Chapter 55: Dragonless Vaegon, the Citadel, and the Dragon
King's Landing had never been so crowded.
From dawn till dusk, the streets seethed like a river of ants — merchants, hedge knights, minstrels, and sellswords from every corner of the realm poured through the gates. The air smelled of roasted meats and horse dung, the hum of thousands rising like the buzz of flies over honey.
By order of the king, all of Westeros and half of Essos had been invited to celebrate Jaehaerys I Targaryen's fiftieth year upon the Iron Throne.
Ships from Dorne, Braavos, Pentos, Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh filled Blackwater Bay, their masts like a forest of spears. Inns overflowed, tents sprawled across the hills beyond the walls, and even Flea Bottom had grown rich from the foreign gold that flowed through its alleys.
Under Daemon's command, Windsgrace "Raven" Greyjoy, now sworn to the City Watch, estimated that the city's population had swelled by fifty thousand souls.
And among the flood of dignitaries and scholars, one guest stirred more whispers than all the rest—
Vaegon Targaryen, the king's estranged son, known in Oldtown as Vaegon the Dragonless.
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The Return of the Dragonless
Vaegon's arrival was nothing like Daemon's stormy entrances. No banners, no fanfare. He came by ship, wrapped in the Citadel's gray robes, his silver hair thinning, his eyes the pale violet of old parchment. Around his thick neck gleamed the golden chain of a Maester of the Conclave, each link representing his mastery of knowledge. His scepter and mask were wrought of the same metal — gold for economics, though rumor whispered that Vaegon's brilliance extended to alchemy and the higher mysteries.
He was, by all accounts, one of the youngest to ever earn the title of Doctor of the Conclave. Yet he was also one of its strangest.
Cold in manner, detached from blood and hearth, Vaegon Targaryen had long ago forsaken the name that bound him to dragons.
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The Banquet of Ice and Blood
That evening, King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne held a private feast to welcome their son home. The great hall of the Red Keep glittered with golden light, silver goblets, and the soft music of harp and pipe.
At the high table sat the king and queen, flanked by Prince Baelon of Dragonstone, Viserys, Daemon, Princess Rhaenys, Princess Aemma Arryn, and Princess Gael, heavy with child. Even Lady Jocelyn Baratheon, widow of Prince Aemon, attended, her smile thin as glass.
When Vaegon entered, the hall grew quiet. His robes rustled softly as he approached.
Queen Alysanne rose with tears in her eyes.
> "Welcome home, Vaegon."
Vaegon inclined his head.
> "Thank you, Your Grace."
Alysanne faltered. "It is mother, Vaegon. This is a family dinner."
Vaegon's hands fidgeted with the links of his chain.
> "I am sworn to the Citadel, Mother. I have forsworn my House and taken the vows of a knight of the mind. To call you Queen is most fitting, for I come here not as your son, but as the voice of the Conclave."
His words were calm, yet cut deeper than steel.
King Jaehaerys sighed, old sorrow in his eyes.
> "You've grown even more rigid than the chains you wear. Even your sister Maegelle, sworn to the Faith, still called me 'Father' when she came home. Have the Maesters frozen your heart entirely?"
Vaegon adjusted his spectacles.
> "If it please the king, I will address you as Father for the evening. But duty compels me to represent Oldtown before kinship."
A silence followed, heavy as stone.
Prince Baelon tried to laugh it off.
> "Come, Vaegon, it's been years! Surely you remember us — Viserys and Daemon?"
Vaegon's gaze swept the table.
> "Vaguely. They were children when I left. But I recall the elder had a daughter, did he not?"
Rhaenys, seated proudly beside Baelon, spoke with forced politeness.
> "I am that daughter, Uncle. My father was Prince Aemon, who fell on Tarth."
Vaegon nodded.
> "Indeed. A pirate from Myr shot him through the throat. Then my brother Baelon arrived astride Vhagar and slew the raiders. The sands of Tarth ran red that day."
For a fleeting moment, warmth returned to the table—until Daemon's soft chuckle broke it.
> "A fine memory, Uncle. You recall every detail."
Queen Alysanne beamed.
> "See? It's love that makes memory sharp."
Vaegon's reply was cool as milk.
> "No, Mother. I remember because I have read of it. Many treatises at the Citadel reference my brother's death."
The smiles died. Rhaenys's eyes flashed.
> "Do you remember my father at all? Or only what books told you?"
> "Both," Vaegon said simply. "Aemon once boasted you would be queen. I told him that was impossible. You were born a girl — and worse, a Baratheon's hair."
The words fell like stones. Even the servants froze.
King Jaehaerys cleared his throat. "Enough of the past. Daemon's wife and Viserys's bride are both with child, Vaegon. Our line flourishes. Are you not glad?"
Vaegon folded his hands.
> "Maesters take no wives. I am spared the perils of childbirth. Still, I pray your ladies survive their labors. Archmaester Yallar's skill with corpses is said to rival the Silent Sisters."
The queen gasped. "Vaegon!"
The table went silent save for the crackle of torches.
At last, Daemon raised his goblet.
> "Uncle, they say your learning is unmatched. Surely the Citadel must be bursting with your discoveries."
The spark in Vaegon's eyes brightened. For the first time, his voice held passion.
> "Ah, the Citadel! A paradise of reason — no women, no dragons, no distractions. Only knowledge. I study the history of coin, the flow of trade, the rise and fall of economies from Garth Greenhand to Maegor the Cruel. Every king's treasury, every famine, every folly."
He spoke for half an hour, words spilling like ink. One by one, his kin sank into polite stupor. Even the king's patience thinned.
Finally Jaehaerys said dryly, "And besides coin and corpses, have you studied aught else, Vaegon?"
Vaegon paused. "Yes. Dragons."
That one word silenced the hall anew.
> "At the Citadel," Vaegon continued, "dragons are studied by those seeking the Valyrian link. I never had one. I was called Dragonless even as a child. But I have learned much of fire and flesh. A dragon hatchling in my care could advance the study of mysticism beyond imagining."
He looked to his parents, voice tightening.
> "So I ask — will you grant me one?"
The hall held its breath. For the first time that night, Vaegon had called them Father and Mother.
Alysanne hesitated. "Vaegon… there are no hatchlings in the Dragonpit."
Vaegon frowned.
> "Then from Dragonstone, perhaps. Or the wild mountains there. Surely one hatchling could be spared. For knowledge's sake."
Daemon's eyes narrowed. The Citadel sends him as their mouthpiece.
The king stroked his beard slowly.
> "Alas, the Small Council has just passed the Dragon Law. Only those of House Targaryen may claim dragons or their eggs. You, sworn to the Citadel, are not of our House in the eyes of law."
Vaegon's lips twisted.
> "So that is why this law was forged — to bar me from my birthright? Very well. Then grant me three dragon eggs for study."
Prince Baelon's voice was firm.
> "You know the answer. The law forbids even that."
Daemon added coldly,
> "Those who seek dragons or their eggs without royal leave commit treason. The punishment is death."
Vaegon laughed — a harsh, hollow sound.
> "So the dragons have devoured their keepers at last. No wonder the smallfolk call tyranny the dragon's shadow."
Queen Alysanne's face softened.
> "Vaegon, you hated dragons as a boy. Did the Maesters put this madness in your head?"
He rose, gathering his robes about him.
> "I am no longer your son, my queen. I am a Doctor of the Conclave. The Citadel's affairs are not yours to question."
And with that, Vaegon turned and left, his golden chain clinking in the silence behind him.
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Shadows Beneath the Citadel
After the hall emptied, Daemon remained behind with the king.
> "They sent him, Grandfather," Daemon said softly. "The Citadel wants dragons. Not to ride them—but to unmake them. They fear fire they cannot bind."
Rhaenys scoffed.
> "Or perhaps they merely resent being treated as lesser than gods."
> "If the Citadel seeks to chain dragons," Daemon said darkly, "then it will not stop at dragons alone. So long as they whisper in every lord's ear, they will rule from the shadows."
Jaehaerys leaned back, weary but thoughtful.
> "You may be right. The Citadel serves the realm, yet the realm is divided by too many masters."
Daemon bowed his head slightly.
> "Then let us build our own. A hall of scholars in King's Landing — a new Citadel, loyal to the crown, not to Oldtown or Hightower."
The king was silent for a long while, then nodded.
> "So be it. Build your academy, Daemon. Let the Citadel have its chains — we shall forge our own in fire and blood."
Daemon smiled faintly, eyes glimmering with triumph.
Another seed sown, he thought. And one day, it will grow into a tree that casts Oldtown in shadow.
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