A Song of Ash and Empire

A few days later.

The chamber was warm with candlelight, the air thick with parchment, ink, and the quiet weight of something momentous.

It was not often that history was written with quills instead of swords, yet here, in King Jaehaerys Targaryen's solar, that was precisely what was happening.

At the head of the table, the Old King watched his grandson closely.

Jaehaerys had already known everything before they had even stepped into the room. He had given his blessing before Corlys had been approached, aware of every detail of the venture. But seeing it now, hearing it laid out with such certainty, such deliberation—it was different.

He had known Rhaegar was intelligent for years. Long before he came to him with the unnerving dream. Before he showed his navigation device. Jaehaerys had known he was special.

He had known it when the boy was five, watching him grasp knowledge with an intensity beyond his years. He had known it when the maesters spoke of his unusual brilliance and whispered of the way he understood mathematics, strategy, and finance as if he had lived through them before.

Rhaenys his eldest grandchild was proud, confident, and commanding.

Baelon's younger boys, Viserys and Daemon, were still too young to judge properly, though he could see Viserys was shaping up to be careful and headstrong, and Daemon was, well… Daemon.

But his first grandson was different. He was not that much older than his younger brothers yet so much more different than them, even for all their strong bond.

His mind worked in ways that even Jaehaerys, after five decades of ruling Westeros, found unnerving.

The boy hadn't even reached his tenth year, and yet he sat before them all, utterly certain of himself. The deal had been brought to him before Corlys had ever been approached—with plans already in place, and strategies already formed.

Jaehaerys did not doubt that Rhaegar would achieve greatness. 

There was a patience to the boy, an ability to see the board five moves ahead. He was not like Aemon, whose strength lay in loyalty and virtue, nor like Baelon, whose confidence and charisma drew people to him naturally.

Rhaegar did not dream of power in the obvious ways, in the blunt ways. No, he moved differently. Cunning, and insidious.

Rhaegar would build things. Plan them. Control them.

And that made him dangerous.

Not to his family. Jaehaerys did not fear that. But to the world.

The world was not made for people like Rhaegar.

People like him remade the world to suit them instead.

He exhaled slowly ending his reverie, tapping his fingers against the table.

Jaehaerys's violet eyes flickered to Corlys. " You believe in this venture Lord Corlys?"

Corlys gave a single nod. "I do, Your Grace."

There was no need for further questioning.

The Old King had made up his mind before they even walked through the door.

He gestured toward the parchment laid out before them. "Let us see it done, then."

The contract was placed before them, the ink drying upon the parchment as Jaehaerys took the royal seal and pressed it into the wax. Across from him, Corlys did the same, signing his name with the ease of a man who had made a thousand deals before this one.

It was done.

House Targaryen and House Velaryon, bound not through marriage, not through war, but through trade, dominion, and the sea itself.

Rhaegar leaned back in his chair, exhaling softly. His being filled with a rush of triumph.

At last. With this, my plans can begin to be set in motion.

Once the formalities were complete, the conversation turned to logistics.

Corlys, ever the pragmatist, wasted no time.

"Where will the fleet be built?"

"Driftmark, of course," Baelon said. "Your shipyards are already capable and well-staffed."

"And Dragonstone," Rhaegar added.

Corlys turned to him, brow raised. "Dragonstone has never been a shipbuilding hub."

"Not yet," Rhaegar corrected.

Corlys leaned back slightly. "I am not sure I follow my prince."

Rhaegar reached for the map of the Crownlands, unfurling it across the table. His fingers traced the waters between Dragonstone, Driftmark, and King's Landing.

"Driftmark will build the majority of our ships," he began. "Your shipyards are well-established, your craftsmen skilled, and your House already has centuries of naval experience."

Corlys nodded. "That much is obvious."

"But Dragonstone," Rhaegar continued, "is the ideal headquarters. More than that—it is untouchable."

Baelon leaned in slightly, intrigued.

Rhaegar gestured toward the map.

"Dragonstone is a fortress, built to withstand sieges, storms, and time itself. If we were to establish our trade hub in a traditional port, it would always be vulnerable—to sabotage, to political maneuvering, to the whims of outside forces."

Jaehaerys nodded slowly. He understood where the boy was going with this.

"But Dragonstone is different," Rhaegar went on. "Nobody would dare attack it. Nobody would dare sabotage it. It is our family's ancestral seat, protected by the Crown and by fire and blood. A merchant fleet's headquarters built on a vulnerable port is a risk. A merchant fleet's headquarters built on Dragonstone?"

He smiled slightly.

"That is a statement."

Corlys tapped his fingers against the table nodding. "A wise plan."

Rhaegar grinned. "Of course it is. I made it."

Baelon sighed to himself rubbing temples for the millionth time. "Gods help us all."

Rhaegar grinned wider. "They already have Father."

Corlys chuckled, Baelon groaned, and Rhaegar, unfazed, simply leaned back in his chair, looking entirely too pleased with himself.