Maegor's Holdfast, The Red Keep.
Afternoons in the Red Keep were always quiet, especially within Maegor's Holdfast.
Named after "Maegor the Cruel," this tower was the highest structure in the Red Keep, a fortress within a fortress.
It was said that Maegor once lived here, gazing out from these very windows to overlook King's Landing and the subjects he could burn or butcher at a whim.
Seventy years had passed; Maegor's ashes lay in the vaults beneath the Red Keep, but the tower he built remained.
Aegon II sat in an armchair on the balcony, cradling Jaehaera in his arms. The afternoon sun was warm and drowsy.
Jaehaera was fast asleep, her small face buried in his chest, her mouth twitching occasionally as if she were tasting something sweet in her dreams.
Aegon looked down at her. Jaehaera. His first child. A daughter.
He had originally hoped for a son; every King wished for his firstborn to be a son. But the moment this soft, tiny creature was placed in his arms, all thoughts of heirs vanished.
She was so small, so soft, and so quiet. She didn't need to do anything; just by lying in his embrace, she made him willing to do anything for her.
Aegon's finger gently brushed her cheek. Her skin was as delicate as a freshly peeled egg.
"Jaehaera," he whispered.
"Do you know you have an uncle named Aemond?"
Jaehaera, of course, did not know. She continued to sleep.
Aegon smiled and continued. "He's much more impressive than your father. He can ride two dragons, lead armies, and kill men. Unlike your father... who only knows how to drink and hide."
He paused.
"But Papa will protect you."
At that moment, little Jaehaera opened her watery violet eyes to look at Aegon. Her tiny hand moved, grasping his finger.
Aegon froze. He stared at that small hand, those five tiny, slender fingers tightly clutching his forefinger. His eyes grew warm.
"Your Grace."
Aelyn's voice came from behind. Aegon looked up.
Aelyn stood at the balcony door, and beside her was a middle-aged man in grey robes. He was tall and thin, with black hair and brown eyes; his appearance was as ordinary as ordinary could be.
A raven perched on his shoulder, black feathers, red eyes, tilting its head to stare at Aegon.
Aegon's first thought was that the bird was hideous. His second thought was that the Maester looked even uglier than the bird.
"Your Grace," Queen Aelyn introduced.
"This is the new Grand Maester of the Small Council, Grand Maester Noren. He comes from the Citadel in Oldtown to succeed to the post."
Noren took a step forward and bowed deeply. He spoke in a slow, measured tone.
"May Your Grace be in good health."
Aegon II nodded. "Come in."
The new Grand Maester, Noren, walked onto the balcony. He stood in the sunlight, lowering his head slightly, his deep-set brown eyes appraising Aegon II.
Aegon held the child, wearing loose sleeping robes, his hair uncombed and his beard unshaven, lounging lazily in the chair.
He looked exactly like the rumors described: a puppet King sidelined by Aemond.
Noren withdrew his gaze, looked up, and spoke respectfully.
"Your Grace, I am sent by the Citadel to draft your documents, record meetings, and offer counsel. I shall do my utmost to share Your Grace's burdens. If you are ever dissatisfied with me, you may write to the Citadel, and a replacement will be sent."
Aegon studied him and asked softly, "What was your name again?"
"Noren. Your Grace may call me Noren."
"Noren," Aegon repeated. "And what is your raven called?"
Noren blinked. "Raven."
Aegon II scoffed. "Raven? This bird is a lot like you. Both of you are quite eyesores."
Noren fell silent for a moment.
Then he bowed slightly. "I thank Your Grace for the high praise."
The raven tilted its head and let out a raspy croak.
Aegon was amused. "You're an interesting Maester."
Before Noren could respond, a roar thundered from the distant sky. The sound was deep and heavy, like muffled thunder surging from deep underground.
It vibrated through walls and windows, reaching into the marrow of one's bones; even the flowerpots on the balcony trembled.
Jaehaera was startled awake. She opened her watery eyes, her mouth puckered as she prepared to cry.
Aegon II quickly lifted her, rocking her gently.
"Don't cry, don't cry, it's just a dragon..."
Queen Aelyn walked to the edge of the balcony and looked at the sky.
"Vhagar," she sighed.
Aegon II also looked up. On the horizon, a gargantuan dark shadow was rising, followed by a younger dragon.
Vhagar. The oldest living dragon in Westeros, over a hundred and fifty feet long, her wingspan blotting out the sun.
Her hoary green scales shimmered with a dark gold luster in the sunlight, and every beat of her wings kicked up a gale.
She flew toward the northeast with a graceful, unhurried gait.
Slightly behind and to her side, another dragon followed closely.
Morghul.
Black scales, smaller than Vhagar at fifteen meters long, but his flight was lithe and swift, like a hunting falcon. He was Aemond's second dragon.
The two dragons flew further and further away, shrinking into two black dots before finally vanishing over the horizon.
Grand Maester Noren stood at the balcony's edge, watching the dots disappear, and spoke with a touch of awe.
"The greatest dragon in the Seven Kingdoms. Prince Aemond is truly formidable."
Aegon grunted in dissatisfaction. He handed Jaehaera to Aelyn and stood up. He did not use his cane.
His leg injury had healed long ago; he didn't want to participate in dragon warfare. The last time he fought, he nearly died, and he was still haunted by the fear.
He walked to the edge of the balcony and stood side-by-side with Noren.
"Do you know of Balerion the Black Dread?" he asked.
Noren nodded.
"The dragon of Aegon the Conqueror. The largest dragon ever known to Westeros."
Aegon asked, "How long did he live?"
Noren thought for a moment. "Records state the Black Dread died in 94 AC, at approximately two hundred years of age."
Aegon nodded. "And how old is Vhagar this year?"
Noren hesitated before answering cautiously.
"She is roughly one hundred and eighty."
Aegon smiled. The smile was complex.
"When Vhagar dies, my brother, Aemond, will be nothing."
Noren said carefully, "But the Prince has two dragons."
Aegon continued, "He can control two dragons now, and he looks very grand indeed. But once Vhagar is dead, he'll only have the black dragon, Morghul, and that dragon is only four years old."
Grand Maester Noren hesitated before offering a reminder.
"That black dragon, Morghul... he is only four, yet his size is already nearing twenty meters. That dragon... he is simply a monster."
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