Chapter 57: Petitions and Decrees — The Birth of the Dragon Academy
The roar of dragons still echoed through the vaults of the Red Keep long after the open-air feast had ended.
The nobles who had once questioned the Dragon Law now sat pale and trembling beneath the lingering heat of dragonfire.
Above them, five dragons wheeled through the smoky twilight — Vhagar, Caraxes, Dreamfyre, Meleys, and Vermithor, their cries blending into a thunder that shook even the hearts of kings.
The Roar of Obedience
Vhagar, mightiest of all, was a fortress of flesh and flame — her hide scarred from a hundred battles, her every breath a rolling tide of heat.
Caraxes hissed and bared his fangs, his neck arched like a crimson serpent coiled to strike. Dreamfyre's silver-blue wings shimmered like moonlight. Then, the Red Queen Meleys, proud and swift, descended beside them, her scarlet scales glittering in the torchlight.
The sky over King's Landing blazed red and gold.
No words were needed.
Every man understood the message written in fire.
Daemon Targaryen landed first. Caraxes's talons gouged the marble of the royal terrace. His eyes burned with contempt as he looked down upon the gathering of great lords and foreign envoys.
"Who stands for House Targaryen? Who stands against the Dragon Law?" he said, voice sharp as Dark Sister's edge.
A hush fell over the court.
Then Lord Gladdan Tully of Riverrun, red-faced and trembling, stepped forward and bowed deeply.
"House Tully stands with the dragons!" he shouted. "Our blood and banners belong to the crown that united the Seven Kingdoms."
One by one, voices followed.
Lord Lyonel Strong of Harrenhal thundered, "Support the Dragon Law!"
Lord Mace Tyrell of Highgarden smiled thinly, stroking his golden beard. "The roses of Highgarden bloom beneath the dragon's wings. Any who oppose it, oppose us as well."
Even Lady Susan Harford, once Daemon's lover, called out, "We will follow the dragons unto death!"
At last, Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, gave a reluctant bow. "So be it," he said grimly. "The seas belong to Velaryon, but the skies — to Targaryen."
One by one, the nobles bent their knees, and even the proud envoys of Braavos and Myr lowered their eyes.
The Dragon Law was no longer a decree — it was truth written in flame.
---
The Feast Resumes
When the dragons took flight again, the feast resumed under uneasy silence.
Musicians plucked lutes with trembling fingers. Dancers dared not lift their eyes to the sky.
The Sea Snake's bard, Diamante, sang a mournful tune — "Daughter, Weep Not for Me."
The royal singer Joy followed with "Florian and Jonquil," her voice like moonlight on water.
Then came a soft melody from the Dornish delegation — "A Thousand Ships Cross the Sea," sung by a young minstrel named Coleen.
He was striking: dark-eyed, tall, and graceful, his voice smooth as summer wine. Even Lady Jeyne Arryn, Alicent Hightower, and Laena Velaryon watched him with open admiration.
Even Laenor's gaze lingered too long.
When the song ended, Daemon rose and approached the singer.
"Dornishman," he said, smiling faintly, "my castle lacks a proper bard. You will serve me."
Coleen bowed elegantly. "Your Grace flatters me. I have seen your lands at Blackwater — Ice Snow Fort and Flame Castle rise proudly on their banks. But I serve the Lord of Skyreach, and our paths, alas, share no bond of fate."
The Dornish word he used — qi yuan — meant destiny.
Daemon's expression cooled. "Skyreach," he said softly. "I know it well. Rhaenys and Meleys fell there, slain by your scorpion bolts."
Coleen bowed his head. "So they did. My lord still boasts of that day, though ten thousand Dornish burned for it. We remember the Dance with Dragons as a wound that never healed."
Daemon studied him for a long moment. "Perhaps one day, Dorne will learn to dance again — differently."
---
The Petition Court
Days later, the grand celebrations gave way to solemn duty.
The Iron Throne gleamed beneath torchlight as King Jaehaerys the Conciliator held open court. His voice, though aged, carried the weight of half a century of rule.
Petitions began — a flood of grievances, disputes, and accusations.
Lords argued over borders and inheritance:
House Frey accused the Crannogmen of stealing land.
Bracken quarreled again with Blackwood, as ever.
House Celtigar of Claw Isle fought with the minor lords of the peninsula.
King Jaehaerys, wise and weary, listened patiently, his judgments fair and final. The assembled lords murmured in respect.
But when Lord Mellister of Seagard stepped forward, his voice shook with anger.
"Your Grace, the Ironborn have returned to their old ways. They raid our coasts, burn our villages, and carry off our women."
He was joined by Lord Farman of Fair Isle, Lord Redwyne of the Arbor, Lord Mormont of Bear Island, and the lords of the Shield Isles, all crying out for vengeance.
Finally, Gavin Greyjoy, the self-styled King of the Iron Islands, came forward — gray-haired, broad, and bald, his face a mask of calm disdain.
"Your Grace," he said mildly, "I hang pirates by the score. These are lies told by jealous merchants."
Lord Farman sneered. "Aye, and I suppose your gallows are full of starving thralls, not your own men."
Jaehaerys's patience snapped. His voice rose like a drawn blade.
"Enough! If the Iron Islands cannot govern their own, I swear the Royal Fleet, the Arbor Fleet, and the Valyrian Fleet will descend upon Pyke. Do your duty, Lord Greyjoy, or I will do it for you."
Gavin bowed stiffly. "As Your Grace commands."
---
The Voice of the Commonfolk
Then came the commoners.
A farmer begged the King to help find his runaway daughter.
"She fled with a dwarf from the mummer's troupe, Your Grace. I beg you — find her."
The King sighed. "The Kingsguard will inquire, but if she chose to go, she may not wish to return."
Next came a woman in rags. "My son was taken to Prince Daemon's lands as a laborer — for killing a rabbit in the Kingswood. I beg mercy."
Jaehaerys's expression softened. "By old law, poachers lost a hand or were sent to the Wall. Labor is mercy, not cruelty."
Daemon, standing nearby, inclined his head. In his heart, he made a note — Westeros needs law, not mercy born of chaos.
Already, in his lands, he had begun a census — the first of its kind. Every man, woman, and child recorded. Every trade, every field, every tax. Order from the ashes.
---
A New Vision
After court, Ser Qidan Massey, commander of the Kingsguard, approached Daemon, accompanied by a young maester.
"Prince Daemon, this is Maester Mushroom, newly arrived from the Citadel."
The maester bowed. "My prince, I come to serve your household. Your reputation for reform has reached Oldtown."
Daemon smiled. "You are welcome here. Stay in the chambers beside mine. And if you know others of learning or skill, bring them. I intend to found something greater than a court — a Dragon Academy."
Mushroom blinked. "An academy? In King's Landing?"
"Indeed," Daemon said. "The dragons will rule the skies — let men learn to rule the earth."
---
The Brothers' Counsel
Later, Daemon walked with Prince Baelon through the Red Keep's dark gardens.
Baelon spoke gravely. "Brother, rumors spread that you overshadow Viserys — that your fleets and laws challenge his claim. Be wary."
Daemon's lips curved in a humorless smile. "Rumors are the breath of courtiers. I suspect they come from the Sea Snake's tongue."
"Then silence them," Baelon said. "Viserys loves you as a brother still. Invite him to share in your work. Build this Dragon Academy together — for the realm, and for your names."
Daemon nodded. A lesson in politics, from the only man I respect.
He went at once to Viserys's chambers. Aemma Arryn, heavy with child, sat by the fire, infant Rhaenyra in her arms.
"Brother," Daemon said, "Grandfather bids me raise an academy for learning and craft. But I cannot do it alone. Will you help me?"
Viserys smiled warmly. "You ask as if I could refuse. Of course, I will stand with you."
Aemma laughed softly, resting a hand on her belly. "And soon, perhaps our sons will study there."
Daemon's gaze softened — but a flicker of sadness stirred. He knew what history had written for her.
---
The Eccentric Scholar
To build an academy, they needed the Citadel's blessing. And so, the brothers went to Prince Vaegon, their uncle — once a maester, now a hermit among his books.
"The Citadel will not aid fools," Vaegon said dryly. "What would a rogue prince and a dreamer of dragons know of learning?"
Daemon smirked. "Only what we learned from you, Uncle."
Then, leaning closer, he added, "It was you who inspired this. Grandfather said so himself — that had the Citadel stood in King's Landing, you would never have needed to leave home. The Dragon Academy will honor your name, and who better to be its first Archmaester than you?"
Vaegon's brows rose, but his tone stayed cold.
"I know some men of the Citadel — outcasts, dreamers, half-mad thinkers. I'll send them to you. They are refuse to Oldtown, but treasures to you, perhaps."
Daemon inclined his head. "Even refuse can build thrones."
---
The Dream of Knowledge
As Daemon and Viserys left Maegor's Holdfast, the torches flickered on their faces.
Viserys asked, "What will this academy teach that the Citadel does not?"
Daemon's eyes glimmered with fierce purpose.
"Practical arts. Medicine, husbandry, engineering, agronomy, geography. Knowledge that feeds, heals, and builds — not only for lords, but for all."
He lifted his gaze toward the sky, where a dragon's shadow crossed the moon.
"In Oldtown, knowledge is chained. In King's Landing, I will set it free."
---
Thus began the birth of the Dragon Academy —
A forge for minds, not steel.
A place where the sons and daughters of dragons might one day wield knowledge as power — and where the seeds of a new age quietly took root.
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