On Silver Wings (SI)

by Umodin

I should not have existed. This life, wonderous and fascinating though it was, was not my first. But I was here and here I would remain, intent on making my mark, whatever that may be. I am Valerion Targaryen, youngest son of King Jaehaerys I Targaryen and the Good Queen Alysanne Targaryen. And I will be known. Semi-SI!

3. A Council of Greatness

101 AC

Time passed quickly, the calm afternoon turning to sundown in what felt like a flash. I had remained within the Velaryon hall during entirety of that stretch of time, to better understand Rhaenys' plans in totality, not only in the long-term for either her own ascendency or the regency of her son Laenor, should she even be elected as our next monarch, but also the needs of her loyal vassals. With the promise of Master of Laws in my pocket, it was especially important for me to understand their requirements. It was an expectation of need, more than a matter of want.

From there, we made strategy for the rest of the lead-up to the Great Council, establishing roles and targets and the methods of outreach we would use, as well as the levels of promise and favor we would be permitted to offer. Though Corlys and Rhaenys and those loyal to their cause had been gamely going about this song and dance since their initial arrival, it was smart that they were consistent in their deploy.

And as light began to shift into night and the varying feasts started taking shape in the surrounding Harrentown, so too did the Velaryon court descend upon the masses. Ready to meet out their assigned dues.

The Baratheon men made for their fellow stormlords first, intent on reminding them of their vows and strongarming their votes towards Rhaenys and Laenor, the consequences of any hint of defiance plain in their bullishness. Laenor had been summoned away from Gael and Aelys by his mother and made to accompany the pair, a physical proof of a male scion at their side to better hold the tongues of the more old-fashioned and narrow minded lords of the Stormlands.

Soon after, the Narrow Sea lords scattered away to approach a number of Reacher lords, including Lord Matthos Tyrell of Highgarden, of whom many of them made trade with for grain and livestock and spirits, hoping that their familiarity might make their arguments hold greater weight. Laena led that procession, precocious and charming and holding an easy way about her that was sure to charm any that would hear her words.

Lord Blackwood and his vassal lords then made to make merry with their fellow Riverland constituents, intent on changing their tunes and thoughts.

Finally, Lord Corlys along with the remainder of the Velaryon household trooped towards the reaver lords making up block of the Iron Islands, hoping to gain their interest through their shared naval culture and promises of wealth and plunder.

Whilst they made for their objectives, I remained behind in Harrenhal with Rhaenys to dress and prepare for our own assignments, the pair of us taking over a servant's quarters in the first floor near the great hall to do so. Rhaenys had gone above and beyond with her appearance, donning a deep gold dress that accented the curves of her breasts and hips without showing any immodesty, with chainmail armor pieces inset into the dress over her shoulder, stomach, back and thighs. With a heavy application of dark kohl artfully rubbed over her eyes, a red dye painted over her lips, and her hair shined and waving down the middle of her back, her splendor was enhanced beyond measure. Some would even call her hypnotic.

And whilst she looked the part of a beauty of little compare, yet powerful and stern when combined with the armor of her dressing and might of her dragon, a true queen in the making if there ever was one, I was made to appear with a different image in mind. An appearance that might make the difference for my niece; a trick that could bring order to chaos or enflame the fires of civil war even further.

With every fiber of my being, it was a look that I vehemently hated.

"This pageantry is beneath me, niece." I hissed in our mother tongue, the use of our blood title showing my annoyance plain. Raking my fingers through my now-shortened hair, I found it impossible to be comfortable in my new visage. The pair of plain-faced squires fearfully going about putting me in my armor were of no help in that matter either.

Rhaenys eyed me speculatively, her red-painted nails quickly reaching up to pluck a stubborn hair out from my chin. I bodily flinched, a jittered movement that scared the squires surrounding me deeply enough to scutter away in terror, leaving their task half finished. "And yet," Rhaenys began with rolled eyes, taking over where they left off. "It does suit you. Do you not think?"

"You know I do not." I groused, staring myself over in the mirror, belly churning with nervous energy. The barber Rhaenys summoned for me had done his job well, though I much disliked his finish. I vowed to never again allow this travesty to occur to my personage.

Where before my hair had been of a medium length and styled back with honeybee wax, it was now tight to my skull and military in fashion. My beard too had been shaped away from the loose, gruff style commonly found in outdoorsman that I oft preferred into something wholly different, turned squared and stern and slicked down to appear thicker than it truly was.

With the addition of the full set of plate armor now strung over my body, heavy and harsh and blackened with grime and some of the ever-present soot taken from Harrenhal's walls, the reason I was titled Maegor in Miniature was made more apparent now than ever before.

"Do you truly think this will make such a difference?" I asked, returning to the common tongue now that we were alone. My throat felt dry, as if ash had fallen in my mouth. I looked Maegor the Cruel come again, the uncanny resemblance to the dusty portraits stored away in depths of Dragonstone's vaults damning. I wished to look away from my reflection with all of my heart, yet strangely seemed unable to do so, mesmerized in my disquiet.

Rhaenys' eyes blinked into a half-lidded gaze, the sultry leer doing little to hide her irritation at my words. She reached up and tightened my collar in a painful way, as if emphasizing her disappointment. "Allow me to answer in your own words, Rion. Words that you were sure to emphasize earlier in the day. I must try."

Gritting my teeth, I exhaled deeply through my nose before finally slumping with begrudging acceptance. She was not… wrong. Much as I dearly wished for this to be a jape, this mummery genuinely might be of benefit Rhaenys in her bid for the throne. In a backwards manner of thought.

Strange though it was to say, this change in appearance, this emphasis of my resemblance towards Maegor Targaryen, had the potential to make tongues wag in a way that Rhaenys needed. It was an area of thought she currently lagged behind Viserys on.

That being the inherent danger of what might come should she be spurned.

I could not help but liken it to a sword and shield. Viserys was an affable sort at heart who held an easy way with the trends of court. Though our relation had grown cold over the years, I could not deny that Viserys was a good man as a whole, if easily led astray by the expectations of the many. His very nature was his own shield. And his sword was none other than his brother Daemon, who, in counter to his elder brother, held a nature that carried the threat of war towards those that went against him. Already Daemon had summoned an army of sellswords from Essos to rally the council-goers on behalf of Viserys, and though they were held at bay away from Harrentown and Harrenhal proper, camped along the forested banks of the Gods Eye, the loom of their presence was heavy felt.

Rhaenys especially felt their presence, for she did not have a sword such as Daemon at her beck and call, nor the stomach to act in such a manner of her own volition. Not without dire reasoning.

In truth, only her husband came close to fulfilling that role, but Lord Corlys was more than just her sword. He was her sword and shield both. His exorbitantly heavy coffers, legendary seafaring reputation and uncanny mercantile influence acted her shield. And his powerful fleet, his wealth that would permit him to easily purchase every single sellsword company in Essos, and his ability to force tariffs and trade stalls should he make the correct outreach to his Essosi contacts of high esteem on the other side of the Narrow Sea acted her sword.

But no matter how influential a man he may be, he was but one man stretched thin with expectation, and Harrenhal was many leagues away from Driftmark, where his strength was at its greatest. Further, because he appeared to take on this role of sword and shield, many thought Rhaenys to be ruled through him. Regardless of that being a lie of high order, it was a belief held by more than just a few disquieted souls, and that hurt my niece further.

Because of this dynamic of duality that Rhaenys seemingly lacked, coupled with her being overshadowed by her husband in many ways, Viserys' candidacy had grown strong and seemed to grow stronger with every passing day. Viserys had the support of the whole of the Vale through not only his wife Aemma, who was an Arryn by birth, but also through his brother Daemon, who had wed Lady Rhea Royce of Runestone. Though that marriage was more sham than anything, it still solidified the Vale away from Rhaenys.

Further, many of the interior Crownland houses swore to Viserys, believing that Rhaenys and Corlys, should they take the throne, would be more inclined to their fellows whose holdings stood along the Narrow Sea. With the might of the Reachlords holding dominion over Oldtown, Ashford, and Tumbleton supporting his cause, coupled with the cantankerous Brackens throwing their support his way after the Blackwoods made their preference of Rhaenys known, their rivalry ever present, Viserys's position was unavoidably strong. Daemon's threats of fire and blood too met success, pushing the once neutral Strongs of Harrenhal under the banner of his brother, along with a number of undecided vassal houses of Westerland, Riverlands, and Reach.

Though no votes had yet to be cast or tallied, it was evident that even with the backing of the Stormlands, the lords of the Narrow Sea, the North itself and those numerous Riverland and Reach lords sworn to the claims of Rhaenys and Laenor, Viserys was winning.

With the Great Council set to start in full soon, beginning on the morrow, as the roosters crowed and first light dawned over the realm, the voting was to commence with it. Tonight would be Rhaenys' last chance to make her claim and the claim of her son known, and she had every intention of making it a spectacle.

Thus, this mummery had been devised. If Daemon's very demeanor and the force of his hired arms reminded the realm of what a warmonger Targaryen was like on behalf of Viserys, then my shared appearance towards the most barbaric of such Targaryens might do the same on behalf Rhaenys. My own preference of solitude and distaste for courtly matters apparently enhanced that comparison, if only because very few nobles knew how I truly acted. Some genuinely believed I was Maegor come again, and those that didn't might question that belief after we made our move.

For the first time in my life, and hopefully for the last time too, my looks were to be a tool, a force of reckoning. I was to break bread with House Lannister and the vassal houses sworn to follow the will of their Warden of the West, a task of heavy burden and import. Where House Lannister and the majority of the Westerlands block had been unusually quiet regarding their preference of either Viserys or Rhaenys, regardless of the favors and tax reprieves and betrothal's both sides had offered thus far, the threat of their homes being brought to the torch by a warmongering dragonrider might do the trick.

Daemon had likely already done so, impatient and violence prone as he was.

Now it was for me turn to do the same.

"Who is the current lord of House Lannister?" Rhaenys asked, tightening a leather clasp on my shoulder.

I snorted, forcing some humor out. "You know I know. We've been over this enough times, Rhaenys."

Her tone gained a smidge of a teasing edge, though her steady sternness had not gone away. "Considering you thought Lord Stark was named Edric when in truth his name was Ellard, I will not take any chances. Humor me, Rion. One last preparation. What is his name? His age?"

My ears reddened at the reminder of my misstep with Lord Stark. The Baratheon lords laughed well and good at the mistake, and I was thankful I only spoke it after Lord Ellard made away from my niece's council to speak with his people. "Lord Tymond Lannister. Forty-and-one years of age."

"His heir? His spare? Their ages?"

"Jason Lannister, three-and-ten years old. Tyland Lannister, also three-and-ten years old. Twins."

"Their sigil? House motto? Seat of power? Titles?"

I forced my voice dull as I spoke, a remembrance of the rote repetition expected of me from when I was but a boy, taught at the foot of the maesters sworn to the Red Keep. "Sigil: a golden lion on a field of crimson. Words: Hear Me Roar. Seat: Casterly Rock. Titles: Lord of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport, Warden of the West."

"Good," she breathed, patting me down. "What are you allowed to offer him?"

"Greater trade opportunities centered towards Lannisport, sourced from the Narrow Sea ports. A negotiable reduction in taxes and tariffs for ten years. The position of Master of Coin on your Small Council. That I might take one or both of his sons on as my own squire. And a betrothal to Laena with Tyland, of which I do not agree." I growled. "We had a deal Rhaenys. Laena and Laenor are to wed should either you or your son take the throne."

"And they will be," Rhaenys stated, waving her hand idly. As if my anger were but a gnat to swat down. "A betrothal can be broken at any time, Rion. Especially verbal betrothals. Should the throne be ours, when the time comes, I will break that betrothal and instead offer Tyland a Velaryon cousin. Mayhaps I'll even allow him to wed a princess as was the agreement and give Rhaenyra to him, provided their children take the name Targaryen over Lannister. As is your expectation."

Rolling my shoulders, I only offered her a grunt of acknowledgement, unwilling to trade words further. There was not enough time to argue about such semantics, and it mattered not anyway. I did not agree, but it mattered little in the end. So long as dragons remained within the house of the dragon, I was content.

"I will be heading towards my dragons stable, then." I declared, walking away from Rhaenys, towards the corner of the room where my weaponry had been placed. "I will mount Silverwing and fly thrice over Harrenhal and Harrentown both before landing in the heart of the Lannister encampment. From there, either Lord Tymond speaks with me, or…"

"Or you start a rampage." Rhaenys finished my words for me. "Begin with the tents. Smash them down and should any prove empty of men and women, burn them. If he does not come out after that, hit their food stores. Following that shall be the wagons, then their arms, then their horses. Avoid killing any of his subjects if you can, for they will hopefully become mine own subjects soon enough."

I frowned as I bent down towards the rack, uneasiness welling in my gut. Such casual destruction of property was something I had made to avoid, both out of decency and to avoid any comparisons to Maegor further, but needs must on this night. For our strategy to work, I must appear the Cruel come again.

I liked it none, but I would do my duty. "And you?"

"I will make for Meleys and join Lord Blackwood with the riverlords," Rhaenys stated. "Lord Grover Tully is to be my prize this night. The Tully's rule over the Riverlands is the weakest of those titled Lord Paramount, but his actions still hold high esteem with his fellows. The lords Piper, Darry, Frey, and Mooton have a greater chance to vote for me and mine with his assistance, if they have not already made their choices."

"Then we are settled," I said, grabbing my arms. Where most nobles preferred swords or maces, I found favor with the spear, and was fortunate to have a thing of beauty. Sharp and deadly and forged of Qohorik steel, the strongest in the known world save for the rare arms and trinkets of Valyrian steel scattered about, my spear was a deadly thing. Wrought of dragonbone, carved from one of the wings of Balerion the Black Dread himself, the spear was something I dearly loved and was ever-so-proud to have procured.

That it separated my image from Maegor, who was well known to favor swords, only enhanced my preference of spears.

Weapon in hand and goal in mind, I made way to begin this farse. "Wait," Rhaenys called out, halting me just before I could leave the room.

Turning around, I eyed her speculatively as she approached me with a closed fist. Opening it was a ribbon of black and red cloth, patterned to look like ocean waves.

"If you intend to name me your queen, you need wear my favor, do you not agree?" Rhaenys asked, smiling invitingly. She wrapped it tightly over my forearm before reaching up to give me a chaste, familial kiss onto my cheek. "Go with my blessing, my dearest uncle."

I bowed to her. "I will not fail you."

Separating from her in true, I strode towards Silverwing. Reasonably, just as my father had separated the households of the claimants to the Iron Throne, so too did he separate the dragons that those claimants mounted. Meleys and Seasmoke were far away from the current traipsing, and Caraxes and Dreamfyre and Syrax had been given an outcropping away from the castle proper, but Silverwing's pit was near enough to the great hall, in a large stone hut of ruin that once served as a barrack of some sort, shared with Vermithor, as was their wont.

Through burnished halls and ghastly tapestries, past milling courtiers that swiftly backed away from my approach with wide eyes and gossiping tongues, around servants and guards under the employ of House Strong, did I walk. When I found myself nearing Silverwing, the bond of our blood pumping, calm and excitement both filled my spirit as I heard the tell-tale rumble of her throat. My nerves always settled when my dragon was near.

Those settling nerves came back to my body with a heightened fore when I approached the hut and a man hidden behind a support pillar marched in my path. One I recognized well though knew little. A knight adorned in a suit of scaled chainmail of a burnished silver coloring and a tabard and cloak of the purest whites.

"Prince Valerion," the knight of the Kingsguard greeted tersely.

"Ser Robin Shaw," I returned, dipping him a quick nod with clenched teeth. "How may I assist you?"

Though I was a prince of the blood and dragonrider true, the Kingsguard were not at my beck and call. Nor could Rhaenys or Viserys any other Targaryens claim such. I had my own guard and retinue, as did they, but only my father commanded the white cloaks. Where they walked was only done at the decree of the king. That he was here before me meant my father had ordered him to do so.

I could only think of one thing that would have him do such a thing.

"King Jaehaerys has requested you meet him post haste," Ser Robin said.

A summoning.

"Then why did you not have a servant find me?" I demanded; hackles raised. "I was unhidden. Many knew where I was. If his need for me was truly a matter of haste or expedience, why hide in wait near my dragon even as night neared? Speak the truth, Ser."

Ignoring my query, Ser Robin marched past me and jerked his head back towards the castle. "If you would follow me?"

Anger pooled in me at his candor. At his lack of answer. Rather than a robin, I likened him more to a parrot. For though he was a capable combatant and one of the greatest cavalry commanders in the land, he was best known for keeping his quiet, only speaking to repeat the words of my father verbatim.

My father had not called for me post haste as Ser Robin stated, even if those were the words he chose to use. He was waiting for me to make my move, knowing that whatever action I might take would be done atop Silverwing. And beholden to his commands over Rhaenys' own as I was, for he was my liege in the present and not the future, I had no choice in the matter. Ser Robin walked into the castle and I followed along, my hand gripping the dirk strapped at my belt tightly.

Rather than take a back access path like I had when first making for the Silverwing's stable, Ser Robin brought us into the open foyer, where the greatest amount of activity was happening in the castle. The Hall of a Hundred Hearths it was called. Even in my anger, I could not deny it was a marvel to behold. Its massive slagged-stone interior took up more land than most castles could claim as paved grounds. Though spring had officially started to wane and a chilly autumn breeze had begun to waft the land with the promise of the approaching winter, the hall was anything but cold. It was sweltering, in truth, a consequence brought about from the thousands of noble and knightly bodies camped inside the premise and from the great roaring braziers surrounding the hall that, without those iron-piked wells keeping their fires confined, could have set the whole of the Riverlands aflame, such was their intensity.

Those thousands of noble and knightly bodies, speaking loud enough to be heard from what seemed a mile away, fell away into a hurried, stilted hush as Ser Robin and I strode towards my fathers' apartments. I bit down on my tongue to force my face unmoving and uncaring in the wake of their whispers, the coppery-tang taste of blood in my mouth acting a welcome, if pained, distraction.

As we walked through the parting crowds, my eyes caught a flash of silver hair in their peripherals that did not appear the whitening of age. I craned my neck towards that hair I saw Viserys and Aemma standing with Ser Otto Hightower, the new Hand of the King in place of Baelon.

Ser Otto eyed me with unhidden contempt. Aemma brought her hands up from swollen stomach to the ridge of her nose, covering her gasping mouth with eyes wide with shock. Viserys looked as if he had seen a ghost as I passed him by, the goblet of wine held in his hand falling to the floor, spilling red onto his boots. Cooly, I looked him up and down, noting his poofy, flamboyant clothing of bright yellows and searing pinks, along with his wine-reddened cheeks. The image of a drunken fop if there ever was one. I let out a scoff and returned my gaze to my kingsguard guide, intent on ending this farce as fast as could be.

Ser Robin brought me to a hidden basement space two stories beneath Harrenhal's main chambers, squat and small and seemingly dilapidated by time if the rotted wood beams and the dust covered pottery was any indicator. At the back of the cellar sat a singular pair of heavy iron doors, another knight bearing a white cloak standing a lonesome guard in front of those deep metal slabs. Ser Clement Crabb, he was, the newest member of the Kingsguard.

As Ser Robin and I approached, Ser Clement opened the doors for me and allowed me into my father's temporary chambers. Ser Robin remained with his sworn brother to stand a silent vigil, closing the door behind me.

Unlike the old and untouched cellar before it, this room was of a much higher quality. Though it was smaller than the apartments I shared with Gael, its decoration made it feel larger somehow. The stones were clean to the point of shining along torch fire, great tapestries of red and black silk hung along the walls, and a large bed and a calmly burning hearth with two wax-wooden chairs at its front took up the middle of the room.

Two souls took the room in. One was Ser Ryam Redwyne, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, stood at the crook of the sole window leading to these chambers, acting a white shadow intent to kill any who would intrude on the king through such crooked means. The other was my father himself, the king of Westeros, sat down on one of those two chairs, staring down into the coals of the hearth pensively, dressed for comfort over austerity, clothed in a simple sleeping black robe and a pair of thick, woolly socks. Comfort was his priority of late, for his body was beginning to fail him. Age had begun its claim on him quickly as of these past few months, his skin turned sallower and his wrinkles more pronounced, the loss of Baelon keen to see. And other ailments had started to crop up too.

His ability to walk with his own strength had been greatly hampered five months ago after a hard flight with Vermithor, and he now required to be carried atop a palanquin to move far distances. Without his legs and without his dragon, he had allowed himself to grow lax in despondency, his hair and beard growing long and unkempt as a result. And, without the exercise that walking or flying gave him, fat had begun to creep in around his middle, turning his breathing more pronounced.

It was maddening to see my father in such a state. To see him begin to die before my eyes. Gael had cried over it more times that I was willing to count. But regardless of his approaching end, regardless of how long that end might take, this was not an addled man. His eyes were still sharp, as was his tongue, and when he looked me over and took in my appearance, his face flushed with pink rage and a snarl formed over his lips, his glare a vicious thing.

"So," he hissed, hands palming at the arm of his chair, his fingers whitening with the force of his grip. I felt a bead of sweat run down the back of my neck. The closest I had ever seen him to such wroth was when Saera proclaimed her wish to have a harem of husbands. As if they were a collection of shiny rocks. "You make japes now? Is that it? Do you think me a fool to play games with, Valerion?"

"Much as I wish it were a jape, I do not." I intoned, intent on keeping my tone sedate; a visage of calm. In my mind however, I cursed Rhaenys and this damned mummery she'd conducted. The timing of this summoning was beyond poor. Even at sixty-and-seven years of age, my father's sleep was ever interrupted by the dread he held for the Cruel. They plagued his nightmares still. "I am unhappy for this as well, father."

"Oh?" He barked out, breaking into a harsh laugh that fast turned into a coughing fit. I rushed over to his side and knelt down, rubbing his back. He slapped my hand away, eyes heavy with anger. When he gathered himself, he finished speaking. "Then why would you even do as you are doing now? Why would you play at my nightmares?"

"Because he is not just your nightmare alone, father." I said softly, still knelt by his side, ever conscious of his fluctuating health. "There are lords and ladies older than you still ruling their lands with able hands who remember well the days of Maegor's reign. Who share the terrible tales of horror and anguish he brought about with their children and grandchildren and great grandchildren even. His shadow plagues the land still and will for another generation at least. As the threat of our dragons forces obedience and the proof of defiance is made manifest in this very castle shows, a simple truth is clear. Fear is a tool."

I lifted the arm denoting Rhaenys's favor. "I do this on behalf of your granddaughter and my niece: Rhaenys. Your rightful heir. If Viserys is to have Daemon play the role of despot to rally the rabble towards his banner, then so too she shall have one in the shape of the Cruel. If my looks and the anguish of his legacy bring Rhaenys closer to her throne, then I will don it and let the fear the realm still holds for Maegor be my blade. Regardless of my disquiet."

"The rightful heir," my father repeated, as if my words were spoken in a foreign tongue. He shook his head, his glare still apparent, though a tiredness fell upon him as he slumped back into his seat. "You mean to give up your claim for Rhaenys then?"

"I do. I have already sworn a vow to her, father."

"Why must the gods be so harsh?" He moaned. "Have I not toiled? Have I not suffered enough? Damn you Valerion, you have ruined me."

I furrowed me brow at his words. "How could I ruin you?"

"Because I did not want this," said the king, in the voice of a grumbling old man. Something I felt well suited him. "Do you have any idea at all why I summoned you, boy? Have you any clue at all what you have forsaken? We were not to play games, as you now seem inclined to do. I promise you that."

It cut me deeply, to see such a look in his eye. To hear such loss in his tone. "I am uncertain."

"I was considering naming you my heir proper tonight," he whispered, rubbing a hand over his brow. "Your brother Vaegon counseled in favor of it."

My vision darkened briefly at his words, so surprised was I. "You cannot be serious. Vaegon and I hold no love for each other."

"Do you think love had him voice this thought?" He questioned, incredulity thick in his words. "Vaegon? Pah! You know him just as I do. Your brother follows logic and theory over all things, uncaring of emotion. Love is of no consideration for him. He counseled that I had already named one son an heir over a grandchild before, and that I might do the same again. That of the options available between the lines of Aemon and Baelon, the complications they might bring could destabilize my hard work. I see and hear them true; Rhaenys and her favor of the Velaryons and their ever-grasping ways versus Viserys and his soft handed pliability countered by Daemons hardhandedness and his violently fluctuating moods. No matter which side took the realm, war would trail at some point in the following years."

Letting out a heady sigh, my father continued to speak. "Vaegon told that though you were of a rougher sort, uncaring for the court and lesser learned in the matters of the realm, that that roughness might be polished into a diamond. That you were of able temperament and an exacting nature. That you stuck by your word but were flexible enough to change direction when needed. Traits well suited to kingship. I thought our distance over the years blinded me to these traits and summoned you here tonight to see if his words held merit."

"Why have Ser Robin wait for me at the stable then?" I asked, my skull pounding. "Why not summon me directly?"

"Why would I?" my father asked, clicking his teeth. "You've never showed any interest in playing the game of thrones, and your tune has not at all change since landing in Harrenhal. I would not force you to sit the Iron Throne unwillingly when there are others of whom are interested in the responsibility. No, instead I made a play. If you at all chose to finally stake your claim to my throne as is your blood right, it would be done atop Silverwing, and so I had her guarded in wait for you. I planned to question you and your goals and if I found your words and thoughts favorable, I would make the decree to the nobility as dawn rose, just before the votes started their cast."

"The realm would have fallen into anarchy if you proclaimed me your heir after calling a Great Council!" I argued.

He bloody well shrugged. Unbothered and uncaring. "The realm would have been angered at such a decision, true. Half the realm will be angry regardless come the morrow. But even in their anger, they would follow the will of their king. They would be made to do so. To placate them, I would have instead used their gathering to have them swear their vows of allegiance to you and claim their importance in the history of your early reign. But now that I see you in this state, now that I look at you and your dress and your pose and your demeanor and see him, now that I hear your words and thoughts for what they are… I am glad that you have recused your claim to the Iron Throne, Valerion. I could not stomach the thought of the realm suffering another Maegor."

A growl reverberated in my throat. "I am nothing like him."

"Do you truly think that?" He asked, slowly eying me up and down. "Truly?"

"This is but a mummery. An act to sway the undecided towards Rhaenys. That is all."

He grunted. "I pray that is true. Still… I am surprised. I presumed you would support Viserys. You were as close a pair as any I'd ever seen in your boyhood. Has your relation truly grown so sour?"

I shook my head, scowling. "My distaste for Viserys and his ways are irrelevant. I believe Rhaenys to be the better candidate. That is all."

"Pity," he said, not at all appearing disappointed. "Well, what is done is done. What has Rhaenys promised you for your allegiance?"

"In exchange for my allegiance," I began. "I would be her Master of Laws."

"So grand a title in comparison to kingship," drawled the king, his sarcasm thick.

"Furthermore," I continued, speaking over him. "Rhaenys will name her children and any more children she may birth as members of House Targaryen over House Velaryon. Lord Corlys will solely be her consort. Their children will inherit only the legacies of House Targaryen, being King's Landing and Dragonstone, while the seats of High Tide and Driftmark will instead return to the line of Velaryon through the descendants of Corlys's second brother, no longer muddled with the blood of the dragon. Seasmoke and Meleys and whatever beast Laena might claim would return under the stewardship of House Targaryen. As it should be."

Faster than should have been possible for a man of his age, and with greater force than expected, I was summarily cuffed at the head as if I were an errant child. Bewildered, I brought my hand to the pulsing skin, staring up at my father in loss.

The sheer disappointment he exuded, directly solely on me, was a painful sight indeed. "You daft bloody fool. If you have truly done as you state and demanded such a concession, then you have done a fantastic job at mucking things up. Have you taken leave of your senses?"

Confusion and justification bled out in my words. "I have done no such thing! Upholding the supremacy of our house and the maintenance of our dragons is of the highest importance. By doing as I did, I have ensured House Targaryen will remain the sole house of dragonriders in the realm should Rhaenys or Laenor sit the throne."

"You truly do not understand your blunder, do you? Do you know why I allowed Rhaenys to wed Corlys? Have you any clue why I did not have her marry you or Viserys, when you two were only three years her junior and had the capacity to ride dragons both?"

"You wished to gain the power of the Velaryon fleet and the wealth Corlys had procured." I answered. It was a well-known settlement.

"You are not wrong, but you are not right either. I permitted it because Rhaenys had already chosen Corlys for herself by then, and nothing that I or your mother or Aemon or anybody could say would shift her mind. And why should we have? Rhaenys found a fine husband, wealthy beyond measure and of high Valyrian stock, with an ancestral loyalty beholden to House Targaryen. He had been my Master of Ships already, and I thought I knew him well. A clever man with lofty aspirations and the grit to breathe life into his pursuits. They were well matched, and his influence and riches would ensure an easy hold over the realm. With Aemon as king and Rhaenys his heir and the reputation of the most powerful lord House Velaryon had ever known at their beck and call, I felt we were in line for a prosperous future and permitted the match."

A snarl formed over my father's muzzle. "But then Aemon died, and I came to know the true face of Corlys Velaryon, no longer hidden behind the veil of propriety and subservience. Ambitious and overreaching, unable to understand who his betters were and believing that the high honors he had already been awarded were not enough, I realized that nothing but the Iron Throne itself would ever be enough for him. Rhaenys was five moons heavy with child when her father died and suffering through complications of growing concern besides. His death only served to worsen her state. The uncertainty of her health and progeny coupled with the grasping hands of her husband had me shifting my succession to Baelon."

"He was her elder by near twenty years, he held his duties well and without malice, he was blooded in battle and war, he spoke with power and poise, his legacy was secure in Viserys and Daemon, boys of able talent that were growing stronger with each day, and if need be, he could remarry and produce more children," my father listed. "I worried not for the future of our rule with him as my heir where worry was all I held of Rhaenys after Aemon's death. The influence of her husband was of a greater concern than anticipated. In truth, I felt vindicated in my choice of Baelon because of Corlys."

"But-…" I began, only to falter. What could possibly be said to that? "What of Laenor and Seasmoke? What of Laena's potential to mount a dragon of her own?"

"Aye, I should have been more careful. I admit it easily enough. Laenor was born four years after I named Baelon my heir and I had not thought Rhaenys so callous as to put an egg in his cradle. When Seasmoke hatched, unease bled in me. The son of the Sea Snake who so hated me and mine with the power of a dragon? It haunted my thoughts. And yet, I was unconcerned. She may hate me, but I know my granddaughter's character well. It has not changed since she was a girl. Rhaenys would never have warred dragon against dragon, nor would she permit her son to do the same. Not without dire reasoning. And even had they held such a temperament, I felt secure. Baelon would not suffer such a usurpation. Your brother would have saddled Vhagar and burned the lot of them to ash, damning himself as a kinslayer rather than let a war between dragons drag out. He knew what need be done. Thus, I let things be."

"And then Baelon died." I spoke for him, swallowing hard.

"And then Baelon died," my father repeated, sagging. "And so too did my strength die with him. I am tired, Valerion. I have ruled the realm for over fifty years. Fifty years of toil and trouble and tribulation that never seemed to cease. I called this council because I feel I do not have it in me to raise up a new heir of my own again, and so I thought it best to trust the will of the lords and ladies who pay us tithe and tax. They would make their inclination known, and I would accept their word as law. That I held a preference towards you, and yet see you now, clothed as you are, has only proved my need for this council. I cannot trust mine own judgement."

A phantom feeling of shame creeped up my neck as my father continued. "Let the realm decide then. Let them choose between lines of Aemon and Baelon. I will be content with either, for this shall ensure the house of the dragon lives on for another generation. Should Viserys be elected, then my legacy is clear, for even if he never has a son, he has an heir in Daemon. Should Rhaenys or Laenor be chosen, then the wealth of her husband shall be forfeit to our household soon enough."

My brow furrowed. "How is that?"

He looked at me as if I were an idiot. "When a lord dies, the law states that his holdings and wealth should fall onto his heir. If the realm take to Rhaenys and Laenor as their future monarchs, the holdings and wealth of Corlys and House Velaryon, of which Corlys is its lord, would be promised to his trueborn children after his death. His children who would no longer be Velaryon's themselves. All of the wealth he'd established during his long voyages, including both the fleet built from his own coffers, and the castle of High Tide and its port at Spicetown, would be passed to his heir. All that he had gained in the name of his legacy would fall under the umbrella of House Targaryen. If Corlys means to father the next generation of royalty, he is welcome to do so, with the understanding that his ambition shall also be his doom."

His heavy glare returned fast. "Or at least that would have been the expectation if not for you. In your haste to control dragons both hatchling and benign and settle a future not yet written, you have removed the only reason I was willing to stomach Corlys near the throne."

My legs felt like jelly at his admonishment. "How was I to know your plan? How was anybody?!"

"It was no secret, Valerion," he rumbled. "I should not need to spell these matters out to you like when you were a child. Had you been more abreast of courtly goings, taken part in the council meetings you were given invitation to, or simply showed interest in the legacy of your family outside of our mounts, you would have surely understood my intent."

"So, I should take it that my lack of education was mine own fault? When you exiled me? I asked, offended.

"You were sent to Dragonstone at seven-and-ten," my father stated cooly. "What happened during that time is of no consequence. Your failings began far before that. Perhaps you do take after Maegor. In his arrogance, if not his behavior. Did you truly think you knew best?"

Unconsciously, I began to grind my teeth, irritation racing. "And if Viserys were to succeed over Rhaenys?" I asked, ignoring his question, my tone biting. "What then?"

He smirked, as if my refusal to answer his query was a winning condition. "Then Viserys is named my heir, sits the Iron Throne when I die, and Corlys is left with unquestionable proof that his ambitions have failed, that the realm would not take to his influence, and that he will never again rise to such heights in his life. For a man with such an unending pride, it is an uncomfortable prospect indeed."

"And? When Viserys is named your heir, what follows? What would you, in your high planning, have done with Rhaenys and Corlys and their brood, who came so close to but fell so far? When Laenor's dragon is ready to fly his rider? When Laena chooses to claim a dragon of her own?"

"Nothing," the king said. "For there is nothing I could do. And why should I? I have done all that I can. The matter will be for Viserys to handle. I will be long dead before Seasmoke is a credible threat, as I shall be when Laena makes a move. What care have the dead for the struggles of the living?"

"…You would saddle him with such a risk?" I asked after a pause. "You know that is folly. His reign would begin akin to a catapult held taut by a string rather than a rope. A single faulty move would leave the smash the realm."

He waved away my words. "When I took the throne at the age of four-and-ten it was to a realm in chaos, enflamed with an understandable hatred towards our line. With few allies to my name and few resources, I was out of my depth. And I found success still. Viserys would inherit a much kinder legacy. If he cannot handle it, then kingship does not become him. Mayhaps he will call another council?"

…Madness. His spoke of pure madness.

Vaulting to my feet, uncaring for the startled surprise my father let out, I held my ground. "Then I must make away and ensure that the line of Aemon sits the throne after you. House Lannister and their constituents are still uncertain. There is time."

My father snorted indelicately, well and done with me. I felt much the same with him. "As you will. You have set your course just as I set mine. I pray only that yours is the right one. That said, do make sure you reaffirm the inheritance of Rhaenys children, won't you?"

Refusing to answer him, I rushed out of the room, slamming the door out into Ser Robin's flank, sending him to the floor with a moan of pain. Racing through the hall, once more taking the back path through the servant halls, I returned to my stable. Dusk had turned to night in full, a cloudy darkness that hid the stars. Silverwing was lain over a bed of blackened hay, her tail entwined over one of Vermithor's back legs.

Sensing my approach and need, she stretched and uncoiled herself. Vermithor let out a short whine as she moved away but did nothing else.

Reaching my dragon, I quickly vaulted over her neck and secured myself on her saddle. Once chained down, Silverwing vaulted into the air, screeching her pitch of exaltation. Winging around Harrenhal, I surveyed the land, searching for the Lannister camp. They were one of the larger units, and thus should have been easy to find, but strangely I struggled to do so. It was as if they had vanished.

Bringing Silverwing over to where I remembered they first were, nearer to a grand hill with rolling grasslands, a welling of dread began to seep into my pores. For where there should have been tents and feed and people was naught but soot and ash and smoke.

A screech from below followed that notice. Caraxes whirled into Silverwing's space, forcing her to roll backwards. A loud cackling laugh echoed from the back of Caraxes as Silverwing screamed at the slender drake, my mind awhirl as my dragon's fast rage bled into me. I was not yet an able enough rider to control her battle instincts, and thus felt a passenger rather than a player when she chased after the Blood Wyrm.

Adrenaline pumped in my veins as the two dragons raced into the clouds. "Lykiri, Silverwing!" I shouted, desperately aiming to calm her back down to a manageable degree. Whilst I tried to settle her, we broke past the clouds, leaving a sea of white below us and the expanse of the open stars above. Even still, I could see the towers of Harrenhal from so high up. "Dohaeras! Stop damn you!"

"You seem to be having trouble, uncle!" Daemon crowed, bringing his dragon down to my level; Caraxes flying lazy loops around Silverwing as I fought at our bond to steady her.

"What did you do, Daemon?!" I yelled between bouts of exertion. "Where are the Lannisters?!"

"Lord Kitty? He is better occupied!" Daemon grinned, a wide and demented thing. "When Viserys saw your new look, he told me all about it. I couldn't let you steal his show, not after he'd worked so hard to impress with the new fashions! And I cannot blame his worry, can I? I'm jealous! You've turned quite fetching, uncle! It suits you well! So crisp! So cool! So… cruel!"

My own rage was now bleeding into Silverwing's. A dangerous combination if there ever was one. "Did you hurt him?!"

Did Daemon, in his bid for speed, kill off a high lord? That I was uncertain told tale all its own of how far I knew my nephew was willing to go to secure his elder brothers kingship.

"Hurt him? Me?!" Daemon gasped, clutching at his heart high dramatics. Below him, Caraxes loosed an irritated gale of fire, as if echoing the mood of his rider. "I would never! Such an accusation! All I did was invite Lord Kitty to share dinner with my brother! An intimate setting! He's good company, don't you think? Ever a good friend to have in your camp! Why, I think Lord Kitty was in love!"

Daemon's laugh heightened in pitch. Where I thought my father mad just a moment ago, now I knew that to be false. For this was a madman. "Certainly after Caraxes ate his bastard nephew!"

I screamed; a shrill cry doubled by the enrage shriek of Silverwing, fire billowing from the both sides of her jaw. With one last pull of control over our bond, my dragon darted at Daemon with the fullness of her speed, Caraxes barely escaping her, though not without taking a hit. Silverwing's tail thrash down on his wing, stumbling the Blood Wyrm.

Rather than take my advantage, I kept flying. I put every last speck of my will into our bond and forced Silverwing to keep flying. Daemon's piercing laugh in the background almost had me changing my course, but I could not do that. If I turned Silverwing around to face him again, there would be no stopping either of us. Dragons would dance the dance of death for the first time since Maegor and Balerion slew Aegon the Uncrowned atop Quicksilver.

I would not let myself be a kinslayer, nor would I permit my own death in such a fool manner.

Blood running hot and unable to keep my calm, I bade Silverwing to just fly wherever she pleased, so long as it was far away from Daemon and Caraxes. I could not face his mockery, nor the shame it represented.

I was too late. My father had taken my mind away from my duty, and now the Lannisters were at the side of Viserys, with a dead boy and a ruined camp as a warning against any would-be defiance.

There was nothing else I could do. All I had left was Silverwing, and so I embraced her and let her fly.

She did so for a while yet, bleeding off her own instinctive rage. Her pace, once fast and hardy, turned easy and sedate, and we basked in the simple enjoyment of soaring the sky as one.

We flew for longer than I realized, in fact. I did not feel tired or lost, merely basking in the presence of my dragon. I only determined the time when, after what felt like but a moment ago that night was fresh in the sky, I saw the sun begin to come up on the horizon.

Alarm welled in me as I realized what dawn represented. The voting was soon to happen.

I willed Silverwing back to Harrenhal.

We had gone far. Farther than I could have expected. Diving back down through the clouds, I took in a land I'd never before seen, with mossy hills and a deep forest and a single castle with a sleepy village at its foot. Tucking even lower, I searched for an identifier, and found a banner along the castle courtyard. The banner showed a trio of brass buckles on a blue field. The sigil of House Buckler.

There could be no mistaking it. This was the castle of Bronzegate.

In the Stormlands.

Panic became my fast friend as I realized where I was. Hurriedness soon overtook it in paramount importance. Noting the position of the sun, I directed Silverwing due north and pushed her at her greatest speed. We streamed past the rush of the Wendwater river and the high canopied forests of the Kingswood, over the wide inlet of Blackwater Bay that led ships towards the ports of King's Landing, and raced between the castles Rosby and Duskendale in the Crownlands.

From there, I changed direction. From north to northwest. The land between the Crownlands and the Riverlands was populated mostly by farming villages and small, unnamed towns, but I had no ability to appreciate them. Not in my rush.

The sun was nearing its zenith overhead, signaling that it was almost noon, when we finally caught sight of Harrenhal. Its massive towers, once a source of anxiety, now brought me a breathy relief.

Silverwing landed in the open court, empty for the first time since the council had been called. Dismounting her, I marched a fast pace inside the Hall of a Hundred Hearths, now filled with what seemed like over ten thousand individuals taking up the floor, yet still showing room to spare. The nobility took their places all along the columned sides of the hall, leaving a path to the high seat, the dais space where the vestiges of House Targaryen could be seen.

At the middle, in the place of greater honor, sat my father, clad in an austere regalia of white and gold atop a gilded throne. On his left stood Viserys and Aemma, and at his right stood Rhaenys and Corlys. Along the back of the raised platform but away from the immediate gaze of the masses stood Daemon and Gael, my nephew appearing as if nothing were out of the ordinary whilst Gael was glaring at him with impunity.

Seeing her relaxed something in me, if only a smidge. Much as I wished to hold her, to show her I was safe, I could not. My attention was solely held on a pair of chain-bearing maesters approaching their king down the open aisle, carrying between them a heavy ceremonial chest of blackened wood. They marched a slow pace through the castle, between the lords and ladies taking up the castle grounds, before reaching the steps of my father's throne.

Opening the chest, they placed it before him and backed away with deep bows. King Jaehaerys down and reached inside its confines, plucking out a small, singular scroll. Unfurling it, he read aloud, his voice, powerful and filled with purpose, able to be heard by all.

"It is declared, by the Lord Paramount and the Lord Vassal of the Seven Kingdoms…" he rumbled. "That Prince Viserys Targaryen be named Prince of Dragonstone, and Heir to the Iron Throne!"

A cheer rolled over the hall, claps and whistles bouncing to and fro. As the realm celebrated their newly elected heir, I felt bile build up from my core. An unforgiving sort of feeling, one that was foreign and familiar both but hated all the same.

The feeling of failure.