In the quiet of the King's chambers, the air was thick with the scent of old parchment and the sulfurous tang of the hearth. Alicent stood beside Aegon, her hand resting firmly on his shoulder—a silent declaration of unity.
"I need an explanation, Viserys," the King sighed, rubbing his temples where a headache was beginning to throb. "And I need to give Corlys an account for the blood on his guest's face."
Aegon stepped forward, his expression one of wounded innocence. "Father, Ser Joffrey humiliated Mother and me publicly. He whispered filth that no knight—no Royal Guard—could stand to hear. Ser Criston simply lost his restraint in defense of our honor. Let the matter drop; Mother and I are willing to forgive the insult if you are willing to forgive the defender."
Viserys looked at his son, then at his wife. He saw the cold, determined set of Alicent's jaw. He knew they were shielding a killer, but the alternative was a scandal that would drag the Queen's name through the mud alongside a dead man's reputation.
"If Corlys doubts the provocation," Alicent added smoothly, "he can ask his son's friend—should the man ever wake."
Viserys waved a weary hand, dismissing them. He would soothe the Sea Snake with talk of grief and wine. After all, Lonmouth was a minor knight, and the peace of the realm was worth one broken paramour.
The years that followed were a blur of births and burgeoning whispers. In late 114 AC, both the Queen and the Princess bore sons.
Daeron Targaryen: Silver-haired, purple-eyed, and undeniably a drake of the royal line.Jacaerys Velaryon: Brown-haired, brown-eyed, with a nose as flat as a pug's.
The contrast was a lightning rod for gossip. While Viserys forced the boys to share a wet nurse to "foster brotherly love," the court looked at Ser Harwin Strong and saw the truth written in Jacaerys's face.
By 115 AC, Lucerys Velaryon arrived, a mirror image of his brother. The rumors reached a fever pitch, but a single event silenced many: Jacaerys's dragon egg hatched into the dragon Vermax. Meanwhile, Daeron's red egg remained cold stone.
The world turned. Daemon Targaryen, ever the agent of chaos, lost his first wife in the Vale, only to swoop down upon Driftmark and wed Laena Velaryon. They fled the King's wrath on dragonback, touring the Free Cities.
By 117 AC, Joffrey Velaryon was born—another "Strong" boy. By 119 AC, the balance shifted again. Though Viserys denied Daeron the chance to tame the ancient Silverwing, the young Prince successfully bonded with Tessarion, the "Blue Queen." She was a stunning creature of cobalt and copper, a cobalt-winged cobalt flame that promised to be as formidable as she was beautiful.
The year 120 AC arrived with the scent of salt and sorrow. Lady Laena passed away after a tragic, premature birth. The royal family and the Velaryons gathered at Driftmark for a funeral that felt more like a council of war.
As Ser Vaemond Velaryon spoke of "blood that is never diluted," his eyes—sharp and accusing—stayed fixed on Rhaenyra's brown-haired brood. The tension was a physical weight until Daemon, in a typical display of irreverence, burst into a loud, jarring laugh. He drew the glares away from the children and onto his own scandalous lack of mourning.
As the guests dispersed, the dragons landed on the dunes. Sunfyre descended first, his golden scales blinding in the midday sun.
"Brother," Aemond whispered, his voice thick with longing as he watched the Golden. "Sunfyre grows so fast. He is majestic... and terrifying."
At six years old, Sunfyre was already a titan, his size approaching that of Daemon's Caraxes. He was the crown jewel of the third generation.
"I had the Dragonkeepers measure him," Aegon said, ruffling Aemond's hair. "Guess his length."
"Fifty meters!" Aemond guessed wildly, his eyes wide. "He looks nearly as large as Meleys!"
Aegon chuckled. "Don't exaggerate, Aemond. He's just reached forty meters. Meleys is at least sixty—there is a great difference between a young king and an old queen."
Viserys, overhearing them, walked over and placed a hand on Aemond's shoulder. He saw the hollow ache in his younger son's eyes—the only Targaryen prince without a mount.
"If you have the courage, Aemond," Viserys said with a tired smile, "you may go to Dragonstone to choose an egg. Or perhaps... try your hand at taming a riderless beast."
"SCREECH!"
From the high cliffs, a roar shook the very ground. It was the deep, ancient, and bone-rattling cry of Vhagar. With Laena gone, the greatest dragon in the world was officially without a rider.
Aemond's jaw set. He looked at the massive shadow on the cliff and nodded heavily. The Velaryons had lost their greatest weapon; the board was open for a new player to take the King's side.