King's Landing smelled of smoke, salt, and tension.
The Silver Emperor crossed over the Blackwater in the gray light before dawn, the purple dragon and the black dragon flanking it like heralds. The city had received the ravens days earlier, but seeing the three dragons alive and scarred from the North was different. Bells began to ring from the Great Sept to the Dragonpit. By the time Rhaegar circled the Red Keep, half the population of the capital was in the streets or on the rooftops.
He landed in the outer yard of the Red Keep rather than the Dragonpit. The choice was deliberate. The dragons remained in plain sight, steam rising from their nostrils in the cold morning air. Ser Barristan and Jaime had ridden ahead; the yard was already cleared and lined with Gold Cloaks and household guards.
Roberta dismounted first, black hair whipping in the downdraft of the wings. Rhaegar followed, True Dragon still bound at the hilt where the crack had been reinforced. He wore the same Valyrian scale armor he had fought the Night King in, cleaned but not polished. The marks of frost and fire remained.
King Jaehaerys II Targaryen received them in his solar rather than the throne room. The King was propped against pillows, face the color of old parchment, breathing carefully. The years of winter and worry had carved him down to bone and will. Grand Maester Pycelle hovered near the hearth. Lord Tywin Lannister stood at the foot of the bed, expression unreadable. Several other members of the Small Council were present, carefully arranged by rank and caution.
Rhaegar went to one knee.
"Father."
Jaehaerys's eyes—still purple, still clear—studied his son for a long moment. Then the King gave a thin, dry smile.
"You look like Aegon the Conqueror after the Field of Fire. Only colder." His voice was weak but steady. "Rise. Tell me what the North cost."
Rhaegar rose and spoke without embellishment: the ice throne, the Night King, the Direwolf Suicide Squad, the breaking of the mist, the dead who would not rise again. He did not omit the cost in lives or the fact that the god of cold had only been delayed, not destroyed. When he finished, the solar was silent except for the crackle of the fire.
Jaehaerys closed his eyes briefly. "And the dragons?"
"Alive. Scarred. Stronger."
"Good." The King opened his eyes again and looked at Tywin, then at the rest of the council. "The realm has seen what comes when the cold rises and the throne is weak. I will not leave it weak."
He gestured for Pycelle to approach with parchment and quill. In a voice that allowed no argument, Jaehaerys dictated a short proclamation: Prince Rhaegar Targaryen was named Prince of Dragonstone and Protector of the Realm, with full authority to command the armies and the dragons in the King's name. The succession would be settled publicly in the Great Hall within the fortnight, before the assembled lords who had fought in the North and those now racing to the capital.
Tywin Lannister inclined his head the precise degree required. "A clear succession will steady the markets and the banners, Your Grace."
Jaehaerys gave him a look that was almost amused. "It will steady more than that, Lord Tywin."
After the council was dismissed, the King kept Rhaegar and Roberta behind. When the door closed he spoke more quietly.
"I have months, not years. Perhaps less. The maesters are polite, but I can feel it. You will take the throne while the memory of the Long Night is still fresh. Do it cleanly. Marry the girl—" he nodded at Roberta "—before the court can invent difficulties. Put children in the cradle as soon as the gods allow. The realm has had enough of uncertain heirs."
Rhaegar met his father's gaze. "I will."
Jaehaerys's mouth twitched. "You already have the North, the dragons, and half the sword-hands who matter. Try not to waste them on pride." He leaned back against the pillows, suddenly smaller. "Now go. Let the city see you. And send for your mother. She has been praying enough for three septons."
Outside the solar the Red Keep was already moving. Messengers rode out within the hour. By nightfall the first of the Northern lords who had followed by road were entering the city gates. Robert Baratheon's laughter could be heard from the training yard. Jaime Lannister stood on the walls watching the three dragons settle onto the old Dragonpit heights like returning kings.
That evening Rhaegar and Roberta walked the godswood of the Red Keep alone. The heart tree was a poor southern thing, but the silence under its branches was familiar.
"You're going to be King," Roberta said.
"Soon."
She looked up at him. "Then we do it the way your father said. Cleanly. No more winters where the realm is left guessing who rules."
Rhaegar took her hand, the same hand that had held a sword on the Wall while the Night King fell.
"No more guessing," he agreed.
Above them the Silver Emperor gave a low, contented rumble that rolled across the city like distant thunder. In the streets of King's Landing people stopped and looked up, some with fear, most with a fierce, exhausted kind of hope.
The Dragonlord had come home.
And the dawn, at last, was beginning.
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