The first light of dawn had yet to clear away the mist from the Green Fork. Lady Serena Frey, already dressed and composed, sat in a high-backed chair in her solar.
Before her, Cayla stood, looking like a flower that had been forced to bloom in the moonlight; her beauty was vivid, but there was a fragile, almost feverish intensity in her eyes. A deep, restless blush colored her cheeks, and her hands would not stay still.
"Well?" Serena asked, her voice calm but demanding. "Do not leave out a single detail."
Cayla's voice was hesitant as she began. She spoke of the prince's quiet appraisal, his unsettling stillness, the way his cool fingers had traced her jaw. As she recounted the events, her blush deepened, her eyes becoming unfocused, as if she were reliving each touch, each whisper.
She told of the kiss, the shocking expertise of his hands on her bare skin, the way he had brought her to a shattering peak against the table with his fingers.
Serena listened with polite attention, though inwardly she was beginning to feel like a gardener being lectured on the philosophical significance of soil. She wanted the fruit of the girl's labor, not a poetic recounting of how the sun felt on each leaf.
He is just a boy, after all, she concluded, filing away the unusual discrepancy between his youth and his apparent expertise. The girl was clearly just overwhelmed; the reactions of a freshly deflowered maiden were rarely logical.
Then Cayla, her gaze dropping to the floor, delivered the crucial truth. "And then, my lady… he… he took me to the bed. He was… fierce. And he… he spent his seed inside me. Deeply." She clasped her hands together to stop their trembling, a gesture Serena took for maidenly modesty.
A slow, triumphant smile spread across Serena's lips. She leaned back, the tension in her shoulders easing for the first time. "You have done well, Cayla. Far better than I had hoped for a first attempt."
Cayla kept her eyes downcast while fidgeting a little as she listened to her aunt.
"The connection is made," Serena continued, her mind already racing ahead. "But a single night is a fragile thread. It may not be enough to secure the future we require." She fixed Cayla with a stern, meaningful look. "You will seek him out today. Walk with him. Smile at him. Ensure his eyes and his desires follow you. And tonight, you will go to his chambers again. Do not give him a chance to forget the taste of you. We have only until tomorrow."
Cayla nodded, her throat too tight for words. "Yes, my lady."
"Dismissed."
As the door closed behind the girl, Serena's smile faded, replaced by the familiar lines of calculation. She rang a small silver bell, and a maid scurried in.
"Where is my lord husband?" Serena asked, though she already knew the answer.
"Lord Forrest is still abed, my lady," the maid whispered, shrinking under Serena's gaze.
Of course he is, Serena thought, a wave of annoyance washing over her. While I secure the future of our house, he sleeps off another night of ale. She sighed in frustration. "Leave me."
Alone once more, she rose and walked to the window, looking out over the rising towers of the Twins. Her thoughts were a whirlwind of strategy.
'A child changes everything. A Targaryen bastard, born of our blood, raised under our roof. It would be a foothold, a claim, a connection no other Riverlord can boast. We would no longer be just the gatekeepers of the Crossing; we would be kin to dragons.'
Her mind flew back to the royal hunt, to the moment the prince had conjured flames from nothingness, morphing them into a tiny, soaring dragon that danced over the heads of the stunned nobility. Kin to dragons, yes, but also to that raw, terrifying power. She, like every other lord and lady present, had instantly harbored ambitions of a betrothal. But she was a Frey of the Twins, pragmatic above all. She knew more powerful houses stood in line for a royal marriage.
The prince's sudden visit was a god-given opportunity. A formal alliance was beyond their reach, but the desire of a young man was not. It was a far simpler thing to manipulate. And they had the perfect offering: Cayla, young, beautiful, and untouched.
A breeze fluttered through the window, carrying the damp scent of the river. Serena felt a surge of relief, sharpened by anxiety. The plan was simple, but the prize was everything.
Her thoughts turned cold. 'First, the betrothed… that oafish knight. He cannot be here when her belly swells. An 'honorable' posting in the disputed lands, perhaps. A tragic hunting accident. Something quiet, something final. Forrest can be made to see the necessity. And the prince… we must make him want to return. To check on his child. To see his mistress. This connection must not end with his departure.'
Her knuckles rested lightly on the stone windowsill. The prince, with all his fire and his dragon, would never feel the silken threads of the web she was weaving, each one anchored to the girl he had taken to his bed. Soon, he would be perfectly and irrevocably bound, his destiny stitched to the rising fortunes of House Frey.
The scent of fried river trout and warm bread filled the chamber. Aegon took a slow, deliberate bite, his eyes fixed on the girl sitting across from him.
"Hm-mm… it's good," he said, after he had swallowed.
Cayla's shoulders, which had been tensed up near her ears, dropped a fraction. "The fish is fresh," she offered, her voice a little too bright. "Caught this morning from the Fork." She nervously adjusted the placement of a honey pot on the tray she had brought herself.
Aegon observed her while chewing slowly. He saw it all: the calculated intimacy of bringing him breakfast, the tremor in her hands, the way her eyes darted to him and then away, as if the sight of him burned. The signs were as clear as written text. She had lied, just as he'd instructed, and the performance was costing her. The thought amused him.
"You should eat too," Aegon said, his tone casual, yet it made her jump as if he'd shouted.
"Ah, yes," Cayla stammered, finally dropping her gaze to her own plate. She picked up her fork and began to eat in small, bird-like bites.
Aegon smiled inwardly. The synergy between his Manipulator and Observer classes was even more potent than he'd anticipated. Today, he could see the results etched into her very being. She was a tangled knot of duty, fear, and a thrilling, shameful attraction that she didn't know how to process. Every blush, every stammer, was a testament to his control.
Truly, he thought, the humor of it striking him, this was the purest form of control: not in forcing obedience, but in offering a choice where both options - compliance or ruin… were designed by his hand.
So after she had left him the previous night, flushed and bewildered, he had upgraded the Manipulator Class again by two full levels, bringing it to Level 8.
The rest of the day unfolded as a perfect pantomime. They rode out to nearby villages, a handsome prince and his pretty, Frey-ish escort. A few guards trailed at a respectful distance, their presence a mere formality. He had even shown her Dreamfyre. The great she-dragon had been curled in a sun-drenched field, her scales like mother-of-pearl. At his approach, she had lifted her head, a low thrum of greeting echoing in her chest. Cayla had stared, her fear of the beast warring with awe. "She's… magnificent," she had whispered, and for a moment, her nervousness had been replaced by genuine wonder.
He knew Cayla was acting, but he also saw the flickers of genuine feeling she couldn't quite suppress. And then there was the other, more telling development. Her betrothed, the proud knight, had been "urgently" called away, unable to even bid her farewell. Aegon had to give credit to the Freys; they moved quickly.
At the evening feast in the great hall, the atmosphere was laden with unspoken triumph. Lord Frey, whose mind seemed chiefly occupied with his next cup of ale, offered him a jovial, knowing wink. But it was Lady Serena's smile that was the true masterpiece, a cold, sharp thing of pure calculation, perfectly masked as maternal warmth. Aegon made sure to play his part.
"My lord, my lady," he said, raising his goblet. "I must thank you again for your… great hospitality. The Twins have been far more welcoming than I could have ever imagined."
He let his gaze drift to Cayla, who was sitting beside him, her head bowed over her plate. He reached out, a gesture that looked fond and possessive, and gently tucked a strand of her red hair behind her ear. She flinched at the contact, a fresh wave of pink coloring her cheeks.
"In fact," Aegon continued, turning back to his hosts, his voice dropping to a more intimate tone, "I find myself already anticipating my next visit. I shall have to find reasons to travel this way more often." He paused, letting the promise hang in the air. "And you will look after your dear niece, won't you? She has made my stay here so… memorable."
The knowing smiles that spread across their faces were everything he had expected. They saw a prince bewitched, a dragon entangled in the charms of their niece. They saw a path to power. Aegon smiled back, the perfect picture of a smitten young man. As for who was truly using whom… well, the future would tell.
King's Landing, Dragonpit
The air in the cavern was heavy, tasting of volcanic ash, and the slow, sour exhalation of a living mountain. Before Viserys, the great beast slumbered, its sides rising and falling with a rhythm.
Balerion the Black Dread.
The heat that radiated from the dragon was not the fierce, aggressive fire of a warrior, but the low, dying ember of a forge left untended for a century.
Viserys stood with his shoulders slumped, his silver-gold hair bright in the gloom. His expression was of a profound, personal sadness. This was his dragon, chained to the earth, and he was its keeper in its final days.
The old Dragonkeeper, his face a web of wrinkles and his movements slow, shuffled forward. He did not speak, but he placed a gentle, gnarled hand on Viserys's elbow and gestured with his head toward the cavern's entrance. The message was clear: It is time to go.
With a final, reluctant look, Viserys allowed himself to be led away. They passed from the oppressive silence of the cave into the vast, echoing space of the Dragonpit's main arena, where the last of the evening light streamed through the great dome.
Otto Hightower was waiting, leaning against a pillar. A black leather patch covered his left eye. His remaining eye, a sharp and perceptive green, fixed on Viserys. He took in the prince's dejected posture, the downcast eyes.
"No?" Otto asked, his voice soft but carrying in the emptiness.
Viserys shook his head, a short, defeated motion. He couldn't even meet Otto's gaze.
Otto sighed, a sound of genuine sympathy mixed with practical disappointment. He turned his attention to the old Dragonkeeper, who had stopped a distance away. "Will he ever fly again?" Otto's question was direct, cutting to the heart of the matter.
The old man's eyes held a deep, resonant sorrow. He looked from Otto to the dark mouth of the cave, then back. "The Black Dread…" he began, "...has flown farther and seen more than any living thing in this world. His fire is low. His time is a guttering candle. He will not fly again, my lords. He has found his final rest."
Viserys flinched as if struck. He had known it, felt the truth of it in the cavern's stagnant air, but to hear the words aloud was a finality he was not ready to bear. To have claimed the greatest dragon in history, to have felt that immense power beneath him for one single, glorious flight, only to have it end… it felt less like an achievement and more like a cruel joke of fate.
Otto stepped closer to the prince, his voice firm yet kind. "Viserys. Look at me." When the prince finally raised his eyes, Otto continued. "You claimed Balerion. You are the last rider of the Black Dread. No one can ever take that from you. It is a feat that will be sung of for a thousand years. Do not dwell on what might have been. Cherish what is. You have secured your legacy in a single act."
The words were meant to bolster him, and they did, a little. Viserys managed a weak, grateful nod.
They exited the Dragonpit together, emerging into the cool evening air of King's Landing. The sun was a bleeding wound on the horizon, setting the city's haze ablaze. Viserys mounted his horse, his movements still heavy with melancholy. "I will see you on the morrow, Otto," he said, his voice low.
"On the morrow, my prince," Otto replied, offering a shallow, respectful bow.
He stood there, watching as the Heir's firstborn and his guard trotted up the winding street toward the Red Keep. The sympathetic concern on his face lasted only as long as Viserys was in sight. The moment the prince turned a corner and vanished, the expression melted away like wax under a flame. It was replaced by a cool, calculating stillness, his single green eye narrowing in thought. The sunset reflected in it, a tiny, cold fire.
A man emerged from the shadow of the Dragonpit's outer wall and approached swiftly.
"My lord," the guard murmured, his voice low.
Otto didn't turn. "Speak."
"The men… they have found her."
A pause, then a single, curt nod. The guard bowed and retreated back into the gathering dusk.
Otto remained for a moment longer, looking toward the Red Keep, his mind no longer on a dying dragon or a sad prince, but already on what he needed to do next.
***
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