"Hiss~ Ga!"
A faint yet powerful dragon's roar rolled through the dim yellow sky. From the endless stretch of the distant sea, a small black dot emerged—barely visible against the horizon. It pulsed with life, growing larger as it drew nearer, until its shadow began to devour the golden light of dusk.
Gradually, the figure became clearer. Wings glinted with metallic hues, scales shimmering gold and silver beneath the pale sunlight. Soon, it was unmistakable—what the people of King's Landing saw soaring toward them was none other than a colossal dragon, majestic and radiant.
The beast moved with terrifying speed. In moments, it streaked over the capital's sprawl, slicing through the clouds as it headed directly toward the Red Keep, the fortress that stood aloof at the city's highest point, overlooking the sprawling chaos below.
"That must be Prince Gaemon's dragon—Bahamut," murmured a market vendor, shading his eyes as he gazed skyward. "It looks even larger than before."
"It must be," replied another man beside him. "The royal family owns only one dragon of that color. Gold and silver—impossible to mistake."
"I heard His Highness has begun recruiting again," said a third. "They say he's granting land to anyone willing to settle his territory. A hundred acres for every family. Imagine! That's more wealth than we'd see in ten lifetimes."
"I'd rather stay in King's Landing," muttered a weary woman. "I barely escaped the lord's manor. I'll not go back to bending my back for some noble's field again. In the village, most of what we grew filled their granaries. We toiled all year and still went hungry."
"Prince Gaemon isn't like the others," the man insisted. "He's a dragon rider—a true prince of the realm. My cousin already joined his settlement. Said the prince himself signed contracts guaranteeing no taxes for three years. Everyone got their own plot of land. They've started planting already."
"Your cousin must be lucky," said the woman softly, though doubt lingered in her eyes. "Still… nobles don't give away land out of kindness."
The group fell silent, their gazes following the dragon's shadow as it swept across the rooftops. Bahamut's presence was no longer a novelty in the capital; the people had grown accustomed to seeing its radiant form pass overhead. Yet every appearance stirred whispers—hope in some, suspicion in others.
---
King's Landing, the beating heart of the Seven Kingdoms, had long upheld a single rule: anyone who lived within its walls for a full year—no matter their origin, birth, or past—could claim the right to be a free person.
It was this rule that filled the vast, grimy streets with wanderers, refugees, and the dispossessed. They came from distant lands—peasants fleeing famine, serfs escaping cruel masters, debtors running from their chains. Each sought one thing that had been denied to them their entire lives: freedom.
At first, survival was their only concern. They slept in sewers, narrow alleys, and the shadows of city walls. They scavenged for work—hauling refuse, sweeping the streets, unloading goods at the docks. For a few copper coins a day, they labored until their hands bled. And yet, compared to the suffocating servitude of the countryside, this hardship still held a glimmer of hope.
When hunger bit too deep, they queued at the septs and monasteries for scraps of bread or bowls of thin soup handed out by pious septas. Even so, if anyone asked whether they would rather return to their former lives, their answer would always be a firm, unyielding "no."
In King's Landing, they had nothing—but they also had the right to dream. In their old villages, they had no rights at all.
For that sliver of hope, they risked everything—sneaking past guards, crossing wildlands, surviving starvation and sickness. Few succeeded. Perhaps one in ten fugitives ever reached the capital alive; the rest were caught, dragged back in chains, or perished on the road.
Thus, when Prince Gaemon's decree spread through the city—offering land, food, and freedom—few among the fugitives believed it. To them, the words of nobles were traps wrapped in honey. Why would a prince, even a dragon rider, show mercy to peasants? They had been betrayed too often to believe in miracles.
---
Far above their chatter, Gaemon could not hear their doubts. Riding astride Bahamut, the young prince guided his dragon in a smooth arc toward the Red Keep. The dragon's wings beat with rhythmic power, stirring clouds into spiraling turbulence. Moments later, the great beast descended upon the Keep's training grounds in a rush of wind and dust.
"Halt! Stand ready!" shouted the guards, shielding their eyes from the debris.
With a thunderous crash, Bahamut landed. The training ground trembled beneath its massive weight. Gaemon sat high on the dragon's saddle, his dark riding suit streaked with salt and sea spray. Attached to the saddle on either side were heavy objects—one of them a large wooden box.
"A few men! Come help lift this!" he commanded.
At his voice, several guards sprinted forward. The prince loosened the ropes, letting the wooden box swing gently before lowering it down. "Catch it steady," he ordered. "It's heavy."
The men braced themselves as the box dropped into their grasp. It was about two meters long, nearly one meter wide—roughly the size of a coffin. A strong, briny scent wafted from it, mingled with the unmistakable tang of fish and seawater.
As the guards steadied the load, Gaemon retrieved a burlap sack from the other side of the saddle and slung it over his shoulder. With practiced ease, he dismounted, descending the soft leather ladder fixed along Bahamut's flank.
"Well done," he said, patting the dragon's scales affectionately. "Go rest now."
Bahamut rumbled lowly, its massive eyes flickering gold before it spread its wings again. The great creature turned toward the Red Keep's watchtower—its preferred roost. Ever since Gaemon had returned from the North, the watchtower had become Bahamut's lair. The dragon despised the confines of the city's Dragonpit, preferring the open heights and cold winds.
"Take the box to the kitchens," Gaemon instructed the guards. "Tell Chef Jace there's a tuna inside. Have him prepare it the way I showed last time. I'll dine with my family tonight. The rest of the meat, you can share among yourselves. It won't keep long."
The guards bowed deeply. "Yes, Your Highness!"
Satisfied, Gaemon adjusted the strap on his shoulder and strode toward the castle interior. The scent of sea and dragonfire clung to him, but he hardly cared. All he wanted now was a long, hot bath to wash away the fatigue of the day.
---
By evening, the castle kitchens were alive with rich aromas. Chef Jace worked swiftly, his knives flashing under the lamplight. By the time dinner was served, the tuna had been transformed into a feast—plates of bright red sashimi arranged like flower petals, and golden-crusted fillets sizzling in fragrant oil.
When Gaemon entered the dining hall, the servants bowed and began laying the dishes upon the long table. He inhaled the savory scent, nodded with satisfaction, and took his seat at the head.
"Perfect," he murmured. "Just as I imagined."
The door opened, and a young woman's cheerful voice rang out. "Wow! Tuna again tonight?" Saenella exclaimed, rushing toward the table. Her eyes gleamed with excitement. "Did you bring it back yourself, Gaemon?"
"If not me, then who else?" he replied, smirking. "You're the one who kept begging for it. Otherwise, I'd not have gone to such trouble chasing fish across the sea."
Saenella giggled, unfazed by his teasing. "Thank you, Gaemon! You're the best."
Their lighthearted exchange brought warmth to the chamber. Soon, other members of the family began filing in—the prince's brothers, cousins, and retainers, their laughter echoing through the hall.
"Oh! We're in for a treat tonight," said Baelon with a grin as he took his seat. "Haven't had this tuna in ages. I'll be eating my fill."
"Then you'd best thank your brother," Gaemon said dryly, not even looking up. "I spent half the day at sea just to catch that fish."
Baelon laughed heartily. "Then I'll drink twice as much in your honor."
"Just don't fall asleep at the table again," Saenella quipped.
The hall erupted in laughter. For a rare evening, the Red Keep was filled not with courtly politics or grim discussions of war, but with the simple joy of family—of shared stories, food, and warmth.
As the servants poured wine, Gaemon leaned back slightly, allowing himself a moment of quiet reflection. Outside, the night sky stretched vast and dark, pierced by the faint glow of dragonfire flickering atop the watchtower where Bahamut slept.
He had flown far and worked tirelessly to rebuild what was lost—to offer hope where despair had long reigned. Yet even now, he knew not everyone believed in his intentions. To the people of King's Landing, he was still a prince—a noble—and nobles were not to be trusted.
But Gaemon would prove them wrong. He would show them that a dragon's wings could shelter as well as destroy.
Raising his cup, he looked at his family and smiled faintly. "To tomorrow," he said. "And to a future worth fighting for."
The others echoed the toast, their glasses clinking in unison.
Beyond the stone walls of the Red Keep, Bahamut stirred—its golden eyes glinting like twin suns against the darkness. The dragon's breath rose in slow, steady waves, as though sensing the weight of its rider's resolve.
And thus, beneath the shadow of the dragon, the game of thrones continued to unfold—one choice, one flight, and one flame at a time.
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