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Dragonstone, the Chamber of the Painted Table
CRACKLE!
The fire burned fiercely in the hearth, casting flickering light and warmth over the chamber, illuminating the figures seated before it.
Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen sat with her two sons, overseeing their lessons. Seven-year-old Aegon and five-year-old Viserys sat close to her, their young minds absorbing the letters and words she patiently taught them. Meanwhile, twelve-year-old Luke and ten-year-old Joffrey were in another part of the hall, under Daemon's strict guidance, practicing their swordplay.
This was a household shaped by trials and tribulations, yet despite its unconventional nature, harmony thrived among them—something that outsiders would find hard to believe.
TAP, TAP, TAP!
The sharp sound of hurried footsteps echoed from the direction of the chamber's great doors.
Rhaenyra turned her head and saw Daemon approaching. He was clad in noble attire suited for leisure, yet one hand rested lightly on the hilt of his Valyrian steel sword, while the other carried a tightly folded raven-scroll.
His expression was as cold and unreadable as ever, a mask that warned others to keep their distance.
But Rhaenyra had known him since childhood. She had seen past that mask long ago.
And right now—he was pleased.
"Daemon, is it good news?" she asked.
Daemon gave a curt nod. "Yes. It's about Jace."
At the mention of her eldest son, Rhaenyra's brow furrowed in mild confusion.
"Jace? But didn't he just send word a few days ago saying he was bound for Tarth, the Sapphire Isle?" She frowned slightly, her fingers brushing against the armrest of her chair. "If I recall correctly, he should still be at sea."
Daemon halted before her, the corner of his mouth twitching for the briefest moment before he spoke, his voice steady yet measured.
"Rhaenyra, Jace never went to Tarth. Instead, he joined Corlys Velaryon in capturing Grey Gallows and Bloodstone. The entire Stepstones are once again under your father's rule."
CREAK!
The chair scraped against the floor as Rhaenyra abruptly rose to her feet. She strode toward Daemon in swift, determined steps, reaching for the message in his hand.
Snatching the parchment from his grasp, she quickly unfolded it, her gaze darkening as she read through its contents.
A heavy silence settled between them before she finally turned toward her two younger sons.
"Aegon, Viserys," she said, her voice soft and warm despite the tension brimming beneath it. "Take a break from your lessons. Go to the gardens and play with your brother."
"Yay!"
The two silver-haired princes cheered, tossing their books aside as they gleefully ran out of the chamber.
As the doors closed behind them, Rhaenyra's expression hardened. She turned back to Daemon, her voice lowering to a sharp whisper.
"You knew. You knew all along, didn't you? That Jace was never going to Tarth. You let him go to war in the Stepstones—without telling me!" Her eyes burned with anger. "Is it because he isn't your son by blood? That you don't love him? That you don't care what happens to him?"
Daemon met her fury with a calm, unshaken gaze.
He had expected this reaction.
From the moment he had let Jacaerys set sail for war, he had known Rhaenyra would be livid when she found out.
Still, this was better than the worst outcome he had imagined.
"Rhaenyra," he said evenly, "calm yourself. Don't say things you don't mean." His voice, though steady, carried the weight of sincerity. "You know that I love the children. If I didn't care about Jace, would I have sent Baela to accompany him?"
His words struck a chord.
Rhaenyra faltered for a moment. Her gaze drifted to the carved map of Westeros on the table, her eyes settling upon the region of the Stepstones.
"But he's only thirteen," she murmured, her voice softening, tinged with helplessness. "He could be injured in battle. He could be... killed. He was safe here, with us, on Dragonstone…"
Daemon stepped forward.
"Rhaenyra," he said, his voice low but firm. "He is your eldest son. A Targaryen. The rightful heir to the Iron Throne." His violet eyes held hers in an unrelenting stare. "He is meant to be a dragon soaring through the skies, his claws and fangs striking fear into those who would oppose him." He paused, then added, "If you keep him here, chained to Dragonstone, coddled and sheltered… he will become nothing more than a tamed dog."
For the briefest moment, his voice faltered.
"Like me…"
He cut himself off, but Rhaenyra had already caught the unfinished words.
Her gaze lingered on his face, searching, understanding.
A long silence stretched between them.
Then, her lips curled into a bitter, cold smile.
"So, that's it," she said. "You would rather chase war and bloodshed than stay here. You would rather be out there, fighting, than live in peace with me and the children."
She turned away from him.
"Fine," she said. "Go, then. Leave. All of you. Leave Dragonstone."
Daemon exhaled slowly. A long, weary sigh.
He said nothing more.
Without another word, he turned and walked away.
The fire in the hearth continued to burn, casting flickering shadows across the chamber.
Rhaenyra sank back into her chair, her fingers gripping the parchment as she stared into the flames, lost in thought.
---
King's Landing, the Red Keep
Within the halls of the Red Keep, the Small Council was in session.
The chamber had undergone many changes over the years.
The once-ornate windows had been altered, now adorned with a massive seven-pointed star, allowing light to filter through in sacred patterns. The drapes, once vibrant with reds and golds, had been replaced with deep green.
At the head of the table, seated upon the King's chair, was Queen Alicent Hightower.
Time had refined her presence. She did not speak, nor did she need to.
Draped in rich fabrics and adorned with a seven-pointed star upon her necklace, she carried herself with an effortless, commanding grace.
She had become a true ruler.
Simply by sitting there, her presence alone filled the chamber with an undeniable air of authority.
For a brief moment, silence reigned—then, it was shattered by a voice brimming with frustration.
"Your Grace! As the Lord Admiral of the Realm, I am not here to merely defend Lannisport!"
The speaker, Tyland Lannister, his golden hair gleaming under the candlelight, was visibly incensed. His sharp gaze swept across the chamber as he voiced his complaint.
"From what I have gathered, merchant ships from King's Landing, Oldtown, and the Arbor—indeed, vessels from all across the realm—are being forcibly charged a so-called 'Navigation Maintenance Fee' by the Velaryon fleet whenever they pass through the Stepstones. Since the days of the great conqueror, King Aegon I, such a fee has never been imposed!
This is a blatant act of extortion!
Your Grace, I implore you—issue a royal decree to rebuke and punish Jacaerys Velaryon for this unlawful behavior!"
Tyland's words echoed through the Small Council chamber, his indignation unmistakable.
Yet before Queen Alicent could respond, another voice cut through the tension.
It belonged to Lyman Beesbury, the aging Master of Coin. His wrinkled face and thinning white hair bore the weight of decades spent in service to the Crown.
"My lord," Lyman said with a weary but firm tone, "before we even consider whether the collection of such a fee is lawful, I must ask—why would you direct your accusations at Prince Jacaerys?
If anyone is to be held accountable, should it not be Lord Corlys Velaryon, the Lord of Driftmark and the head of House Velaryon?"
Lyman's stance was no surprise to those in the room. Unlike Tyland, who had risen to power after the Sea Snake's retirement thanks to Alicent and her father, Lyman Beesbury had always been a staunch supporter of Princess Rhaenyra and her claim to the throne.
He was an unwavering loyalist of the Black faction, and at the mere suggestion that Rhaenyra's allies might be targeted, he immediately rose to their defense.
Such unwavering support would eventually cost him his life. In time, it would be none other than Ser Criston Cole who would see to his demise.
"Lord Beesbury," another voice cut in—this time, Jasper Wylde, the Master of Laws and a devoted member of the Green faction.
"Surely you must have heard the rumors spreading across King's Landing?" Jasper said, his lips curling into a sneer.
"The entire city is whispering about the atrocities committed by Prince Jacaerys Velaryon. Even as a mere child of six, he commanded his dragon to devour common folk!
And now? Now he has grown into a monster far beyond our worst fears.
The prince and his dragon—that beast—burn ships and soldiers alike in the Stepstones, showing no mercy to foe or friend.
It is said that his dragon has already consumed thousands of men alive—three or four thousand, at the very least!
And do you know what is most appalling, Lord Beesbury? Nearly half of those men were not even his enemies. They were his own Velaryon soldiers!
The boy's cruelty knows no bounds!
He has even poisoned the underground water sources of Bloodstone, turning a once precious island of the realm into a wasteland.
The people—the common folk—curse his name with every breath. They call him the Scourge of the Kingdom!"
Jasper's words rang through the hall, his voice heavy with conviction.
He was a staunch advocate of traditional succession laws, which placed sons before daughters in matters of inheritance. A loyal member of the Green faction, he had always opposed the notion of a woman sitting the Iron Throne.
A silence followed, only to be broken by a soft cough.
"Ahem, ahem… Jasper, my lord," came the voice of Orwyle, the newly appointed Grand Maester.
His expression was calm, his words measured. Though he had not openly declared allegiance, it was well known that his roots lay in Oldtown—the Hightower's domain—and thus, his stance was often aligned with Queen Alicent and her father.
"Perhaps the accounts you have heard are… exaggerated.
Three to four thousand men, you say? If they were to line up and march straight into the dragon's maw one by one, I daresay it would still take at least a year or two to consume them all.
Even so… I have also heard unsettling rumors.
Prince Jacaerys, it seems, is rather… unconstrained in his actions.
His deeds in the Stepstones—well, they have certainly sown fear in the hearts of many.
Perhaps a gentle reminder is in order."
No sooner had he spoken than—
THUD!
A heavy stone sphere struck the table, signaling that a decision was about to be made.
All eyes turned toward Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, who sat at Queen Alicent's right hand.
His voice was steady, his words cold and precise.
"Let us begin with the matter of the Navigation Maintenance Fee. Never before has the Crown imposed such a tax on trade routes. Even if such a fee were to be collected, it should be sent directly to the royal treasury in King's Landing.
To do otherwise is nothing short of embezzlement—a crime against the realm itself.
And then, there is the matter of the Stepstones.
Fifteen years ago, Prince Daemon Targaryen presented the crown of the King of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea to the King Viserys I. By all legal standards, this means that the Stepstones belong to the kingdom.
And yet, we now hear whispers that House Velaryon has taken the islands for themselves.
Rumors claim that Prince Jacaerys Velaryon now wreaks havoc there, committing acts of destruction without restraint."
"Your Grace," he said, turning to Alicent, "I strongly advise that we summon both Lord Corlys Velaryon and Prince Jacaerys Velaryon to King's Landing.
Let them stand before the court and provide a clear explanation for their actions."
Alicent nodded in agreement.
Her emerald-green gown shimmered under the candlelight as she turned to the man standing beside her—the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Harrold Westerling.
"Ser Harrold," she said in her characteristically composed tone, "dispatch one of your sworn brothers to the Stepstones.
Deliver my decree to Lord Corlys and Prince Jacaerys. And… make sure to convey it with courtesy."
Ser Harrold bowed deeply.
"As you command, Your Grace."
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[IMAGE]
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[Chapter End's]
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