Last chapter with Lord's arrival, no more reaction to the dragons.
Kingslanding hadn't held so many banners in a long time.
They hung from balconies, rose above crowded streets, and snapped proudly from the tips of polished lances. Golden trout swam through the wind beside silver eagles. Direwolves appeared among columns of northern riders. Suns and spears of Dorne moved beneath the burning summer sky.
Every road leading toward the capital seemed filled with lords, knights, ladies, heirs, second sons and, in some cases even bastards, probably hoping for something more.
The coronation of Damon Targaryen had drawn nearly every ambitious soul in Westeros toward the same city.
Inns overflowed.
Stables had doubled their prices.
Merchants shouted until their throats became raw.
Gold cloaks patrolled the streets in larger groups, breaking apart any drunken fights before they could properly begin.
And above it all...Caraxes flew.
The Blood Wyrm had become a near-permanent presence in the skies of King's Landing.
His long crimson body twisted through the clouds like a serpent swimming through a pale ocean. Sometimes he flew so high that he appeared little more than a red scar against the heavens.
Other times...
He descended.
Low.
Far too low.
His shadow swallowed entire streets.
Windows rattled beneath the beating of his wings.
Children screamed in excitement while their parents dragged them beneath awnings and cursed the dragon under their breath.
The people had grown accustomed to him.
But the arriving lords were not. They had heard the stories.
Everyone had, two dragons and a rebellion destroyed in less than an hour.
Thousands dead, with the leader Robert Baratheon, Jon Arryn, and Eddard Stark chained and awaiting judgment.
But stories were words, just ink upon parchment.
Whispers carried between frightened men.
Seeing a dragon was different.
Understanding came quickly when the sun disappeared beneath a dragon's wings.
Lord Hoster Tully first saw Caraxes from nearly three miles away. The Riverlands delegation had just crossed a low hill when the dragon emerged from behind the clouds.
Every horse stopped.
Hoster's stallion nearly threw him.
The Lord of Riverrun pulled hard upon the reins, struggling to control the terrified animal as knights around him shouted and cursed.
Then Caraxes roared.
The sound rolled across the countryside.
Hoster felt it in his chest, and in his bones.
The dragon flew toward King's Landing without acknowledging them. It didn't need to
Hoster watched the creature disappear into the distance.
For several moments...
No one spoke.
A knight beside him whispered a prayer.
Hoster simply stared.
'So that's how they lost.' The thought came without bitterness or even anger, only understanding.
His mind returned to the ravens.
Reports claiming entire formations had disappeared beneath dragonfire.
He had doubted the numbers.
Men exaggerated battles. Victors exaggerated victories.
Defeated men exaggerated the forces that had beaten them.
But now...
Hoster believed every word. Perhaps the reports had understated it.
His thoughts turned toward his daughters.
Catelyn pregnant and married to Eddard Stark; Lysa married to Jon Arryn.
Two daughters, with two husbands awaiting judgment from a Targaryen prince who commanded dragons.
Hoster's hands tightened around his reins. The Riverlands had bled for the rebellion.
Villages burned, fields ruined and men dead, and now the victorious king would demand payment.
He had no illusions otherwise. Damon Targaryen's letters had made that clear.
Judgments shall be rendered.
Hoster looked toward the distant towers of King's Landing.
For perhaps the first time in many years... The Lord of Riverrun felt old.
"Continue."
The column began moving again.
A step slower than before.
The Starks.
Benjen Stark did not look away as Caraxes passed directly above the northern procession.
The horses reared as several riders abandoned their saddles completely; one young squire threw himself into a ditch. But Benjen remained mounted.
His horse trembled beneath him as did his hands.
But he refused to move.
The dragon's shadow consumed him.
For a heartbeat, Benjen saw nothing but crimson scales and enormous wings.
Then Caraxes passed.
Wind crashed across the road as dust exploded upward; Benjen's cloak whipped violently behind him, then the dragon was gone.
The young Stark slowly exhaled. His father had died before a dragonless king, his brother now sat prisoner to a king with two.
The thought left something cold inside him.
"Lord Stark?"
Benjen looked toward the northern knight beside him.
The man appeared pale.
"Are you well?"
"No."
The answer came honestly.
Benjen looked toward King's Landing.
"But we must continue."
He had not come south for pride; he had not come to defend the rebellion.
The rebellion was over.
He had come for Ned. If Damon Targaryen demanded gold, the North would pay; if he demanded land, Benjen would negotiate, if he demanded Benjen kneel before the entire court. He would kneel.
Stark pride had already placed one generation in the grave.
Benjen would not allow it to kill another.
The Martells
The Dornish procession traveled beneath a sea of orange and red.
At its center rode Prince Doran Martell.
His clothing was elegant but restrained, orange silk beneath a light traveling cloak. Sweat gathered faintly across his brow beneath the Crownlands sun, but he made no complaint.
Beside him rode Oberyn.
The brothers could not have appeared more different.
Doran moved with patience.
Oberyn moved as though remaining still for too long might kill him.
The Red Viper wore crimson beneath light armor. A spear rested across his saddle despite repeated reminders that he was traveling to a coronation and not a battlefield.
Oberyn had ignored every reminder.
As usual.
For hours, neither brother had spoken much. There was too much to consider.
Elia, Rhaenys, and Aegon lived; that mattered above everything.
For months, they had feared the worst.
Every raven from King's Landing had been opened with shaking hands carefully hidden beneath long sleeves.
He had imagined Elia dead. The rebellion victorious.
House Martell left to mourn another daughter sent into the ambitions of greater kingdoms.
Instead... Aerys and Rhaegar were both dead. Robert Baratheon was in chains, and Damon Targaryen was preparing to become king.
Damon.
Doran's expression tightened slightly.
The second prince. Of course he remembered the boy, silver hair, violet eyes, the standard Targaryen. Always quiet, whenever the royal family visited court functions, Rhaegar drew every eye. The Crown Prince, Beautiful, a talented musician and warrior.
The prince promised in prophecy, if Rhaegar's own beliefs were to be trusted. Damon had usually stood somewhere nearby.
Watching everything.
Doran had barely spoken to him.
That realization had become increasingly uncomfortable over the previous weeks.
"You're thinking too loudly."
Oberyn's voice interrupted his thoughts.
Doran glanced toward his brother.
"I wasn't aware thoughts made sound."
"Yours do."
"And what am I thinking?"
Oberyn smiled.
"Elia."
Doran said nothing.
"Rhaegar."
Still nothing.
"And our soon-to-be king."
Doran looked forward again.
"You've become remarkably perceptive."
"I've always been perceptive."
"No."
Doran replied calmly.
"You've always been nosy."
Oberyn laughed.
The sound died seconds later. The horses became restless.
Doran noticed immediately. His eyes moved toward the Dornish knights; several were looking upward.
Then the sun vanished.
Oberyn's hand moved toward his spear.
Doran looked into the sky.
And saw a nightmare from history.
Caraxes descended from the clouds.
The Blood Wyrm's enormous crimson wings spread across the heavens. His body was impossibly long, twisting as he banked through the air.
Doran forgot to breathe.
He had seen drawings of dragons, ancient paintings and even skulls.
He had once stood beneath the bones of Balerion the Black Dread and wondered what manner of creature could possess such a head.
None of it compared.
Caraxes was alive, that changed everything.
As his wings beat once, the air itself seemed to move. The Dornish banners snapped violently.
Several horses screamed.
Oberyn pulled his spear free.
"Put that away."
Doran's command came immediately.
Oberyn stared upward.
"If it attacks...."
"You will do what?"
Silence.
Doran looked toward him.
"Stab the sky?"
Oberyn's jaw tightened.
Slowly... He lowered the spear.
Caraxes circled.
His long neck twisted.
Golden eyes turned toward the Dornish procession.
Doran felt the dragon's gaze pass over them.
For one terrifying moment... He wondered whether dragons remembered or knew Dorne had killed Meraxes, that Dorne had resisted Aegon, that Dornishmen had fought dragons before.
Caraxes roared. Dozens of men flinched.
Then the Blood Wyrm continued toward King's Landing.
Oberyn watched him go.
"Seven hells."
Doran remained silent.
"That thing burned Robert's army?"
"Alongside another."
Oberyn slowly looked toward his brother.
"Another."
Doran nodded.
They continued riding. But the mood had changed.
Even Oberyn had become quiet. Then King's Landing appeared.
And above the city was.
Dreamfyre.
If Caraxes was terror, then Dreamfyre was majesty.
The pale blue dragon glided above the city with slow, powerful movements. Silver shimmered across her scales whenever sunlight struck her.
She was larger than Caraxes. Ancient power given wings.
Doran stopped his horse.
The entire Dornish procession stopped behind him.
Dreamfyre flew across the horizon.
Neither brother spoke.
Doran's mind returned decades into the past.
Marriage negotiations. His mother's ambitions. Elia's future. They had wanted a prince.
A Targaryen to put their blood on the Iron Throne. Rhaegar had been the obvious choice.
The Crown Prince, the future king.
Everyone had believed it. Everyone.
Damon had been there, but a second son, unimportant, politically unnecessary. A spare in every sense.
They had never considered him.
Not seriously anyway.
Doran remembered one feast in particular.
Rhaegar had played his harp as lords watched and ladies whispered, while Damon had been seated farter down the royal table silently watching the room.
Doran suddenly wondered what the young prince had been thinking.
How many conversations had Damon overheard while everyone ignored him?
How many lords had revealed themselves because they believed the second prince didn't matter?
Doran's stomach tightened.
Everyone had watched Rhaegar. While Damon had watched everyone.
And now... Rhaegar was dead, his decisions sparked the flames of war; he had abandoned Elia and left his children in Kingslanding beneath Aerys' madness.
Damon had remained and survived, and somehow had gotten two dragons, then crushed the rebellion, and protected Elia and her children.
And soon... Damon would be king.
Oberyn laughed bitterly.
Doran looked toward him.
"What?"
The Red Viper continued staring at Dreamfyre.
"We picked the wrong prince."
The words struck harder than Doran expected.
He said nothing.
Because there was nothing to say.
Oberyn was right.
Painfully right.
If Elia had married Damon... She would soon be queen.
Her children would stand as Damon's heirs. Dorne would possess a position beside the Iron Throne unmatched by any kingdom.
Instead... Rhaegar had humiliated her.
And now Tywin Lannister had brought Cersei to King's Landing.
Doran knew why and so did everyone else.
The lion wanted his daughter beside the dragon.
"We couldn't have known."
Doran finally said.
Oberyn looked toward him.
"No."
He smiled without humor.
"But that doesn't make the mistake smaller."
Dreamfyre roared above King's Landing.
The sound traveled across the plains.
Doran watched the dragon.
For the first time...
He wondered how different everything might have been.
"Come."
He urged his horse forward.
"Elia is waiting."
Yet as the Dornish banners continued toward the capital...
Oberyn's words followed him.
We picked the wrong prince.
The RedKeep.
Lady Olenna Tyrell entered Damon's solar shortly after midday.
Damon was reading, so he didn't immediately look up.
Olenna stopped before his desk.
"I've decided your council would undoubtedly collapse without me."
Damon laughed as he continued reading.
"I expected it might."
Olenna narrowed her eyes.
"You could at least pretend to be surprised."
Damon finished the sentence before setting the parchment aside.
"Would you believe me?"
"No."
"Then why bother?"
She smiled.
'Damn him.' She thought.
"I accept."
"Good."
"That's all?"
"What would you prefer?"
"A celebration."
"I can have Mace informed."
Olenna's expression immediately changed.
"Absolutely not."
Damon laughed again.
"Then welcome to the Small Council, Lady Olenna."
She lowered herself into the chair opposite him.
"Master of Laws."
"Master of Laws."
"A ridiculous title."
"You've held it for twelve seconds."
"And already I've identified my first problem."
Damon smiled faintly.
Olenna leaned forward.
"I want access to the Crown's archives."
"You'll have it."
"All of them."
"You'll have them."
"Records from Jaehaerys' reign."
"They will be moved to your office."
She paused.
"You knew I would accept."
"I suspected."
"You knew."
Damon said nothing.
Olenna sighed.
"I dislike you."
"No, you don't."
"I could."
"I have faith in your ability."
She almost smiled.
Almost.
"I intend to review the Crown's laws."
"I expect you to."
"I'll recommend changes."
"I'll listen."
Olenna raised an eyebrow.
"And make the changes?"
Damon smiled. "I promise to listen."
Silence.
Then Olenna laughed.
"Good."
She stood.
Her eyes narrowed.
There it was again.
That feeling.
As though every conversation with Damon took place several moves after he had already understood the board.
She turned toward the door and left without another word.
Night covered Kingslanding. The Red Keep had finally become quiet.
Damon stood over a map of Westeros. Small wooden markers covered the table; a lion rested upon Kingslanding. A rose had recently been added beside it.
Several wolves remained scattered across the North.
Damon held a small black kraken between his fingers.
The door opened.
Varys entered.
"My king."
Damon looked toward him.
"You only call me that when you are trying to brace me for something."
Varys smiled.
"How observant."
"What happened?"
"The Iron Islands."
Damon placed the kraken upon Pyke.
"Quellon?"
"Alive."
"Then Balon."
Varys' smile disappeared.
"Lord Quellon is losing control."
Damon remained silent.
"Several captains have begun openly questioning his leadership."
"Others have quietly gathered around his eldest surviving son."
"Balon Greyjoy."
Damon stared at the map.
Exactly.
The timeline had changed.
Quellon Greyjoy should have died during the rebellion.
Killed fighting near the Mander.
But Damon's dragons had ended the war before Quellon ever sailed south.
History had lost the death it expected.
And now... It was correcting itself.
"My coronation summons."
Damon said quietly.
Varys nodded.
"Lord Quellon intended to attend."
"And Balon objects."
"Strongly."
Damon smiled.
There it was.
His letter had accelerated the conflict.
Quellon wanted cooperation.
Balon wanted the Old Way.
A father trying to drag the Iron Islands forward. A son desperately chaining them to the past.
"Balon is gathering support."
Varys continued.
"Victarion appears uncertain."
"Euron?"
"Absent."
Damon frowned.
That was somehow more concerning.
"Several ships have changed allegiance."
Varys folded his hands.
"I believe open conflict is possible."
"Possible?"
Damon looked toward him.
"It's inevitable."
"You seem remarkably unconcerned."
Damon returned his attention to the map.
The Iron Islands.
For years... The same problem.
Reaving, raiding and now possible rebellion.
And every generation... The Ironborn returned to the same traditions.
The Old Way.
Damon slowly picked up the wooden kraken.
"Do you know the problem with the Iron Islands, Varys?"
"I'm certain you'll tell me."
"Every king treats the symptoms."
Damon turned the marker between his fingers.
"They raid."
"We execute captains."
He placed the kraken down.
"And then..."
"We wait twenty years and do everything again."
Varys watched him carefully.
"What alternative do you propose?"
Damon's violet eyes remained fixed upon Pyke.
His thoughts moved.
A slow smile appeared.
Varys noticed.
And immediately became uncomfortable.
"My king?"
"The Ironborn are remarkably devoted to their traditions."
Varys said carefully.
"Yes."
Damon's finger slowly moved across Pyke.
"That has always been their problem."
Silence filled the chamber.
Far beyond the windows... Caraxes roared.
The sound rolled across King's Landing.
Damon smiled.
"If the Ironborn insist upon living in the past..."
His violet eyes hardened.
"...perhaps I should finally bury it."