Rayder inclined his head at last, his expression unreadable. "Very well," he said, voice low and deliberate. "I will accept your terms."
The words sounded calm, even reasonable, but those present could feel the suppressed force beneath them—like the stillness of a sea just before the storm breaks.
Thus, after a brutal clash of dragons that had nearly ended in annihilation, both sides reached a fragile reconciliation. It was not true peace. It was the kind of truce where every hand hovered near the sword hilt, every dragon's eye watched for a spark. Neither Jaehaerys nor Rayder trusted the other, and that distrust lay across the chamber like a heavy fog.
Rhaenys and young Lannael, both grievously wounded, were tended to in silence. The memory of fire, blood, and torn wings haunted the Targaryens. Each glance at their injured dragons was a reminder that this uneasy agreement balanced upon the edge of a knife.
Because the transfer of Maidenpool required time for arrangements, Jaehaerys could not permit Rayder to leave Dragonstone immediately. The king insisted he remain within the island's walls until the matter was formalized.
Rayder accepted without protest. In truth, he welcomed the delay. Dragonstone was the cradle of Targaryen power, a stronghold steeped in history and legend, home to more dragons than any place in the known world. To linger here was to seize opportunity.
As he was escorted to his temporary quarters, Rayder's mind turned. A fortress of dragons… a kingdom's beating heart. If chance presents itself, could I not steal away with a hatchling? Or slay one of their beasts and test the harvest of power?
His thoughts carried no naivety. He knew the Targaryens were not to be underestimated. He had survived this far by suspicion and caution. Kidora, his three-headed demon dragon, shadowed him like an unyielding sentinel, its three necks twisting to survey every corridor, every soldier, every shadow.
Poison in his wine or food? Rayder dismissed the thought with contempt. His own body, strengthened by energy beyond Westerosi comprehension, could neutralize most toxins. Only an instant deathblow might fell him—and even then, Kidora would avenge him with ruin.
No, Rayder would not be so easily undone. He was a predator at rest, but his claws remained sharp. Outwardly he accepted the king's hospitality; inwardly he measured every hall, every chamber, every dragon's roar echoing across Dragonstone's cliffs.
Night fell slowly, like black velvet draped across the world. The sea winds rolled in, cold and damp, rattling shutters and carrying with them the salt-heavy breath of the Narrow Sea.
Rayder bathed, washing away smoke and blood. He donned a robe of soft cloth hastily prepared by servants, then lay upon a bed so deep and welcoming it seemed to swallow him. For the first time in many days, true comfort seeped into his bones.
He stretched, sighed long and slow, and whispered, "So this is how kings sleep. Perhaps… I could get used to this."
Kidora curled nearby, massive coils shifting like a mountain at rest. The dragon's three heads lowered one by one, though even in drowsiness each pair of glowing eyes flicked open at the slightest noise. Sometimes one snout extended, sniffing Rayder's scent to ensure his safety. To others, Kidora was nightmare incarnate; to Rayder, it was both shield and companion.
While Rayder surrendered to slumber, the other side of Dragonstone lay restless.
In a high chamber lit by wavering torches, King Jaehaerys sat at the head of a long table. His face, once strong and kingly, bore the weight of years and fatigue. The dragonrider who had ruled longer than any Targaryen before him now seemed carved of stone worn by storms. Beside him sat Queen Alysanne, her eyes rimmed with red from worry.
Opposite them sat their grandson, Daemon, shoulders squared in silent fury, and Rhaenys, pale from her wounds yet burning with indignation.
Rayder's arrival had unsettled more than the day's peace. His three-headed monstrosity was an abomination that threatened to shatter the Targaryen's greatest secret: their monopoly on dragons.
For centuries, dragons had been the dynasty's unanswerable weapon, the foundation upon which the Iron Throne itself rested. Should dragons become common, should others learn to hatch or tame them, the cornerstone of Targaryen supremacy would crumble into dust.
The chamber's silence stretched until Jaehaerys spoke. His voice was quiet, but his command was absolute.
"Daemon," he said, lifting weary eyes to his grandson, "from this night forth you will keep watch upon Rayder. He is not to approach our dragons—not even the hatchlings, not even the eggs. If he so much as walks toward the pits, you will stop him. Day and night, vigilance. No lapse."
Daemon bowed his head, though anger simmered in his eyes. "It will be done, grandsire."
The old king continued. "At the same time, test him. Place a dragon egg in his presence. Learn if he can rouse it. If he possesses the power to hatch dragons… we must know. This matter may decide the fate of our line."
A heavy silence followed, each of them picturing what it would mean if Rayder could indeed call forth new dragons.
It was Queen Alysanne who broke the silence, her voice soft yet deliberate.
"There is another way," she said carefully. "Perhaps we might bind him through blood, rather than steel. If one of our house were wed to him, his dragon would in time belong to us. His power would be folded into our own, not arrayed against it."
The words fell like stones into still water.
Rhaenys rose abruptly, the color flooding her pale cheeks. "No!" she cried. "Never! That man sought to kill my Meleys—my heart's own flame! He nearly slew my beloved, and you would tie me to him? I would sooner leap from the battlements."
Daemon slammed his fist against the table. "I agree! To bind him by marriage is folly. You would give him claim to the Iron Throne itself! With his monster of a beast, who could deny him then? One misstep, and it will be his crown, not ours."
Alysanne's lips tightened, but she did not rebuke them. The Queen understood their fear; yet she also saw the necessity of options.
Jaehaerys listened, silent for a time. The thought of marriage had crossed his own mind, but his children's fury laid bare the peril. To wed Rayder into their line might secure peace today—but tomorrow it could deliver their throne into alien hands.
The king leaned back heavily, closing his eyes for a moment. He was weary, not just from age, but from the endless storm of choices that seemed only to offer ruin whichever way he turned.
He opened his eyes at last and studied them—Alysanne's worried face, Daemon's stern defiance, Rhaenys's righteous anger. His voice, when it came, was resolute.
"No," Jaehaerys declared. "We shall not bind him to our blood. The risk is too great. Instead, when we return to King's Landing, we will call a Great Council. There, before lords and ladies of Westeros, we will decide the future of the Iron Throne."
The words rippled through the chamber like thunder. A Great Council—summoning the realm to determine the line of succession—was a step not taken lightly.
Rhaenys and Daemon exchanged glances. Surprise flickered across their faces, mingled with cautious acceptance. This was the old king's most traditional path, the surest way to preserve legitimacy.
Jaehaerys continued, his tone softer now but still firm. "The Targaryen line must endure, no matter the storms that gather. We will not falter, nor yield our claim to pretenders. Let the lords of Westeros see our strength, our unity, and our right."
His words were both a vow and a plea, cast into the uncertain night.
Beyond the castle walls, the waves of the Narrow Sea crashed endlessly against Dragonstone's cliffs, as if echoing the turmoil within. Somewhere in the darkness, dragons stirred restlessly, their roars rolling across the skies.
And in another wing of the fortress, Rayder slept soundly beneath velvet covers, a wolf amidst lambs, dreaming not of peace but of conquest.
The fragile truce held—for now.
But in Dragonstone's halls, decisions had been made. And decisions, once spoken by kings, had the power to shape dynasties, to shatter kingdoms, and to decide who would one day sit the Iron Throne.
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