# The Dragonpit - King's Landing, 105 AC
The morning sky above King's Landing blazed with the sort of crystalline blue that made even the capital's perpetual haze of smoke and humanity seem somehow majestic. From his perch atop Vermithor's massive neck, eight-year-old Prince Jaehaerys could see the entire city spread below them like a living map—the Red Keep's crimson towers catching the sunlight, the Great Sept's seven crystal domes gleaming like captured stars, and the sprawling maze of streets and alleys that housed nearly half a million souls.
The Bronze Fury had grown prodigiously in the two and a half years since their first flight. Where once Vermithor had been merely large, he was now colossal—his wingspan rivaling that of the legendary Balerion, his bronze scales gleaming like polished armor in the morning light. The dragonkeepers whispered that he had surpassed even ancient Vhagar in size, making him officially the largest living dragon in the world. Every beat of his wings sent tremors through the air that could be felt from miles away.
**"Gīda, Vermithor,"** Jaehaerys called in perfect High Valyrian, his young voice carrying the authority that had marked his relationship with the great beast since childhood. **"Sōvegon nyke naejot se jēdar."** *Steady, Vermithor. Show me the streets.*
The massive bronze dragon responded with a rumbling purr that vibrated through his rider's bones, banking gracefully to provide a better view of the tournament preparations below. From this height, the workers looked like ants, scurrying about their tasks with the focused intensity of creatures preparing for something momentous.
"Show off," Jaehaerys called to his cousin in the Common Tongue, though his tone carried affection rather than reproach. His voice had begun to deepen slightly, carrying hints of the commanding presence that would mark his adult years. "Syrax is going to exhaust herself trying to match Vermithor's maneuvers."
Nine-year-old Princess Rhaenyra laughed from atop her golden dragon, the sound bright and clear despite the wind rushing past them at tremendous speed. Her silver-gold hair streamed behind her like a banner, and her violet eyes sparkled with the sort of mischief that had been getting her into trouble since she could walk. She sat her dragon with unconscious grace, as natural in the saddle as other children were on foot.
"She's not trying to match his maneuvers," Rhaenyra called back, her voice carrying the confidence that came from royal birth and dragon blood. "She's trying to prove that size isn't everything. Watch this!"
**"Syrax, jēdar!"** she commanded in High Valyrian. **"Kipagon nyke!"** *Syrax, dive! Follow me!*
The golden dragon responded instantly, folding her wings and dropping like a stone. But this was no mere descent—Syrax suddenly dove beneath Vermithor's massive belly, rolling inverted as she threaded the narrow space between his legs with heart-stopping precision. The maneuver brought her within inches of the bronze dragon's scales, close enough that Rhaenyra could have reached out and touched Vermithor's hide.
"Seven hells, Rhaenyra!" Jaehaerys shouted, his usual composure cracking as he watched his cousin perform what was essentially aerial suicide. "Are you trying to give the dragonkeepers heart failure?"
Syrax pulled up in a tight spiral that brought her alongside Vermithor's great head, her golden scales gleaming as she executed a perfect barrel roll just to show she could. The maneuver was so precisely executed, so breathtakingly dangerous, that several of the dragonkeepers visible far below made warding signs against disaster.
"Oh, please," Rhaenyra replied with the casual arrogance that marked all her interactions with authority figures who weren't immediate family. "Syrax knows exactly what she's doing. Don't you, beautiful?"
**"Gevie,"** she crooned to her dragon in High Valyrian, reaching forward to stroke golden scales that shimmered like liquid sunlight. **"Iksā se olvie gevie zaldrīzes hen se riña."** *Beautiful. You are the most beautiful dragon in the realm.*
The golden dragon crooned in response, banking gracefully to avoid one of Vermithor's wing-tips as the massive bronze dragon adjusted his flight path with the careful precision of a creature that understood his own size. There was something almost playful in the interaction between the two creatures—the careful way Vermithor moved to accommodate Syrax's acrobatics, the obvious delight both dragons took in their aerial dance.
"Father would be proud," Jaehaerys observed with dry humor that seemed far too sophisticated for his eight years. His green eyes held depths that spoke of wisdom beyond his age, as if ancient knowledge moved behind his youthful features. "His soon-to-be daughter-by-marriage has inherited his complete disregard for sensible precautions and his flair for the dramatically unnecessary."
"I prefer to think of it as inherited Targaryen excellence," Rhaenyra replied with dignity that was somewhat undermined by the way Syrax chose that moment to execute another barrel roll that left her rider temporarily inverted. Her laughter rang out across the sky, wild and free and utterly unrepentant.
"Besides," she continued once she was right-side up again, "someone needs to demonstrate proper dragon-riding technique to the watching crowds. The tourneys bring visitors from across the Seven Kingdoms—they should see what Targaryen dragonriders can truly accomplish."
"And what would that be?" Jaehaerys asked with the sort of dry wit that would have been remarkable in an adult, let alone a child. "Death-defying stunts performed for the entertainment of gawking merchants and minor lordlings?"
"Mastery," Rhaenyra replied simply, and for a moment her voice carried the steel that would one day make her a queen. "Complete and utter mastery over the greatest predators ever to exist. When they see us ride, they don't just see children playing games. They see the future of Westeros, and they remember why dragons rule."
She guided Syrax into a steep climb, the golden dragon's wings beating with powerful strokes that carried them higher above the city. From this height, King's Landing looked almost beautiful—the sprawling chaos of humanity reduced to patterns of light and shadow that pleased the eye rather than offending it.
"Race you to the Dragonpit," she called down to her cousin. "Last one there has to sit through Father's entire speech about the importance of 'measured restraint in matters of state.'"
"That's hardly fair," Jaehaerys replied, but he was already leaning forward in his saddle. **"Vermithor, sōvegon!"** he commanded. **"Māzigon, zaldrīzes. Kipagon nyke!"** *Vermithor, fly! Come, dragon. Follow me!*
The Bronze Fury responded with enthusiasm that belied his massive size, his wings beating with earth-shaking power that sent gusts of wind rippling outward in all directions. Despite his bulk, Vermithor possessed a grace in flight that was breathtaking to witness—each movement perfectly calculated, every adjustment of wing and tail flowing seamlessly into the next.
But Syrax had youth and agility on her side. The golden dragon darted between clouds like a swallow, her smaller size allowing for rapid changes of direction that Vermithor simply couldn't match. She spiraled around her larger companion's body, weaving between his wings with the sort of precision that spoke of perfect understanding between dragon and rider.
"You know," Jaehaerys called out as Vermithor's powerful wingbeats slowly began to close the distance, "I'm beginning to suspect that my Father has been giving you flying lessons when no one else is around."
"What makes you think that?" Rhaenyra replied innocently, though the way Syrax suddenly dropped into a controlled dive that brought her just above the rooftops suggested considerable advanced training.
"Oh, I don't know," Jaehaerys said conversationally. "Perhaps it's the way you just performed a combat evasion maneuver that I'm fairly certain isn't taught in standard dragonriding instruction."
Rhaenyra's laughter carried on the wind as she pulled Syrax out of the dive with casual expertise. "Uncle Daemon says that proper Targaryen princes and princesses should know how to fight from dragonback, not just how to look impressive at ceremonies. He's been teaching me things the dragonkeepers would never approve of."
"Such as?"
"Such as this!"
Syrax suddenly banked hard to the right, rolling inverted before diving beneath Vermithor once again. But this time, instead of simply threading between his legs, she climbed sharply on the other side, her claws extended as if raking an imaginary enemy. The maneuver was clearly military in nature—an attack pattern designed to disable a larger opponent through speed and surprise.
"That," Jaehaerys observed with the sort of calm that indicated nothing his cousin did could truly surprise him anymore, "is definitely not standard flying."
"Standard flying is boring," Rhaenyra replied, bringing Syrax alongside Vermithor once more. "Uncle Daemon says that dragons are weapons, not parade animals. We should know how to use them properly."
"And what does Uncle Viserys think of Father's... supplemental education program?"
Rhaenyra's expression grew slightly guilty. "Well, Father doesn't exactly know about the combat training. Uncle Daemon thought it might be better to wait until we're a bit older before mentioning those particular lessons."
"Ah," Jaehaerys said with understanding. "One of those 'what Father doesn't know won't hurt him' situations."
"Precisely."
As if summoned by their conversation about discretion, the great bronze dome of the Dragonpit rose before them, its ancient stones scarred by centuries of dragon fire and the passage of countless winged inhabitants. The morning light caught the intricate carvings that decorated its walls—dragons in flight, dragons at rest, dragons locked in combat, all rendered with the skill of master craftsmen who had understood that they were creating a monument to power itself.
The massive structure dominated the hill on which it sat, its bronze dome green with age but still magnificent in the morning light. Smaller buildings clustered around its base—quarters for the dragonkeepers, storage facilities for feed and equipment, workshops where the great chains were forged and maintained. It was a city within the city, devoted entirely to the care and housing of the Targaryen dragons.
**"Māzigon, Vermithor,"** Jaehaerys commanded as they approached the landing grounds. **"Tepagon nyke naejot se tegun."** *Come, Vermithor. Take me to the ground.*
The Bronze Fury's landing shook the earth like a small earthquake, his massive talons scraping furrows in the stone floor as he settled with the sort of earth-shaking impact that reminded everyone present why dragons had conquered kingdoms. Dust rose in clouds around him, and the other dragons housed in the pit responded to his presence with calls that ranged from respectful acknowledgment to outright deference.
A chorus of roars and cries echoed from the depths of the Dragonpit as the resident dragons announced their awareness of the Bronze Fury's return. From the deeper chambers came the sound of ancient Vhagar stirring, her voice carrying the weight of centuries. Younger dragons added their own calls—Meleys the Red Queen, Caraxes the Blood Wyrm, and others whose voices blended into a symphony of draconic greeting.
Syrax landed with considerably more grace, her smaller size allowing for the sort of delicate precision that looked effortless but required perfect coordination between dragon and rider. She folded her golden wings with obvious satisfaction, preening slightly as several dragonkeepers approached with the mixture of professional respect and barely controlled nervousness that marked all their interactions with the great beasts.
"Magnificent as always, my lady," one of the younger keepers murmured as he approached Syrax with the specialized ladder used for dismounting. The golden dragon allowed him to approach, though her great golden eyes tracked his every movement with predatory awareness.
Master Arrax emerged from the shadows of the great bronze doors, his weathered face masked in bronze as was traditional for his station. The ancient Valyrian custom had persisted even in King's Landing, where the dragonkeepers maintained the old ways with religious devotion. His robes were deep red and black, marked with the sigil of his office—a dragon rampant wreathed in flame.
**"Nyke jorrāelagon ao, Dārilaros Jaehaerys,"** the old dragonkeeper said in heavily accented High Valyrian, bowing as deeply as his aged spine would allow. **"Se Bronz Fury iksos ēdruta, yn zūgagon. Ziry urnēbagon zirȳla tegon skoriot ao issi daor kesīr."** *I greet you, Prince Jaehaerys. The Bronze Fury is healthy, but restless. He paces his chamber when you are not here.*
Jaehaerys slid down from Vermithor's saddle with practiced ease, his movements carrying the fluid confidence of someone who had been riding dragons for years rather than seasons. Though he still required the rope ladder that the keepers provided for safety, he moved with the sort of natural athleticism that suggested he would be formidable in physical pursuits as he grew older.
**"Nyke gīmigon,"** Jaehaerys replied in perfect High Valyrian, his accent carrying the pure tones of Old Valyria that few could master. **"Ziry brōzagon hen se jēdar. Morghon tubī kostagon sagon olvie bē hen zirȳla."** *I know. He dreams of the sky. Two days can be too much for him.*
The boy reached up to stroke one massive bronze nostril, his small hand dwarfed by the scale it touched. Vermithor rumbled deep in his chest, a sound that vibrated through stone and bone alike. To most observers, it was merely dragon speech, incomprehensible but somehow meaningful. But Jaehaerys tilted his head slightly, as if listening to words that only he could understand.
**"Skoros gaomagon ao jiōragon nyke, uēpa raqiros?"** he asked the great dragon quietly. **"Skoros emagon ao ūndetan?"** *What do you tell me, old friend? What have you seen?*
Vermithor's response was a complex series of rumbles and growls that seemed almost conversational in nature. The dragonkeepers exchanged glances, clearly uncomfortable with the apparent communication taking place between boy and beast.
"Master Arrax," Jaehaerys said in the Common Tongue as he turned back to the senior dragonkeeper, "Vermithor has been having... interesting dreams. Dreams of places beyond the known maps, lands where dragons once flew in great formations like flocks of birds. But he also says those dreams will have to wait—there are duties here that must be fulfilled first."
Master Arrax's bronze mask couldn't hide the concern in his aged eyes. "The Bronze Fury grows larger still, young prince. Larger than any dragon in living memory save perhaps Balerion himself in his prime. The ancient chains that once bound such creatures... they were forged for smaller beasts. If Vermithor chose to leave this place, I fear nothing we possess could prevent it."
"He won't leave," Jaehaerys said with absolute confidence, his green eyes holding depths that seemed far too ancient for someone his age. "Will you, old friend? This is where we belong, where we're needed. Though perhaps we might arrange for more flying time, and longer distances. The Narrow Sea grows small when viewed from dragonback."
Princess Rhaenyra approached, having dismounted from Syrax with her characteristic grace. Her riding leathers were cut in the latest court fashion but designed for practical use rather than mere display—deep purple and black silk over sturdy leather that could withstand the rigors of dragonback flight. Her silver-gold hair was braided in the complex patterns favored by Targaryen women, though wisps had escaped during their aerial adventures to frame her face in a way that made her look younger than her nine years.
"Duties," she said with the slight smile that indicated she found her cousin's conversations with dragons both fascinating and faintly amusing. "Is he referring to the tourney, or something more significant?"
"Both," Jaehaerys replied without hesitation, his voice carrying that odd quality of seeming older than his years. "The realm watches today. Lords and ladies from every kingdom, foreign dignitaries, merchants and sellswords and sailors from across the known world. They come to celebrate the promised birth of another Targaryen prince, but they also come to see dragons. To be reminded of why our family rules and others serve."
His expression grew distant as it often did when he seemed to be processing information from sources the rest of them couldn't access. "And some come with darker purposes. There are whispers in the shadows, plots that require careful watching. The tourney provides excellent cover for those who would prefer their meetings to remain unobserved."
"You've been talking to Uncle Daemon again," Rhaenyra observed with fond exasperation, though there was pride in her voice as well. "He's filling your head with tales of conspiracies and secret enemies. You're eight years old, Jaehaerys—you shouldn't be worried about court intrigue and political machinations."
"Age doesn't determine capability," Jaehaerys replied with a slight smile that transformed his usually serious expression. When he smiled like that, he looked almost like a normal child—almost. "And ignoring potential threats doesn't make them disappear. Father teaches me to observe and analyze because those skills will be essential when I'm grown. Better to learn them now, when the stakes are relatively low, than to develop them during a crisis when mistakes could prove fatal."
Master Arrax and the other dragonkeepers exchanged glances that spoke volumes about their growing unease with the young prince's unusual development. Dragons they could understand, even predict to some degree. But a child who spoke like a seasoned spymaster while commanding the largest dragon in the world... that was something new and potentially troubling.
"Your escort awaits, young prince, young princess," Master Arrax said diplomatically, gesturing toward the great bronze doors that led out of the Dragonpit. His heavily accented Common Tongue carried the formal tones of someone who had spent decades in service to the royal family. "The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and Lady Alicent arrived some time ago. They seemed most eager to ensure your timely arrival at the Red Keep."
Indeed, as they walked toward the entrance—their boots echoing in the vast chamber while dragons called to each other in the depths below—they could see the familiar figures waiting beside an ornate carriage bearing the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. The vehicle was a masterwork of craftsmanship, its black lacquered wood inlaid with gold and red designs that caught the morning light. Six matched horses in royal livery stamped impatiently, their breath steaming in the cool air.
Ser Harrold Westerling stood with the perfect posture that had characterized his bearing throughout decades of faithful service, his white cloak pristine despite the morning's activities. The Kingsguard was a man who seemed carved from stone—tall, broad-shouldered, with a weathered face that spoke of countless battles fought in service to the realm. His presence commanded respect even from those who outranked him, a testament to a lifetime of unquestionable loyalty and skill.
Beside him, seventeen-year-old Alicent Hightower waited with the serene patience that had made her increasingly valuable as a diplomatic intermediary between various court factions. She had grown into a striking young woman whose beauty was enhanced rather than diminished by the intelligence that shone in her dark eyes. Her auburn hair was arranged in the elaborate style favored by ladies of the court, and her gown was elegant but practical—deep green silk that complemented her coloring while allowing for the sort of movement that court duties required.
"Ser Harrold!" Rhaenyra called out with genuine affection as they approached, her voice carrying across the courtyard with the sort of enthusiasm that marked all her interactions with people she actually liked. "Please tell me you haven't been standing in the sun for hours waiting for us to finish our flying lesson. You know how Syrax loves to show off when she has a proper audience."
The grizzled knight's weathered face creaked into what might have been a smile, though his expression remained professionally neutral. His voice carried the deep, gravelly tones of a man who had spent a lifetime shouting orders over the din of battle.
"Princess, your concern for my comfort is noted and appreciated," he rumbled, his Scottish burr lending gravity to even casual conversation. "Though I confess watching dragon flights never grows tiresome, regardless of how many years one spends in service to your house. There's something about seeing those great beasts take to the sky that reminds an old soldier why he chose to serve the dragon kings rather than any other lord."
His steel-gray eyes moved to Jaehaerys with the mixture of respect and wariness that had characterized his interactions with the boy since the dramatic events at Dragonstone. "Prince Jaehaerys, your father specifically requested that you arrive at the Red Keep in sufficient time to review the day's security arrangements. Apparently there are certain... considerations that require your particular insights."
"Uncle Daemon's been training him as a page," Rhaenyra explained to Alicent as they approached the carriage, her voice carrying obvious pride in her cousin's accomplishments. "Teaching him everything about commanding the Gold Cloaks, reading the city's moods, identifying potential threats before they develop into actual problems. It's quite remarkable, really—the way he can analyze crowd dynamics and predict where trouble is most likely to occur."
Alicent studied Jaehaerys with the careful attention she had learned to pay to potentially significant details, her dark eyes missing nothing as she catalogued his appearance and bearing. At seventeen, she possessed the sort of refined beauty that came from good breeding and careful cultivation, but there was steel beneath the silk—a sharp intelligence that marked her as her father's daughter in more than just appearance.
"Remarkable indeed," she said carefully, her voice carrying the measured tones of someone trained in the art of diplomatic conversation. "Though I confess some concern about placing such responsibilities on someone so young. Surely there are grown men with years of experience who could handle security arrangements for the tourney?"
"Experience helps," Jaehaerys agreed as he accepted Ser Harrold's assistance into the carriage, his movements carrying unconscious dignity despite his youth. "But sometimes fresh perspectives can identify problems that familiarity has made invisible. Father says that city guards grow comfortable with their routines, start seeing what they expect to see rather than what's actually there. An outside observer can sometimes spot patterns that professional watchmen miss."
He settled into the cushioned seat with the sort of natural grace that suggested royal blood, already wearing the sort of court attire that marked his growing status despite his youth—well-tailored doublet in Targaryen black and red, a small sword at his hip that was functional rather than ceremonial, boots designed for both elegance and practicality. Everything about his appearance spoke of careful preparation for a role he was still growing into.
"And what patterns have you identified in preparation for today's festivities?" Alicent asked as the carriage began moving toward the Red Keep, the wheels clattering over cobblestones worn smooth by centuries of use. Her tone was conversational, but Jaehaerys noticed the way she watched his face for reactions, cataloguing his responses with the thoroughness of someone trained to gather information.
"The usual concerns magnified by the scale of the event," he replied diplomatically, though his green eyes held depths that suggested he was considering far more than he was saying. "Pickpockets and cutpurses drawn by the crowds and the promise of wealthy visitors. Drunken fights between rival houses brought into proximity by tournament seating arrangements. The potential for accidents when large numbers of people gather in spaces not designed for such crowds."
He paused, his expression growing thoughtful in that way that always made adults around him slightly uncomfortable. "Though there are also more subtle considerations. Foreign dignitaries provide excellent cover for those engaged in activities they'd prefer to keep private. Trade negotiations that circumvent royal oversight, marriage arrangements that might complicate existing alliances, information exchanges that could affect the balance of power between various factions."
"You sound like a spymaster rather than a child," Alicent observed, and there was something in her voice that suggested she wasn't entirely comfortable with what she was hearing. Her dark eyes studied his face with the intensity of someone trying to solve a particularly complex puzzle.
"I sound like someone who's been educated to understand how the world actually works," Jaehaerys corrected gently, his tone carrying no offense at her observation. "Father believes that ignorance breeds vulnerability. Better to understand potential threats and prepare for them than to remain innocent and be surprised when difficulties arise."
"Your father has certainly given you a unique education," Ser Harrold said diplomatically, though his tone carried notes of concern about the appropriateness of exposing a child to such worldly considerations. His weathered hands gripped his sword hilt with the unconscious gesture of a man who had learned to expect trouble from unexpected sources.
"Necessary education," Rhaenyra interjected with loyalty that brooked no argument, her violet eyes flashing with the sort of protective fire that had marked Targaryen women throughout history. "Jaehaerys will need these skills when he's grown. Royal children can't afford the luxury of prolonged innocence—too many people depend on our ability to govern effectively."
The carriage rolled through the gates of the Red Keep, past guards who snapped to attention with parade-ground precision and servants who bowed as they recognized the royal passengers. Through the windows, they could see the controlled chaos of preparation for the day's events—pavilions being erected in the great courtyard, banners hung from every available surface, food and wine being transported in quantities that spoke of truly massive celebration.
The Red Keep itself loomed above them, its towers reaching toward the sky like grasping fingers. The ancient fortress had been built to impress as much as to defend, its red stone walls designed to project power and permanence. Centuries of Targaryen rule had left their mark on the structure—dragon motifs carved into walls, tapestries depicting great victories, the skulls of long-dead dragons mounted in places of honor.
"Speaking of education," Alicent said as they climbed toward the main keep, her voice carrying the sort of careful neutrality that suggested she was probing for information, "I've been meaning to ask about your lessons, Jaehaerys. The maesters report that your progress continues to be... exceptional. Maester Mellos mentioned that you've mastered High Valyrian grammar more completely than most adults, and the new septon speaks highly of your understanding of history and law."
"Books are easier than people," Jaehaerys replied with a slight smile that made him look almost like a normal child—almost. "Words on parchment don't have hidden motivations or ulterior purposes. They simply convey information that can be analyzed and understood without worrying about political implications or personal agendas."
"And yet you seem quite skilled at reading people as well," Alicent pressed, her dark eyes studying his face with the intensity of someone trying to understand something that didn't quite make sense. "Your insights about court dynamics, your ability to predict how various lords and ladies will respond to different situations—those require understanding human nature rather than just academic knowledge."
Jaehaerys was quiet for a moment, his expression growing distant in that way that always made the adults around him slightly uncomfortable. When he spoke, his voice carried that odd quality of seeming older than his years, as if ancient wisdom moved behind his childish features.
"People aren't actually that complicated once you understand their fundamental motivations," he said finally, his tone carrying the sort of matter-of-fact certainty that was both impressive and unsettling. "Fear, ambition, love, duty, pride—most human behavior can be predicted once you identify which of these drives predominates in any given individual. The challenge isn't understanding people, it's helping them understand themselves well enough to make better choices."
"That's a rather cynical view for someone your age," Alicent observed, though her voice carried curiosity rather than criticism.
"Is it cynical to acknowledge that people act according to their nature?" Jaehaerys asked in return. "I prefer to think of it as practical. When you understand what motivates someone, you can work with them more effectively. You can help them achieve their goals in ways that also serve the greater good. That's what governing is, really—finding ways to align individual interests with the needs of the realm."
Ser Harrold cleared his throat, the sound carrying volumes about his opinion of eight-year-old princes discussing the nature of governance with the confidence of seasoned administrators. "Aye, well, whatever philosophy you've developed, young prince, your father will be pleased that you've arrived with sufficient time to review the security arrangements before the festivities begin."
The carriage drew to a halt before the main entrance to the Red Keep, where more guards waited to escort them inside. The great doors stood open, revealing glimpses of the opulent interior—tapestries worth a lord's ransom, suits of armor that had belonged to legendary knights, weapons that had decided the fate of kingdoms. Through the entrance, they could already hear the sounds of preparation—servants calling instructions to each other, the clatter of dishes being arranged for the feast, the distant sound of musicians practicing for the evening's entertainment.
"Actually," Jaehaerys said with that slight smile that indicated he knew something the rest of them didn't, his green eyes holding depths that seemed far too ancient for someone his age, "I suspect Uncle Viserys will be more interested in discussing the letter that arrived from Pentos this morning. The one that Lord Otto has been trying to decide whether to share with Uncle Viserys before or after the tourney."
The adults in the carriage exchanged sharp glances, each recognizing the implications of such specific knowledge about private correspondence. Alicent's dark eyes grew particularly thoughtful as she studied the boy's face for clues about how he might have acquired such information. Her father's position as Hand of the King meant she was well aware of the sorts of communications that arrived from the Free Cities, and very few of them were innocent.
"And what," she asked carefully, her voice carrying the sort of measured control that suggested she was walking on dangerous ground, "do you know about correspondence from Pentos?"
Jaehaerys met her gaze directly, his green eyes holding depths that seemed far too ancient for someone his age. There was something unsettling about that direct stare, as if he could see straight through to her soul and catalog every secret she'd ever kept.
"I know that some letters arrive at exactly the right moment to complicate decisions that powerful men would prefer to make without interference," he said quietly. "And I know that timing is rarely coincidental when it comes to matters of state. Someone in Pentos has been watching events in King's Landing very carefully, and they've chosen today—when the realm's attention is focused on celebration rather than politics—to make their move."
"Their move?" Rhaenyra asked, her violet eyes sharp with interest. "What sort of move?"
"The kind that changes everything," Jaehaerys replied simply. "The kind that makes celebrations feel hollow and forces kings to make choices they'd rather avoid."
As they stepped down from the carriage and began walking toward the great hall where King Viserys would soon hold court, none of them could have known that they were about to witness events that would reshape the political landscape of the Seven Kingdoms. The morning air carried the scent of change—subtle but unmistakable to those who knew how to read the signs.
The tourney celebrating the promised birth of another Targaryen prince was about to become something far more significant than anyone had planned. And at its center, an eight-year-old boy with impossible green eyes would play a role that would echo through history for generations to come.
The Dance was still years away, but today—on this bright morning with dragons calling overhead and the scent of change thick in the air—its first real steps would finally begin. In the great hall of the Red Keep, words would be spoken that could not be taken back, decisions made that would bind the realm to a course from which there would be no turning back.
And through it all, Prince Jaehaerys would watch with those ancient eyes, seeing patterns that others missed, understanding consequences that others couldn't imagine, preparing for a future that would test every lesson Uncle Daemon had taught him about power, politics, and the price of ruling dragons in a world that was slowly but inexorably changing around them.
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