Chapter 18: The Shadow of War and the Architect's Vision
The Red Keep, under Raegon's effective regency, buzzed with an unprecedented efficiency. Prosperity, once a distant dream, flowed into the capital from his vast, subtly managed economic empire. But even the meticulous architect of peace could not prevent the growing shadows from resurfacing, nor could his ambition be contained by the existing boundaries of the realm.
The Small Council: War and a New Dawn
Crown Prince Raegon, now thirty-three years old and possessing a physical presence that seemed to fill any room he entered, called a Small Council meeting. He sat at the head of the painted table, his posture relaxed, yet radiating an unshakeable command. Grand Maester Mellos, Lord Corlys Velaryon, Lord Beesbury, and his uncle, Daemon, newly installed as Master of Laws, were present.
"My lords," Raegon began, his voice calm, "reports from the Narrow Sea grow increasingly troubling. The so-called Triarchy has resurfaced. Their corsairs raid our merchant ships, disrupt our trade, and threaten the very prosperity we have painstakingly built." He paused, his gaze sweeping over each man. "This cannot stand. House Targaryen is now the wealthiest in the Seven Kingdoms, our coffers deep. We will not allow a resurgence of piracy to diminish our strength."
Daemon, ever the warrior, leaned forward, a glint in his eye. "The Stepstones are where they breed, nephew. A nest of vipers. I would gladly take Caraxes and cleanse them once more."
Raegon held up a hand. "Not a private war this time, Uncle. This is a war of the Crown. This time, House Targaryen will take the Stepstones, not merely clear them. They will become our permanent possession, a safeguard for the realm and a testament to our dominion over the Narrow Sea."
He then shifted the focus, a subtle shift in the room's energy. "On another matter, my lords, House Targaryen must expand. Our strength lies not just in a single seat, but in new branches, new roots. It is time for a new royal seat to be established. I propose this seat, a future lordship of its own, be given to my full brother, Prince Aegon."
Mellos murmured about the cost, but Raegon silenced him with a look. "The Crown's treasury is deep, Maester. This will be an investment in the future, a strategic outpost, and a beacon of Targaryen power. Plans are already being drawn." He left no room for dissent. The Triarchy would be crushed, and a new Targaryen stronghold would rise.
War Councils: The Sea Snake and The Rogue Prince
Later, in a private chamber overlooking Blackwater Bay, Raegon met with Lord Corlys Velaryon. Corlys, despite his age, still carried the sharp mind of a seasoned mariner.
"The Triarchy," Corlys stated, his voice gravelly, "they are bolder this time, Prince. Their ships are numerous, their intentions clear. They seek to bleed our trade dry."
"They will bleed their own blood instead," Raegon replied, his gaze fixed on the turbulent waters. "We will not simply scatter them. We will shatter them. Permanently. The Stepstones will be ours. What strategies do you propose, Lord Corlys? Your knowledge of those waters is unmatched."
They spoke for hours, Raegon absorbing every detail, his mind instantly grasping the complexities of naval warfare, the currents, the choke points, the tactical advantages, as if he had commanded fleets for a lifetime. He considered himself a master of strategy by innate understanding, a gift from his transformed body.
Daemon joined them later, still eager for command. "Give me the fleet, nephew. I will lead the assault. Caraxes thirsts for battle."
"You will have your role, Uncle," Raegon said, his voice firm. "But this is a Crown endeavor. No private armies. The might of House Targaryen will be fully arrayed. You will lead the dragons, certainly, alongside my own. But the overall command will be mine. I will see this through." Daemon, though visibly disappointed at not having sole command, nodded, recognizing the undeniable authority in Raegon's voice and the wisdom of his approach.
An Heir's Choice and a Queen's Frustration
Within the royal family, life continued its intricate dance. Raegon, true to his word, had spoken to his brothers about their future marriages. Prince Aemond, now eleven, often found himself observing the comings and goings of visitors, his sharp eyes lingering on Lady Jocelyn Baratheon, a distant cousin who had recently come to court. She was quiet, with eyes like deep pools, and a strength that hinted at the stormlands from which she hailed. It was a nascent interest, but Raegon, ever watchful, noted it, a subtle shift in the boy's demeanor.
Meanwhile, Queen Alicent remained deeply frustrated. She sought out King Viserys often, pleading, subtly manipulating, trying to assert her will, especially regarding a match for her son, Aegor, and the broader succession. "My King," she would say, her voice laced with concern, "the future of our House, the security of our line, it weighs heavily on my heart. Perhaps a match for Aegor with the esteemed Lady Myra Lannister would serve to strengthen—"
Viserys, his health now truly frail, would wave a dismissive hand. "Alicent, my dear, all such matters are in Raegon's hands. He is the Crown Prince, the Regent. He is a wise and capable ruler. You should speak with him." He trusted Raegon implicitly, his failing mind finding comfort in his son's absolute competence. Alicent would leave, her face tight with suppressed fury. Raegon always seemed to anticipate her moves, to block them effortlessly. He was too strong, too self-contained. Desperate for a counterweight, she secretly sent a raven, summoning her brother, Ser Gwayne Hightower, back to the capital. His presence, she hoped, would at least give her some leverage.
An Intimate Future
Late one evening, after the day's endless demands had ceased, Raegon found solace in the quiet comfort of his own chambers with Princess Rhaenyra. She lay beside him, her head resting on his chest, the soft glow of the braziers casting dancing shadows on the walls.
"The Triarchy will fall," Rhaenyra murmured, tracing patterns on his skin. "You are truly a King, my love. Even now."
Raegon stroked her hair. "They are but a symptom, my Queen. The realm needs more. More stability, more purpose. I spoke of a new seat for Aegon today. It is but a small beginning." He paused, then. "I envision more. New cities. New branches of our House. Places where the younger sons and daughters, the landless, can forge their own destinies, adding strength to the family, not detracting from it. A true expansion of the Dragon's might."
Rhaenyra listened, her eyes widening. "A bold vision, my Prince. A daunting one."
"Necessary," Raegon affirmed, his gaze distant, fixed on a future only he could truly see. "To prevent the conflicts of the past. To ensure the Targaryen name endures, strong and united. And through it all, my love," he pulled her closer, his voice low, "you will be at my side. As my Queen, as my strength, as the mother of the future generations of this expanding house." In these moments, with Rhaenyra, he could let down his guard, share the weight of his grand, terrifying ambition.
One Year Passes: A Glimpse of the Future
One year flew by as Raegon prepared for war. Fleets were marshaled, dragons trained, and resources poured into the campaign. The sounds of forge hammers echoed through the Dragonpit, the roar of dragons a constant, familiar chorus. The royal children, now older, continued their studies, their training, and their own nascent emotional complexities.
Ages at 127 AC:
* Crown Prince Raegon: 34 years old.
* Princess Rhaenyra (Raegon's wife): 30 years old.
* Prince Jacaerys (Raegon's son): 14 years old. His betrothal to Baela was firmer, their easy companionship growing into something more.
* Prince Aelor (Raegon's son): 14 years old.
* Princess Visenya (Raegon's daughter): 12 years old.
* Princess Rhaella (Raegon's daughter): 12 years old.
* Prince Aenar (Raegon's son): 6 years old.
* Princess Daenys (Raegon's daughter): 6 years old.
* Prince Aegon (Raegon's full brother, Aemma's son): 16 years old. He had begun to subtly petition Raegon regarding his interest in the Vale noblewoman.
* Prince Aegor (Alicent's eldest son): 15 years old. Still unbetrothed, a quiet frustration growing within him.
* Princess Helaena (Alicent's daughter): 14 years old. Her connection to Dreamfyre deepened, and her strange, prophetic utterances grew more frequent.
* Prince Aemond (Alicent's son): 12 years old. His interest in Lady Jocelyn Baratheon remained a quiet, budding curiosity. His mastery over Vhagar was already legendary among the Dragonkeepers.
* Lady Baela Targaryen (Daemon's daughter): 11 years old. Fierce and spirited, growing into her role as future queen consort to Jacaerys.
* Lady Rhaena Targaryen (Daemon's daughter): 11 years old. Quieter than her sister, her two young dragon hatchlings were quickly outgrowing their basket.
One crisp afternoon, Raegon walked through a secluded garden, his movements silent and undetectable as a shadow. He rounded a corner, planning to speak with Viserys, when he paused. Hidden beneath the fragrant blooms of a blooming arbor, he saw them. His second son, Prince Aelor, leaning in, his lips pressed gently against those of Princess Helaena. The kiss was innocent, fleeting, yet unmistakable.
Raegon watched for a moment, unseen. Aelor and Helaena, two parts of a delicate balance, two families at the heart of the Crown. A match not chosen by design, but by affection. A new, unexpected piece for the Architect to consider. The war for the Stepstones awaited,