhaegar stood tall against the mist swirling around him, his posture unwavering as he called out:
"Devourer, descend!"
Bathed in the golden sunlight, man and dragon seemed like divine beings.
The other dragons responded with fierce roars, scattering to find suitable places to land.
Whoosh—
Devourer was the first to touch down, sending waves of scorching heat rippling across the plaza, lifting noblewomen's skirts with the force.
Rhaegar's gaze remained steady as he leapt down from his black-scaled dragon's back.
Syrax landed beside him.
Rhaenyra, her silver hair coiled neatly at the back of her head, wore a flowing black gown, cradling two swaddled infants in her arms.
"Princess!"
Baela dismounted from Moondancer, quickly rushing forward to take one of the infants from her.
Rhaena and young Daeron, who had arrived on Tessarion, were a step behind, obediently carrying the other.
Meanwhile, the other Targaryen dragonriders also dismounted in succession.
The elder generation—Rhaenys and Daemon.
The younger generation—Aegon, Helaena, Aemond.
The entire Targaryen royal family had assembled, eleven sets of violet eyes scanning the crowd.
Rhaegar took Rhaenyra's hand and stepped up to Viserys, his voice low.
"Father."
"Let's proceed."
Viserys smiled, a deep sense of relief flashing in his eyes as he placed a hand on his eldest son's shoulder.
With Rhaegar supporting his father, they walked solemnly toward the gathered lords and ministers.
Rhaenyra, arm in arm with Rhaegar, met the nobles' gazes without hesitation, her icy stare unwavering.
One by one, they lowered their heads in reverence, stepping aside to clear a path.
Flanked by Rhaenys, Daemon, and others, the father, son, and sister moved forward, step by step.
"The succession ceremony officially begins!"
Leonor announced as the royal family reached the forefront.
Stepping forward, Erryk and Arryk, twin brothers of the Kingsguard, knelt with two crowns resting upon velvet cushions.
Viserys cast a sidelong glance.
One was Aegon the Conqueror's Valyrian steel crown, the other, the golden crown he had inherited from the late King Jaehaerys.
Without hesitation, he took the red-gemmed Valyrian steel crown, handing it to the waiting High Septon.
The High Septon's face went pale, his hands trembling as he accepted the weighty crown and, in a quivering voice, began the sacred proclamation:
"In the name of the Seven, I hereby declare…"
He recited a long-winded blessing before officially proclaiming:
"King Viserys I Targaryen has abdicated. Long live King Rhaegar I Targaryen!"
Rhaegar remained silent, allowing the High Septon to anoint him with sacred oils and personally conduct the coronation.
The crown was raised above his head, about to be placed upon him.
But at the crucial moment—
Rhaegar calmly drew his sword, brushing aside the High Septon's hands.
The entire hall fell into stunned silence as he declared:
"There is no need for the Seven. I will do it myself."
With that, he seized Aegon's crown, ignoring the faint flickers of displeasure in some of the gathered nobles' eyes.
He raised the crown high above his head—
With a slight pause, the crown was formally placed.
Silence!
A deathly silence, as if the air itself had frozen.
Elyque placed one hand over his chest, pounding it as he shouted, "Welcome, King Rhaegar I of House Targaryen! King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men! Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm—Long May He Reign!"
The next moment—
Clap! Clap! Clap!
The nobles' eyes sparkled as they erupted into thunderous applause.
"Long live His Majesty!"
"Long live Rhaegar I!"
The cheers echoed throughout the hall.
Rhaegar remained composed, raising his sword toward the grand throne room as he spoke in High Valyrian: "Glutton, burn!"
Boom! Boom!
Glutton, its massive wings pressing against the floor, loomed over the other dragons as it slowly and powerfully crawled forward.
Until its enormous head cast a shadow over the nobles, its long neck lowered slightly, and its maw pointed toward the Iron Throne.
Hiss—Screech!
A torrent of eerie green dragonfire burst forth, instantly melting the Iron Throne.
Before everyone's eyes, the throne that had ruled Westeros for over a century sizzled and dripped into a pool of molten iron.
Rhaegar lifted his gaze, the ruby in his sword, Trueflame, gleaming brilliantly as he whispered the Dragonstone incantation.
Sizzle…
The crimson molten iron began to shift, cooling and solidifying into the rough outline of a new throne, formed by a long staircase.
At the perfect moment, a team of blacksmiths stepped forward, hammering away with rhythmic clangs, reshaping the Iron Throne's appearance.
Rhaegar took Viserys's hand, meeting his complex violet gaze as he softly murmured, "A chair is just a chair. Even if it's made of iron, it shouldn't torment the one who sits upon it."
Viserys stared blankly, his eyes gradually turning red as he choked out, "My child..."
"You are still the king. I am only ruling in your stead."
Rhaegar managed a confident smile, then turned to Daemon and the others, motioning with Trueflame.
Daemon glanced at his brother before stepping forward of his own accord.
Kneeling on one knee between his brother and nephew, he lowered his proud head. "Your Majesty!"
No one could tell whom he was addressing.
Rhaegar looked down at him with a smile, resting Trueflame on his shoulder as he spoke gently, "Daemon Targaryen, in the name of Rhaegar I, I name you Prince of Tyrosh and Governor of the Narrow Sea."
Daemon's expression darkened as he raised his head to look at his nephew. "As you command."
Rhaegar personally helped him to his feet before proceeding to grant titles to Aegon and Aemond.
Aegon was named Prince of the Stepstones and Warden of the Narrow Sea.
Aemond was made Lord of Stonehelm and Warden of the Dornish Marches.
Finally, Rhaegar's gaze fell upon Rhaenyra.
He took the golden crown from Aric's hands—no words were needed.
Rhaenyra met his gaze, her eyes rippling with emotion.
Baenira and Rhaenya, each holding a swaddled infant, stood closest to them.
They bore witness as the golden crown was placed atop their mother's head.
Rhaegar took a step back, watching as Rhaenyra wore the crown, his voice rising with each word:
"I, Rhaegar Targaryen I, declare the coronation ceremony complete!"
"The dragons shall usher in a new future!"
As soon as his words fell—
The dragons stretched their necks skyward and let out a unified, earth-shaking roar.
(End of Chapter)