POV: Aerys Targaryen
I never liked feasts. They were never something I found myself enjoying. But they were one of the necessities of being a prince — smiling when told, laughing when expected, pretending warmth for people who measured every breath you took.
The feast hall roared with sound. Music clashed against laughter, cups slammed against tables, and the air smelled of roasted meat and sweetwine. Once I stepped inside, the first person I saw was her.
My mother.
"Aerys," Ceryse Hightower said, arms already open. "My son. How is my little dragon?"
She pulled me into an embrace before I could answer. She smelled of perfume and smoke.
"I saw you and Caraxes flying over the city," she continued. "Half the court ran to the windows."
"He enjoys attention," I said. "I tolerate it."
She laughed softly. "You sound more like your father every day. That worries me."
"I'll try to smile more, then," I told her.
"Don't," she said, touching my cheek. "It would frighten them."
A voice cut in behind me. "He frightens them already."
I turned to see my cousin Aegon leaning against a pillar, goblet in hand. He was taller than the last time I'd seen him, all elbows and arrogance, silver hair tied loosely behind his head. His grin was sharp.
"You landed like you meant to crush the city," Aegon said. "Some of the smallfolk screamed."
"They scream at everything," I replied. "Last year they screamed at a comet."
"That comet didn't have teeth," he said.
Before I could answer, Rhaena appeared between us like a blade sliding from its sheath.
"You're both insufferable," she said calmly.
My cousin Rhaena was dressed in black and red, her silver hair braided tight. She carried herself like someone older than fourteen. Her eyes flicked to me.
"You shouldn't enjoy frightening them," she said. "They're our people."
"They're Father's people," Aegon corrected. "Now they're his crown to keep."
"They're not coins to keep," Rhaena snapped. "They're flesh."
I raised a hand. "If we argue politics before the first course, the lords will faint from shock."
Aegon smirked. "They faint from less."
Rhaena studied me for a moment. "You're quiet tonight."
"My grandfather is dead," I said simply.
That silenced them.
Aegon looked down into his wine. "He liked you best," he muttered.
"That's not true."
"It is," Rhaena said gently. "He said you had his fire."
I didn't know what to say to that, so I said nothing.
Music swelled as servants carried in platters stacked high with roasted boar. The smell turned my stomach. Across the hall, my uncle — my king — laughed too loudly at something a lord whispered. His smile looked stretched thin.
Aegon followed my gaze. "Do you think they'll obey him?" he asked quietly.
"For now," I said.
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only honest one."
Rhaena crossed her arms. "They'll obey if we stand together."
Aegon snorted. "You sound like the septons."
"And you sound like a drunk," she shot back.
"I'm practicing for kingship."
"You're practicing for a gutter."
I almost smiled.
Then the hall doors burst open.
Every head turned.
A messenger stumbled inside, mud still clinging to his boots. He dropped to one knee before the high table, breathing hard enough to shake.
"Your Grace," he called. "From the Vale."
The music died.
My uncle rose slowly. "Speak."
The messenger swallowed. "There are banners raised in the mountains. Lords refusing taxes. They say the dragon's rule ended with the Conqueror."
A hush fell over the hall.
I felt Aegon stiffen beside me.
Rhaena's fingers curled into fists.
Across the room, my father did not move — but the air around him seemed to tighten.
The messenger's voice trembled. "They say… they will not bow to a weak king."
No one breathed.
My uncle's face drained of color.
And somewhere high above the city, Caraxes screamed.
The sound rolled through the hall like thunder.
And of course he could feel how I was feeling. Who would dare to mock the dragon.
___________________________________________________________________
After the messenger came, the feast was stopped. The music died, the wine soured in every cup, and the laughter vanished as if it had never existed. One by one, the lords and ladies returned to their chambers, whispers following them like shadows.
My father, the king, my grandmother, and the rest of the Small Council withdrew to decide how this insult would be answered.
Aegon and I remained near the empty tables, servants clearing plates around us.
"What do you think will happen?" Aegon asked.
I scoffed. "They should burn. Plain and simple. They have chosen to defy the House of the Dragon. The only thing they deserve is dragonfire."
Aegon stared at me. "Don't you think we should at least try to talk to them?"
"Talk?" I turned on him. "They have rebelled against our house, Aegon. This is a test the rest of the Seven Kingdoms will watch closely. If we show weakness, they'll take it as proof that dragons are nothing without the Conqueror."
He hesitated. "Or they'll see a king who isn't ruled by fear."
"They should be ruled by fear," I said coldly. "Fear is why we sit the throne at all."
Rhaena appeared beside us, having heard enough. "Fear is also why kings fall," she said.
I met her eyes. "Only weak ones."
She didn't answer.
Above us, Caraxes screamed again, the sound distant but sharp. The hall seemed to shrink around it.
Aegon swallowed. "I hope the council chooses wisely."
"They won't," I said. "They'll choose slowly."
And slow choices got people killed.
Small Council Chamber
The chamber was thick with candle smoke and tension. The painted table of Westeros glowed beneath the flickering light. Aenys stood at its head, his crown resting unevenly, as if it did not yet know how to sit on him.
"They are frightened," he said. "The Vale has always been proud. We must show them they are still heard."
Maegor's fist struck the table. The candles trembled.
"They raised banners," he said. "That is not fear. That is rebellion."
Grand Maester Gawen cleared his throat nervously. "Your Grace, perhaps a delegation—"
"No," Visenya cut in. Her voice was calm, which made it worse. "Send a delegation and every lord in the realm will test you next. Today the Vale. Tomorrow the Reach. Then the Stormlands. You will spend your reign chasing embers until the realm burns."
Aenys rubbed his temples. "I will not begin my rule with slaughter."
Maegor stepped closer. "Then your rule will end with it."
Silence.
The Hand of the King shifted uncomfortably. "There may be… a middle path, Your Grace. A show of strength without immediate bloodshed. Dragons in the sky. Armies marching. A reminder."
Aenys looked up. Hope flickered in his eyes. "Yes. A warning. We give them a chance to bend the knee."
"And if they refuse?" Maegor asked.
The king hesitated.
Visenya answered for him.
"Then we make an example," she said. "One that echoes for a hundred years."
Aenys closed his eyes. When he opened them, the softness was still there — but something harder sat behind it.
"Very well," he said quietly. "We march."
Maegor smiled.
And in the sky above King's Landing, the dragons answered.