The silence in the council chamber stretched taut as a bowstring, broken only by the soft crackle of braziers and the distant sounds of the Red Keep's daily bustle filtering through stone walls. Otto Hightower's legendary composure—that polished veneer built over decades of navigating the treacherous waters of court politics—flickered for just a heartbeat. It was barely perceptible, a momentary tightening around his eyes, but anyone watching closely would have witnessed the sudden recalibration of a master politician who had gravely misjudged both the stakes and his opponent's preparation.
"These... developments," Otto said with deliberate care, each word measured like gold coins on a merchant's scale. His voice maintained its characteristic diplomatic smoothness, but now carried the faint strain of a man walking on thin ice over deep waters. "Are indeed more concerning than initial reports suggested. The implications for trade, for stability..." He paused, fingers steepled before him as he gathered his thoughts. "Still, prudence dictates measured responses. We must not leap into military commitments across foreign waters without careful—very careful—consideration of all consequences."
The Hand's words hung in the air like incense smoke, carefully crafted yet somehow hollow. Lord Strong shifted in his seat, the leather creaking under his weight, while Grand Maester Mellos scratched notes with methodical precision. The other council members exchanged glances—some sympathetic to Otto's caution, others clearly growing impatient with his calculated hesitation.
Viserys Targaryen, First of His Name, sat at the head of the table like a dragon at rest—deceptively calm, but with violet eyes that missed nothing. His gaze shifted between the two men who represented the different paths before him, and those distinctive eyes darkened slightly with that particular mix of weary exasperation and latent royal authority that could chill a man's bones if wielded at the wrong moment.
"Prudence is indeed admirable, Otto," Viserys said softly, his voice carrying the weight of the Iron Throne even in this intimate setting. He let the words settle over the room like morning fog rolling in from Blackwater Bay. "A quality I have long valued in my Hand. But tell me—when does caution become something else entirely? When does wisdom transform into... paralysis?"
The king leaned forward slightly, his hands flat against the polished wood of the council table. "To watch the Realm suffer from inaction while we calculate the exact cost of intervention down to the last copper... that is not wisdom, my lord. That is fear dressed in embroidered words and wrapped in the silk of protocol."
Otto's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Your Grace speaks of fear as though it were weakness, but I would call it experience. I have seen what happens when kings act in haste—"
"And I," interrupted a new voice, smooth as Dornish silk but sharp as Valyrian steel, "have seen what happens when they fail to act at all."
Princess Rhaenys Targaryen stepped forward with the fluid grace of a born dragon rider. Every motion was deliberate, every gesture calculated for maximum effect. Her violet eyes—so like her cousin's yet somehow more predatory—narrowed as she measured the council like a hawk studying prey from a great height.
"Caution has its place," she continued, her voice carrying that particular quality that made lesser lords straighten their spines and pay attention. "But paralysis in the face of an enemy operating with precision and confidence, in plain sight of all who care to look... that serves neither prudence nor the Realm's interests."
She moved to stand behind an empty chair, her hands resting lightly on its back. "If we allow the Crabfeeder and his allies—whoever they may truly be—to continue their operations unchecked, we will find the consequences stretching far beyond mere trade disputes. The capital will face starvation, markets will collapse like poorly built towers, and even our most loyal houses will begin to falter if they cannot trust the Crown to act when action is required."
Otto inclined his head with the practiced semblance of calm, though the faintest glint of annoyance betrayed the furious calculations running behind his carefully controlled expression. "Naturally, Princess. Your concerns are... noted. Yet one must weigh ambition as carefully as threat. I have long found, through considerable experience, that apparent danger is not always what it seems. Sometimes what appears to be coordinated malice is merely—"
"Ah, yes, Lord Hand." The interruption came from Prince Daemon Targaryen, who had been lounging in his chair with deceptive casualness, Dark Sister's hilt gleaming at his side. His voice was low and dangerous, carrying the sort of menace that made seasoned knights reach for their sword hilts. "Your legendary caution. Tell me, when exactly does careful deliberation end and willful blindness begin?"
Daemon's infamous grin spread across his face—all teeth and sharp edges, the expression of a man who had found his prey's weakness and intended to exploit it thoroughly. "When the capital itself is at risk, when merchants and common folk alike are imperiled by forces we could easily crush, it seems to me the danger is as real as the wine that will spoil in Lord Redwyne's cellars if not protected. Or does your prudence now excuse inaction in the face of food rotting in the holds of White Harbor while we debate the finer points of diplomatic protocol?"
"Prince Daemon oversimplifies—" Otto began, but the Rogue Prince was not finished.
"Do I?" Daemon leaned forward, his violet eyes gleaming with dangerous amusement. "Then please, enlighten us. What complexity requires us to watch our people suffer while we consult the proper precedents? What nuance demands we allow pirates to strangle our commerce while we ensure every seal is properly affixed to every document?"
The tension in the room was now thick enough to cut with a blade. Lord Strong watched the exchange with the keen interest of a man who understood that kingdoms could pivot on moments like this. Grand Maester Mellos had stopped writing entirely, his stylus frozen above the parchment.
Viserys leaned back in his chair, fingers beginning to drum against the polished wood with a restless rhythm that betrayed far more anxiety than his composed expression suggested. His violet eyes swept the council table methodically, taking in every face, every posture, every flicker of reaction like a seasoned general surveying a battlefield.
He had hoped—perhaps foolishly—that this situation might resolve itself quietly, without forcing him into decisions that would weigh heavier than gold or steel. But evidence, like truth, had a way of demanding acknowledgment regardless of a king's preferences.
The drumming stopped abruptly. When Viserys spoke again, his voice carried the quiet weight of absolute authority, the kind that brooked no argument or appeal.
"Lord Strong."
The Master of Laws straightened, his weathered face attentive. "Your Grace."
"I require you to conduct a thorough—and I emphasize thorough—investigation into these allegations. Coordinate with our harbor masters, our customs officials, and every reliable merchant contact we maintain across the eastern ports." Viserys's voice grew harder with each word. "Every ship, every shipment, every reported loss or suspicious incident—I want it catalogued, cross-referenced, and analyzed. Patterns mapped. Intelligence gathered. Routes traced. I want to know not just what is happening, but how, when, and most importantly—why."
Strong's jaw clenched, the muscles working beneath his weathered face like the mechanisms of some great war engine. His hands, scarred from years of wielding both sword and quill, flattened against the table.
"Your Grace," he said, his voice carrying the deep resonance that had commanded respect on battlefields and in courtrooms alike, "you shall have everything you've requested. And more besides. I'll see that no stone is left unturned, no sailor's tale goes unexamined, no manifest remains unchecked. If there's a pattern to be found, we'll find it. If there's a conspiracy at work, we'll uncover it."
He paused, considering his next words carefully. "But I'll need full cooperation from every port authority, every customs house, every merchant guild that values the Crown's continued favor. And I'll need men—reliable men who can't be bought or intimidated."
"You'll have them," Viserys said without hesitation. "Whatever resources you require."
The king's gaze lingered on his Master of Laws for a long moment, measuring, weighing the man's capabilities against the magnitude of the task. "Tell me honestly, Lyonel—how quickly can we expect preliminary findings? Before this tourney concludes, I would hope. If we are indeed facing coordinated economic warfare, I need the full picture before I risk public announcements, or worse, commitments that could bind the Crown in ways we cannot easily manage."
Strong's hand drifted to the edge of the table, his fingers curling like talons gripping stone. He let a slow, deliberate breath escape before responding, the sound of a man calculating vast complexities in his mind.
"If my men receive full cooperation from the port authorities, Your Grace—and I mean *full* cooperation, not the usual bureaucratic courtesies—a preliminary report could be ready within the day. The basic outline of any pattern, the scope of the losses, initial assessments of coordination or randomness." He paused. "Detailed analysis, comprehensive patterns, and suggested responses... by nightfall tomorrow at the latest. A final report, with recommendations for action..." Another pause. "Within the week, if Your Grace wills it."
Viserys inclined his head slightly, and for the first time in the meeting, the ghost of a genuine smile tugged at the corner of his lips. His violet eyes, however, remained sharp as dragonglass.
"I will it," he said softly, letting the words hang in the air with the weight of royal decree. "We cannot afford half-measures in this, Lyonel. If the Crabfeeder or his allies—or whoever stands behind this campaign—are allowed to operate unchecked, the consequences will ripple far beyond mere commerce. Our people will suffer, our markets will destabilize, and even the capital itself may feel the impact before we can respond."
Daemon, who had been observing this exchange with obvious satisfaction, arched an eyebrow and allowed his infamous grin to widen. "Ah, brother," he said, voice light yet carrying that underlying edge of danger that never quite left him, "you wear worry like a heavy cloak, but I suspect you secretly relish the thought of the game unfolding. All those threads to pull, all those pieces to move—and only a king has hands enough to reach them all."
Viserys's gaze snapped to him, violet eyes sharp as the point of a dagger. "I do not 'relish' it, Daemon." His voice remained calm and measured, but carried the subtle tremor of someone balancing bone-deep fatigue with the demands of absolute authority. "I... anticipate it. There is a significant difference between the two. The Realm's survival is not a matter of pleasure or sport, despite what you might believe."
"Of course not," Daemon replied with mock solemnity, though his eyes danced with mischief. "Forgive my poor choice of words, Your Grace. But surely you must admit there's a certain... satisfaction in finally having enemies who operate with enough sophistication to provide a worthy challenge?"
Strong's expression, weathered as old stone and twice as immovable, flickered between the two brothers. The family dynamic was fascinating to observe, but he had more pressing concerns.
"If I may, Your Grace," he interjected, his voice carrying that particular quality of quiet force that demanded attention without raising volume, "anticipation is wisdom, not weakness. Vigilance is prudence, not paranoia. But neither vigilance nor anticipation excuses inaction when the evidence points toward immediate threat."
He leaned forward slightly, his scarred hands flat against the table. "Give me the resources and cooperation I've requested, and I will provide you with the full scope of this threat. Every ship attacked, every convoy lost, every suspicious incident from Pentos to the Summer Isles. If there's a pattern, it will be found and mapped. If there's a mastermind behind it..." His voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "We will know their name, their methods, and their weaknesses."
Rhaenys, who had been silent during this exchange, now leaned forward with that dangerous elegance that reminded everyone present why the Targaryen bloodline had conquered and held the Seven Kingdoms for centuries. Her violet eyes, sharp as polished obsidian, swept the council table before settling on the king.
"And let us not forget the timing of all this, Your Grace," she said, allowing the faintest smile to play across her lips—an expression that managed to convey both approval and warning in equal measure. "A great tourney, the realm's attention focused on celebration and spectacle, noble houses gathered in the capital with their guards and attention diverted... it would be perfect cover for those who would test our vigilance and resolve."
She paused, letting that observation sink in before continuing. "If we act only after disaster has already struck our shores, then we have already lost far more than gold or ships. We will have lost the initiative, and in politics as in war, that is often tantamount to losing everything."
Otto, who had remained silent through this exchange, finally cleared his throat. "Princess Rhaenys raises valid points, but we must also consider the diplomatic implications. If we move too aggressively based on incomplete intelligence—"
"Then we risk appearing weak to our enemies and unreliable to our allies," Daemon finished with obvious relish. "Yes, Otto, we understand your position. The question is whether you understand ours."
Viserys raised a hand, forestalling any further argument. His fingers resumed their drumming against the table—slower this time, more deliberate, as though each tap measured the weight of kingdoms against the scales of decision.
"No," he said finally, his voice steady and somehow darker than the candlelight that flickered across the council chamber's stone walls. "We do not wait for disaster to strike our shores. I will not allow the Realm to be held hostage by pirates, opportunists, or hidden enemies—regardless of how sophisticated their methods may be."
The king's voice grew harder, carrying the authority of the Iron Throne itself. "Not when every day's delay costs our people more than mere coin or wounded pride. Not when inaction risks everything we have built and sworn to protect."
Daemon leaned back in his chair, allowing the faintest laugh to escape him—sharp and delighted, like the sound of steel being drawn from its sheath. "And so the Dance begins in earnest," he said, his eyes glinting with dangerous satisfaction. "The first steps have been taken, carefully measured and precisely placed. And yet, as in all such dances... someone will inevitably misstep."
Viserys turned that violet gaze upon his brother, and for a moment, the weight of three centuries of Targaryen rule seemed to fill the chamber. "Then we must ensure that any misstep is ours to control," he replied, his voice carrying iron beneath the silk. "We choose the music, we set the tempo, and we decide when the dance ends. That, Daemon, is the difference between kingship and chaos. Between ruling and merely reacting."
Strong nodded once—slow, deliberate, the kind of gesture that carried the weight of unbreakable oaths without need for ceremony. "Then consider it done, Your Grace. By nightfall, you will know the first clear outlines of this threat. The scope, the methods, the patterns. And I give you my word—no detail will escape my scrutiny, no lead will go unpursued, no stone will remain unturned."
He straightened, and for a moment, the years seemed to fall away from him, revealing the formidable warrior and administrator who had earned his position through merit rather than birth. "Whatever forces move against us, whoever pulls the strings behind this campaign—we will find them. And when we do, they will learn the price of testing Targaryen resolve."
The chamber fell silent for a heartbeat, tension coiled like a spring under tremendous pressure. Then, gradually, the familiar sounds returned—the scratch of quills on parchment, the rustle of robes as council members shifted in their seats, the distant call of ravens from the rookery high above.
Outside the Red Keep's walls, King's Landing continued its daily bustle, merchants hawking their wares, children playing in the streets, smallfolk going about their lives blissfully unaware of the gathering storm that their king and his council were already preparing to meet with fire and blood.
—
The great oak doors of the Small Council Chamber groaned shut behind them with the finality of a funeral bell, their bronze hinges singing that peculiar note of ancient metal under strain. The sound echoed through the stone corridors of the Red Keep like a death knell for whatever innocence had existed before the morning's revelations.
Prince Daemon Targaryen emerged first, his black leather gleaming in the torchlight that flickered from iron sconces set into the walls. Dark Sister hung at his hip with that casual elegance that somehow managed to suggest both decoration and deadly serious business, and his violet eyes held the dangerous gleam of a man who had just witnessed his carefully laid plans unfold exactly as intended.
Behind him came Prince Jaehaerys, moving with that peculiar combination of boyish energy and adult composure that marked his every gesture. The Valyrian steel ring on his finger caught the light as he clasped his hands behind his back in the proper posture for a page, though something in his bearing suggested he was considerably more than mere decoration. His green eyes swept the corridor with the systematic attention of someone cataloguing potential threats and opportunities in equal measure.
Ser Gunthor Royce materialized from the shadows beside the great doors like some bronze-clad mountain that had learned the art of patient waiting. His massive frame, easily six and a half feet of solid muscle wrapped in mail and determination, straightened with the fluid precision of a siege engine coming into position. The weathered knight's hand rested casually on his sword hilt—not from any immediate expectation of violence, but from the sort of professional habit that had kept him alive through decades of service to dangerous men in dangerous times.
"Your Graces," Gunthor rumbled, his bass voice carrying the particular quality of controlled power that suggested he could probably be heard clearly from three keeps away if he put his mind to it. "I trust the morning's... deliberations proved... illuminating?"
The massive knight's pale eyes, sharp as winter ice despite his advancing years, swept the corridor with practiced efficiency. Every shadow, every alcove, every potential hiding spot for listeners or assassins received the sort of methodical attention that had made him legendary among the Vale's knights for his ability to anticipate trouble before it announced itself.
Daemon's mouth quirked upward in that infamous grin—all teeth and sharp edges, the expression of a predator that had just finished stalking its prey and found the hunt thoroughly satisfying. "Illuminating indeed, my good Gunthor. Though I suspect 'educational' might be the more accurate term. There's nothing quite like watching a master politician realize he's been outmaneuvered by superior intelligence and better preparation."
"Father," Jaehaerys observed with that dry humor that seemed far too sophisticated for his eight years, "you sound almost smug. As if you're taking credit for being particularly clever about something that was, frankly, inevitable once Lord Strong began his investigation."
"Smug?" Daemon placed a hand over his heart with theatrical wounded dignity. "My dear boy, I prefer the term 'professionally satisfied.' There's a significant difference between smugness and the natural pride that comes from a job well executed according to plan."
Before Jaehaerys could deliver what was clearly going to be a devastating rejoinder about the difference between planning and luck, the sound of approaching footsteps echoed through the corridor. The measured cadence suggested someone moving with purpose but not urgency—the sort of controlled haste that marked important people who needed to catch someone before they disappeared but couldn't afford to appear desperate.
"Prince Daemon!"
The voice carried that particular quality of authority wrapped in courtesy that belonged to those born to rule but trained in diplomacy. Princess Rhaenys Targaryen rounded the corner with the fluid grace of someone who had never needed to hurry for anyone but chose to quicken her pace out of political necessity rather than personal urgency.
Her violet eyes, sharp as polished obsidian and twice as penetrating, fixed on the small group with the intensity of a dragon contemplating prey. The silver-gold hair that marked her Targaryen bloodline was arranged in the complex braids favored by women of royal station, and her court dress—deep blue silk that complemented her coloring while managing to suggest both elegance and practicality—spoke of someone who understood the importance of appearance in the great game of politics.
"Princess," Daemon replied with a bow that managed to be both respectful and subtly mocking, as if he were acknowledging forms he found necessary but not particularly meaningful. "To what do we owe the honor of your pursuit through these dreary corridors? Surely not a desire for additional conversation about grain shipments and maritime insurance rates?"
Rhaenys approached with that dangerous elegance that reminded everyone present why the realm had once seriously considered crowning her instead of Viserys. Each step was measured, each gesture calculated for maximum effect, and when she spoke, her voice carried the sort of authority that made lesser lords straighten their spines and pay attention.
"On the contrary," she said, allowing the faintest smile to curve her lips—an expression that somehow managed to convey gratitude, respect, and warning in equal measure. "I wished to thank you for your... timely support in there. Your intervention with those letters from Lords Redwyne and Manderly was... masterfully executed. Without that evidence, Otto might have successfully dismissed our concerns as mere Velaryon self-interest dressed up as patriotic duty."
Her gaze swept over the group, taking in Daemon's satisfied expression, Jaehaerys's alert attention, and Gunthor's patient watchfulness with the sort of systematic assessment that had made her legendary among the realm's political players.
"The timing was particularly impressive," she continued, her voice carrying subtle notes of curiosity beneath the gratitude. "Almost as if someone had anticipated exactly what arguments would be raised and prepared countermeasures accordingly. Such foresight is... rare in politics, where most of us spend our time reacting to events rather than shaping them."
Daemon's grin widened, sharp as a blade and twice as dangerous, but he raised a hand in a gesture that was part acknowledgment and part deflection. "Princess, while I appreciate the flattery—and believe me, I do appreciate it—the credit for that particular stroke of genius belongs elsewhere entirely."
He turned toward his son with obvious paternal pride, his violet eyes bright with the sort of satisfaction that came from watching one's offspring exceed all reasonable expectations. "Thank Jaehaerys. He's the one who spent hours convincing me that Lord Otto would attempt to dismiss the Stepstones situation as a private Velaryon concern rather than a threat to the realm's stability. And he's the one who suggested we needed independent voices—lords with no particular love for House Velaryon—to corroborate the intelligence about coordinated piratical activity."
The prince's expression grew more serious, though the dangerous gleam never left his eyes. "The boy predicted Otto's exact line of argument three days ago. Even suggested the specific phrasing about 'private commercial interests' and 'individual noble houses' that we heard this morning. Sometimes I wonder if my son sees the future, or if he simply understands human nature well enough to predict how fools will react when cornered by superior logic."
Princess Rhaenys turned her full attention toward Jaehaerys, her sharp gaze studying the boy with new respect and, perhaps, a touch of wariness. There was something unsettling about a child who could predict the behavior of seasoned politicians with such precision, something that suggested depths of understanding that went far beyond mere precocity.
"You orchestrated those letters?" she asked, her voice carrying genuine curiosity mixed with professional appreciation. "Convinced your father to reach out to lords who have no particular reason to support Velaryon interests, simply to establish the credibility of our concerns about maritime piracy?"
Jaehaerys straightened to his full height—impressive for his age—and met her gaze directly with those impossible green eyes that seemed to hold depths far too ancient for someone who had seen barely eight summers. When he spoke, his voice carried the sort of matter-of-fact certainty that made grown men uncomfortable.
"Not orchestrated, Princess," he corrected with the sort of diplomatic precision that would have impressed seasoned ambassadors. "Anticipated. Lord Otto's political instincts are predictable once you understand his fundamental motivations—he sees every issue through the lens of maintaining existing power structures and preventing changes that might threaten established authority."
The boy clasped his hands behind his back with unconscious dignity, his bearing somehow managing to make his page's livery look like court dress of the highest order. "When presented with evidence of external threats, his first impulse is to minimize their significance and seek internal explanations that don't require dramatic policy changes. It's not personal malice, simply... institutional inertia wrapped in the language of prudent governance."
"And you predicted he would specifically dismiss House Velaryon's concerns as self-interested?" Princess Rhaenys pressed, her curiosity clearly piqued by this display of political sophistication from someone who should be more concerned with toys and simple games than the complexities of court intrigue.
"I predicted he would attempt to frame the problem as a private commercial dispute rather than a matter of royal responsibility," Jaehaerys replied with the sort of analytical detachment usually reserved for academic discussions. "The specific language was less important than the underlying strategy—isolate the Velaryons from broader support by suggesting their motives were primarily financial rather than patriotic."
His green eyes grew distant in that way that always made adults around him remember that he carried knowledge and experience that went far beyond his apparent age. "Father's letters from Lords Redwyne and Manderly eliminated that avenue of attack by demonstrating that the problem extended far beyond any single house's commercial interests. Suddenly, it became impossible to dismiss the threat as mere Velaryon paranoia or ambition."
The sound of lighter footsteps approaching interrupted this exchange, and a moment later Princess Rhaenyra appeared at the far end of the corridor. At nine years old, she moved with the unconscious grace of someone born to royal privilege, her silver-gold hair catching the torchlight like spun moonbeams and her violet eyes bright with curiosity and affection.
She had clearly left her cupbearer duties in the Small Council chamber to seek out her family before they departed on their patrol of the city. Her court dress—purple and black silk cut in the latest fashion but designed for practical movement rather than mere display—spoke of someone who understood that royal children were expected to look the part while still being capable of actual activity.
"Uncle Daemon! Jae!" she called out with genuine warmth, her voice carrying across the stone corridor with the sort of enthusiasm that made both men smile despite the gravity of their recent discussions. "I hoped to catch you before you left for your patrol through the city. I wanted to wish you good fortune and safe travels."
She approached with quick, light steps, her violet eyes moving between the assembled adults with the sort of intelligent curiosity that marked her as her father's daughter. When she was close enough, she rose on her toes to kiss her uncle's cheek and embrace her cousin with the sort of uncomplicated affection that spoke of genuine family bonds beneath the political calculations.
"Though I confess," she continued with the sort of bright intelligence that had been making her tutors nervous since she learned to speak, "I'm curious about what had everyone looking so serious when the council session ended. From the expressions I glimpsed, either someone's about to be executed, or we're about to start a war. Possibly both, knowing this family's approach to problem-solving."
It was at that moment—as Princess Rhaenyra stood between her uncle and her betrothed, violet eyes bright with curiosity—that she heard the tail end of Jaehaerys's explanation to Princess Rhaenys about predicting Lord Otto's political maneuvering and arranging for independent corroboration of the piracy concerns.
Her expression shifted subtly, the casual family affection giving way to something more focused, more calculating. Those violet eyes, so like her father's, grew sharp with the sort of attention that suggested she was rapidly processing implications and connections that most adults would miss entirely.
"Wait," she said slowly, her voice carrying a note of dawning realization that made all the adults present suddenly very attentive to her words. "Jae, you convinced Uncle Daemon to write those letters? You predicted how Lord Otto would react and prepared countermeasures in advance?"
She looked between her cousin and her uncle, her young face animated with the sort of excited understanding that belonged to someone who had just witnessed a master class in political manipulation. "That's... that's brilliant. Absolutely, completely brilliant. You didn't just react to the council session—you shaped it. You made sure the arguments would unfold exactly as you wanted them to, with Uncle Daemon positioned as the voice of reason backed by independent evidence rather than partisan advocacy."
Princess Rhaenys, who had been observing this exchange with growing interest, now fixed Jaehaerys with a look that held new respect mixed with carefully controlled wariness. The implications of what the boy had accomplished—not just the tactical victory, but the sophisticated understanding of court politics that had made it possible—were staggering to contemplate.
"Young prince," she said carefully, her voice carrying the sort of measured attention that suggested she was walking through a field of potential dragon eggs, "such foresight is... remarkable. One might almost think you had experienced similar political maneuvering before, to predict the patterns with such precision."
Jaehaerys met her gaze steadily, his green eyes holding depths that seemed far too ancient for someone his age. When he smiled, it was with the sort of quiet confidence that belonged to someone who had never met a challenge he couldn't overcome through some combination of intelligence, determination, and sheer bloody-minded stubbornness.
"Experience comes in many forms, Princess," he replied with diplomatic smoothness that would have impressed seasoned ambassadors. "Sometimes the most valuable lessons are learned not through personal trial, but through careful observation of others' mistakes and successes. History is the greatest teacher of all—if one knows how to read its lessons properly."
The corridor fell silent for a heartbeat, the weight of implications and unspoken questions settling over the assembled family like morning fog rolling in from Blackwater Bay. In the distance, the sounds of the Red Keep's daily bustle continued—servants hurrying about their duties, guards changing shifts, the faint calls of ravens from the rookery high above.
But here, in this stone corridor lit by flickering torches, a nine-year-old princess had just witnessed something that would reshape her understanding of politics, family, and the nature of power itself. The game of thrones was more complex than she had imagined, and the players more sophisticated than anyone had thought possible.
The Dance was still years away, but its choreography was already being written by those who understood that the most important battles were won not with swords and dragons, but with intelligence, preparation, and the ability to shape events rather than merely react to them.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there