Above King's Landing, over the ancient stone maw of the Dragonpit, the sky split with a shrill, piercing roar.
The sound cut through cloud and wind alike, sharp enough that every Dragonkeeper within the pit stiffened at once. They did not need to be told who had come.
Prince Daemon Targaryen had returned.
And with him came Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm.
The great dragon had not set claw upon the Dragonpit in many years. His arrival was a memory dragged screaming from the past, a reminder of blood, fire, and war. Long and lean as a living spear, Caraxes tore through the clouds, his crimson scales glinting dully beneath the sun. His serpentine body coiled through the air with terrible grace, wings beating in a rhythm that seemed almost impatient.
Behind him flew Syrax.
The golden dragon's scales shone warmly, her size imposing, her wings strong and broad. She was fearsome in her own right, yet well fed and complacent, a queen long untested by true war. She followed Caraxes closely, as if wary of being left behind.
The two dragons descended together, their wings churning the air into a violent gale as they landed before the Dragonpit. Dust and loose stone exploded outward. Dragonkeepers staggered back, cloaks snapping, some raising spears out of instinct rather than sense.
Caraxes reared his head and roared again, the sound echoing through the pit like thunder trapped in stone. Only when Prince Daemon spoke, low and commanding in the tongue of Old Valyria, did the Blood Wyrm relent. Slowly, reluctantly, the dragon folded his wings and allowed himself to be guided within.
Princess Rhaenyra dismounted beside Daemon and walked with him toward the waiting carriage. She tore off her riding gloves with sharp, irritated movements, her jaw set tight.
"Daemon," she said at once, anger spilling from her before the dust had even settled. "My father wishes me to carry gifts to the Stepstones. He wants me to congratulate Aegon on his victories and inform him of our wedding and his engagement, all on the same day. I refuse."
She turned toward him, eyes bright with resentment.
"The entire Seven Kingdoms knows how ambitious Aegon is, yet Father still favors him. Worse, he believes every scrap of nonsense Aegon feeds him."
Daemon slowed and gave her a warning look.
To speak of favoritism so openly was folly.
Anyone with eyes could see who Viserys had favored all these years. The realm itself knew the answer.
If Viserys had truly been fair, the title of heir would never have passed to Rhaenyra at all. Alicent Hightower had been crowned queen with full ceremony, her marriage lawful and unquestioned. Aegon was Viserys's trueborn eldest son. By every law of gods and men, the Iron Throne should have been his.
But Viserys Targaryen had always believed he could bend the world to his will.
Before Aegon's birth, the king's rule, though indecisive, had remained intact. He was easily swayed, yet the reins of power still lay firmly in his hands.
That changed once Aegon drew breath.
The Greens, gathered around the young prince, began to form and grow. At first, Otto Hightower had been their pillar, the architect of their quiet strength. While Otto remained Hand of the King, Viserys could still restrain the court.
Then Viserys dismissed him.
Otto was stripped of the chain of office and sent from King's Landing, and for a time the king believed the matter settled.
Alicent replaced her father in all but name.
From the Red Keep, the queen became the Greens' new anchor. Her influence spread softly but relentlessly through the court. Slowly, the balance between the Blacks and the Greens evened.
The Blacks still had the king's favor and the greater number of dragons, larger and more numerous than those of their rivals.
But in the first three months of the year 120 AC, disaster struck them again and again.
Two dragonriders were lost. A crucial court minister vanished from the board entirely.
Seasmoke, nearly grown, was left riderless.
Vhagar, the largest and most terrible dragon alive, was claimed by Prince Aemond, becoming the Greens' greatest weapon.
Otto Hightower returned to King's Landing and once more took up the chain as Hand of the King.
From that moment on, the court slipped beyond Viserys's grasp. Power bled away from him, piece by piece, into Green hands.
Yet none of this was the most dangerous change.
The true peril was Aegon himself.
With Vhagar behind him, the prince's sharpness emerged fully. His methods were relentless. His suppression of the Blacks was systematic and unyielding.
Daemon had not been in King's Landing then, but the stories reached him all the same.
The Blacks were pressed to the brink of collapse.
One phrase in particular haunted those days.
"We are all serving His Grace."
It became a nightmare whispered among Black officials. By the end, some called it the devil's whisper.
When those words reached your ears, it meant your influence was finished. Your offices were stripped away. Your time was over.
To curb Aegon's growing power, Viserys granted him the Stepstones and sent him east to wage war against the Free Cities.
Even then, the king hesitated.
To avoid rivaling Rhaenyra's title as Princess of Dragonstone, Viserys did not dare name Aegon Prince of the Stepstones. Instead, he made him Lord of the Stepstones, a hollow distinction meant to draw a line that satisfied no one.
Rhaenyra cared little for the war beyond the Narrow Sea.
Daemon did not share her indifference.
Through old allies and whispered messages, he sought news of the fighting. What he learned was nothing like what he had expected.
He had assumed Aegon would be toyed with by the Triarchy and the Dornish fleets, led about by the nose like a green boy playing at war.
Instead, the Triarchy and Dorne found themselves outmaneuvered, battered by a prince who learned quickly and struck hard. Fleets that had once stalemated Daemon and Lord Corlys were driven back again and again.
Worse, discord erupted among their enemies.
Tyrosh accused Lys of empty promises and shouted support, offering words but little steel.
One report in particular caught Daemon's attention.
Tyrosh had been attacked repeatedly by a dragon described only as brown and mud colored.
A mud dragon.
There was no such dragon among Aegon's known forces.
Sunfyre's brilliance was unmistakable. Vhagar and Dreamfyre were legends made flesh. Even Tessarion, the smallest among them, could not be confused for something else.
His informant could not have erred.
So why was a mud dragon attacking Tyrosh?
Did it have a rider?
If it did, who was that rider, and how had they claimed such a beast?
What bond did they share with Aegon?
In the best case, Aegon had somehow turned a riderless dragon hostile toward Tyrosh through means unknown.
In a less comforting possibility, the dragon had been claimed by someone of Valyrian blood, someone who had sworn themselves to Aegon.
And in the worst case of all, a name surfaced in Daemon's mind.
Hugh.
Aegon's most loyal mad dog.
A man who bared his teeth at anyone but his prince.
If Hugh had claimed that mud dragon, then the Blacks' position was bleaker than ever. Hugh could not be won over. He could only be destroyed.
Daemon kept these thoughts to himself. They were rumors, nothing more, their truth uncertain.
He returned to the Red Keep beside Rhaenyra.
There, they met Queen Alicent face to face.
"Rhaenyra?" Alicent said, smiling smoothly. "My dear daughter, why did you not tell me you were returning to King's Landing?"
Her gaze shifted to Daemon.
"From now on, you will call me Mother as well," she added lightly. "It pleases me greatly."
Daemon's eyelid twitched. Rage surged through him, sharp and immediate.
Sensing it, Ser Criston Cole fixed his gaze upon Daemon at once, his hand resting near his sword.
Alicent studied Rhaenyra and Daemon with open satisfaction.
Years ago, at that tourney, Aegon had needed to steady himself merely by knowing Daemon and Caraxes were far away.
Now she could stand before them, shielded by her son's power, and mock them without fear.
Alicent laughed softly, meaningfully, then turned away with Ser Criston at her side.
She had withdrawn from the stage, or so it seemed.
In truth, Alicent's power had never left her.
She was the mother of Aegon Targaryen.
Unless Aegon fell, she would remain the most powerful woman in the Seven Kingdoms.
"She will not be smug forever," Rhaenyra said, fury burning in her eyes as she stared after Alicent. "I will sit the Iron Throne."
Her anger was edged with bitterness.
Pregnancy had changed her body. The softness at her waist had not faded, though she was still young. Alicent, twice her age, remained slender and poised, her grace unbroken.
It only deepened Rhaenyra's hatred.
"You are the named heir," Daemon said coldly. "The Princess of Dragonstone. You will rule. Caraxes and Meleys are as seasoned as any living dragons. We must strike back when the time comes."
"What are you planning?" Rhaenyra demanded, frowning. "We are about to be married. Do not ruin this."
Daemon was unlike other Targaryens.
The gods might flip a coin at birth, but Daemon had landed on both sides.
Rhaenyra did not want open war with Aegon yet. He had four dragons. Sunfyre grew at an astonishing pace. Vhagar and Dreamfyre were ancient and unmatched.
Even Tessarion was little weaker than Syrax.
Caraxes and Meleys could not face Vhagar and Dreamfyre together.
And behind Aegon stood House Hightower and House Lannister.
"I know what I am doing," Daemon said quietly. "It will not affect our wedding."
He meant to reassure her.
But He failed.
Rhaenyra watched him with unease, fearing what madness he might yet unleash.
If Aegon were pushed too far, the consequences would be beyond imagining.
For now, in soldiers and dragons alike, the Greens held the advantage.
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A/N:
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