My father, Baelor, entered last. He had changed out of his ceremonial armor into a simple doublet, but he still looked every inch the Prince of Dragonstone. He walked over to the table and poured a cup of wine for his father.
"The lords are departing to their manses," Baelor reported. "Bracken and Blackwood are already at each other's throats in the courtyard. Lord Hightower left without saying a word. And Bittersteel... Aegor Rivers was seen riding for the Blackfyre estates before the bells even stopped tolling."
"Bittersteel is the one to watch," Daeron sighed. "Daemon has the charm, but Aegor has the bile. He will whisper in Daemon's ear until the boy believes he is the Conqueror reborn."
Maekar stopped his pacing. "Then we should have arrested him. Before he left the city. We are the Kings now. We decide who rides and who stays."
"We cannot start a reign with an arrest based on suspicion, Maekar," Baelor said firmly. "That is what your grandfather would have done. We must be better. We must be just. If we act like tyrants, we give the lords a reason to seek a 'liberator' in Daemon."
I watched the brothers interact, and the flaws in the foundation were glaringly obvious.
Aerys was too withdrawn, lost in the past and prophecy. Maekar was too aggressive, seeing every problem as a nail to be hammered.
Rhaegel was a liability, a mind unraveling before it had even finished knitting.
And my father... my father was the perfect man for a world that didn't exist. He was honorable in a nest of vipers. He believed that justice would win out over bloodlust.
I looked at my tiny hands, clenching them into fists. I have to be the one who does what Baelor won't, I thought. I have to be the one who sees the threats Maekar misses and understands the prophecies Aerys misinterprets.
As the night wore on, the adults' voices began to drone into a background hum. My mother eventually picked me up and took me back to my chambers. The nursery was quiet, save for the crackle of the fire and the distant, rhythmic tolling of the mourning bells for Aegon IV.
My septa, a stern woman named Roelle, moved to settle me into the cradle, but I made a soft, protesting noise—not a cry, but a grunt of dissatisfaction. I wanted to be near the window.
"What is it, little prince? Do you want to see the moon?" she whispered, surprisingly tender. She carried me to the window seat, letting me look out over the city of King's Landing.
From this height, the city looked like a carpet of fallen stars. But I knew better. I knew that beneath those lights, the Blackwater was choked with filth. I knew that the "Great Spring Sickness" would find its way through those very streets, leaping from house to house because the city was a labyrinth of squalor.
I looked at the Red Keep's walls. They were strong, yes, but they were not built to keep out a plague.
Infrastructure, I thought. I need to convince my grandfather to build. Not monuments to his glory, but sewers. Aqueducts. Hospitals.
But how does a one-year-old convince a King to revolutionize urban planning?
I looked up at the stars, the same stars that Aegon the Conqueror had looked at. The world thought House Targaryen was at its peak. We had the Iron Throne, the loyalty of the Great Houses (for now), and a line of succession that seemed clear.
But the dragons were gone. The magic was fading. All that was left was the blood, and that blood was now being shared with bastards who had every reason to hate the main line.
My septa began to hum a song about the Seven, but I tuned it out. I began to mentally map the city as I had seen it from my father's arms. I needed to identify the key points of failure. The ports were the primary entry point for the sickness. The Flea Bottom was the primary breeding ground.
If I could convince Daeron to "beautify" the city as a tribute to his new reign, I could sneak the sanitation projects under the guise of royal prestige.
The next morning, the city was draped in grey mist. The funeral preparations for Aegon IV were beginning, a somber affair that would culminate in the burning of his bloated remains.
I was in the solar again, sitting on a rug while my grandfather met with his Master of Coin. They were discussing the costs of the coronation and the funeral.
"The treasury is... thinner than I expected," the Master of Coin said, his voice hesitant. "Your father was... generous with his favorites."
"He was a spendthrift who bought loyalty with gold he didn't have," Daeron snapped. "Tell me the truth, Lord Butterwell. Can we afford the festivities?"
"We can, Your Grace, but it will leave us little for the winter stores."
I crawled across the rug, moving with a deliberate clumsiness. I reached the table where a large map of King's Landing was spread out. I grabbed a corner of the parchment, pulling myself up to a standing position.
"Valarr, no, that's not a toy," my grandfather said, though there was no heat in his voice.
I didn't let go. I pointed a small, pudgy finger at the harbor, specifically at the area where the most crowded tenements sat. I made a face, a genuine expression of disgust, and puffed out my cheeks.
"Stinky," I said. It was one of the few words I had allowed myself to "learn."
The Master of Coin chuckled. "The Prince has a nose for the truth, Your Grace. The harbor is a cesspool. The merchants have been complaining for years."
Daeron looked at me, then at the map. He reached out and touched the spot I was pointing to. "He's right. It is a disgrace. If we are to welcome the lords of the realm for the coronation, we cannot have them walking through filth."
He turned back to Butterwell. "Scrap the gilded statues for the processional. Use the coin to clear the primary drains and pave the road from the Mud Gate to the Keep. We will show the realm that this reign is about order, not just ornament."
I let go of the map and sat back down, picking up a wooden block as if I hadn't just influenced a royal decree.
It was a small victory—a drop of water in an ocean of problems. But it was a start.
As the bells continued to toll, I realized that I didn't need to speak like a philosopher or fight like a knight to change things. I just needed to be the "observant" child who pointed at the things the adults were too proud or too busy to see.
The Year of the Black Dragon was coming. But for now, the Young Princewas beginning to build his garden.