Chapter 81 — The Academy Dragon, the Island Dragon, and the Dragonless Dragon
Daemon Targaryen strode through the Red Keep like a storm of steel. Dark red armor clung to his frame, and the deep purple-gold cloak streaming behind him made him appear less a man than a dragon walking on two legs. When he pushed open the doors to the Council Chamber, conversation stilled at once.
King Jaehaerys I, the Conciliator, presided from the head of the table. Arrayed beside him were the lords of the Small Council:
Ser Ryam Redwyne, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard;
Lyman Beesbury, Master of Coin;
Otto Hightower, Master of Laws;
Grand Maester Runciter;
and Prince Viserys.
The moment they saw Daemon armored for war, their faces changed. Daemon never wore full plate within the Keep unless the matter was dire.
He took the seat at Jaehaerys's right without bowing his head. Grand Maester Runciter cleared his throat.
"Prince Daemon… Your armor alarms us. Has war broken out?"
Daemon's voice was ice.
"The realm stands at the brink of one. What befell my father was no hunting accident nor fever. Prince Baelon was poisoned in my own castle. The assassin has not been found. Whether the hand behind it lies in Dorne or the Triarchy, I do not know—but I do know they will strike again. Therefore, I shall remain armed until the threat is extinguished."
He did not mention the Velaryons or Driftmark taming Seasmoke. Not here. Not in a room filled with Reachmen loyal to Oldtown.
King Jaehaerys exhaled slowly. "Then let us resume our prior matter. When will my son, Archmaester Vaegon, arrive in King's Landing?"
Otto Hightower answered at once, voice smooth as honeyed milk.
"Hightower knights escort the Archmaester up the Rose Road. Many lords of the Reach have joined the procession—Florent, Tyrell, Tarly and others. They hasten to bring His Grace's son home safely."
After Baelon's death, Vaegon—Jaehaerys's last living son—had become a political force again. That he had renounced his rights meant very little to ambitious men.
Sea travel was deemed too dangerous. The Triarchy held the Stepstones; the Dornish coast was long, wild, and unfriendly. The Iron Throne strongly suspected Myr, Lys, or Tyrosh of sending the poisoners. If Vaegon sailed, he might never arrive.
Thus, an escort larger than many armies marched through the Reach—an escort that looked suspiciously like a king's procession.
Ser Ryam Redwyne added, "I have dispatched Ser Marlon Vance of the Kingsguard to meet them. Vaegon will soon be home."
Grand Maester Runciter produced a stack of messages.
"Your Grace, nobles across Westeros debate the matter of succession. While Archmaester Vaegon is the most direct male heir, several great houses support Princess Rhaenys—the daughter of Prince Aemon. The Lords of Winterfell, White Harbor, Storm's End, and Harroway's Town all urge that Princess Rhaenys be named Princess of Dragonstone."
Jaehaerys frowned.
"Baelon is not yet buried. The succession can wait."
Otto bowed his head respectfully—but his eyes gleamed.
"Your Grace, Princess Rhaenys is unsuitable. If the Iron Throne passes through a woman while male heirs yet live, every noblewoman in Westeros will claim the right to challenge her brothers for their inheritance."
Lyman Beesbury chimed in, "The Sea Snake has long complained his wife was wronged. Yet how can the crown pass through a daughter when Your Grace has grandsons? Archmaester Vaegon is the proper choice."
Ser Ryam Redwyne nodded.
"I watched Aemon, Baelon, and Vaegon grow. Though Vaegon is peculiar, he is wise—and tempered by the Citadel."
Daemon watched all three men—Otto, Beesbury, Redwyne—and saw clearly what King Jaehaerys pretended not to: too many Reachmen sat on this council, and the Hightowers' shadow stretched long.
Even Grand Maester Runciter wore a chain forged in Oldtown.
No wonder they spoke with one voice.
Worse still, many great houses outside the capital had declared for Rhaenys—Stark, Baratheon, Manderly, Grafton, Bolton. They saw her as Aemon's rightful heir.
King Jaehaerys finally spoke, tired but sharp.
"You all forget Viserys. He is Baelon's son."
Silence. Viserys said nothing. He looked pale.
Daemon spoke instead.
"Indeed. My brother is the rightful heir."
Grand Maester Runciter shook his head.
"Only if Prince Baelon's claim had been unimpeachable. But Prince Baelon was himself a second son. He only inherited Aemon's place after Aemon's death. Rhaenys, as Aemon's daughter, precedes Baelon's line—were she male. Since she is not, the claim reverts to Vaegon, who is Aemon's surviving brother."
Otto, Beesbury, and Redwyne resumed praising Vaegon as though reciting a script.
Jaehaerys's hands trembled with frustration.
"Enough. I am weary of this. The council is dismissed."
One by one they withdrew. Only Daemon, Viserys, and King Jaehaerys remained.
The old king scowled.
"They speak as if I were dead already. They exalt Vaegon but forget his vows."
Daemon leaned back, unbothered.
"Your Grace, the council is overrun with Reachmen. They see Vaegon as a puppet—one the Hightowers and Citadel can control. If they crown a former archmaester, they will rule the dragons."
Viserys looked uneasy.
"Uncle Vaegon swore an oath. He cannot wed. He has no heir."
Daemon laughed.
"If Vaegon sits the Iron Throne, Otto Hightower will marry him to Alicent within a moon. And when she bears a child, they will claim it is Vaegon's."
Jaehaerys blinked.
"You grant Otto too much cunning."
"No," Daemon replied. "I give him exactly the amount he deserves."
The king sighed.
"And what of Rhaenys? She was Aemon's child. Some lady-lords will support her."
Daemon's mouth twisted.
"And some because the Sea Snake buys them with gold. The North and the Vale rely on Velaryon ships for grain; winter bites deep. The Sea Snake bargains well. Baratheon stands with him by blood. He is gathering allies faster than most notice."
Viserys protested,
"The North can hardly feed itself. How could they march south?"
Daemon answered coolly,
"Because starving men will fight for coin. A host of Winter Wolves marching in snow is death incarnate."
He continued:
"But the North is distant. It is the Stormlands and the Crownlands we must fear. And Driftmark itself."
Viserys tried to object, but Daemon cut him off.
"I received intelligence this morning. Laenor Velaryon has claimed Seasmoke."
King Jaehaerys froze.
"Seasmoke… bonded? How?"
Daemon's eyes narrowed.
"I suspect Qartheen dream-speakers or Myrish shadowbinders in the Sea Snake's employ. He gathers every scrap of foreign lore to bolster his wife's claim."
The king's voice trembled.
"And Vhagar? She vanished the night Baelon died. Could it be related?"
Daemon did not answer—but the implication hung heavy between them.
Viserys tried, weakly, to defuse the tension.
"Princess Rhaenys has shown little interest since the Queen's passing—"
"Rhaenys is irrelevant," Daemon snapped. "The Sea Snake uses her as a banner. He raises soldiers on Driftmark. He speaks openly of defending her 'rights.' That is one step shy of rebellion."
Viserys gaped.
"We cannot attack Driftmark! Our father was just assassinated. The enemy is hidden. We must unite, not start a war."
Daemon's expression hardened.
"Unite? With a man arming himself under your nose? The Sea Snake must be checked before he becomes a second Harren."
He stood, cloak rustling like wings.
"All it requires is a royal command. Summon the Crownlands. House Darklyn of Duskendale, House Massey of Stonedance, the Celtigars of Claw Isle with their fleet. Let the Kingsguard stand ready, and let Caraxes take wing."
His eyes glowed like embers.
"If Driftmark threatens the realm, we answer with fire.
Driftmark rises—
and Driftmark burns."
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