NOVEL ONLINE FREE Chapter 11: Chapter 11
At least, in the early months of 122 AC, Westeros seemed peaceful.
In the North, the lords of Winterfell waited for their Warden to die.
Correction—Lord Rickon Stark hadn't made it through the past year. Now, the North was ruled by his fourteen-year-old son, Cregan Stark.
Of course, the real ruler of the North was Ser Bennard Stark, the boy's uncle and regent.
In the Vale, things were so peaceful that no one even knew what was happening beyond the Bloody Gate.
The Riverlands? Peacefully chaotic. House Blackwood had killed House Bracken's chickens. House Bracken had stolen House Blackwood's water. And at Harrenhal, House Strong had politely declined the leadership of Larys Strong, the "Clubfoot," but allowed him to leave with the castle's gold.
Everything was very peaceful.
In the Westerlands, they peacefully dug for gold—and sent much of it to King's Landing, since Lord Jason Lannister's twin brother Ser Tyland was serving as the realm's Master of Ships.
The Reach? Peacefully pretending to be dead. House Hightower had sent yet another delegation to King's Landing to assist Lord Hand Otto Hightower. House Tarly of Horn Hill was dealing with the usual—Lord Donald Tarly had once again taken up his Valyrian steel sword, Heartsbane, in pursuit of his runaway son Alan Tarly and his wayward daughter Diana.
In Dorne, peace meant avoiding problems. Prince Qoren Martell carefully maintained balance between the desert and mountain lords, while House Yronwood and House Wyl were actively at war over land disputes. And at Starfall, the infamous knight Obara Dayne had stolen the family's legendary sword of dawn, Dawn, and vanished.
A woman known for being painfully monogamous, she had beaten every suitor—man or woman—who dared approach her before riding off alone.
Her father, Earl Samwell Dayne, had declared a bounty on his own daughter.
As for the Stormlands? There wasn't even news worth reporting.
Dragonstone
In the halls of Dragonstone, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen sat in a custom-made chair, fanning herself as her maids attended to her.
She was pregnant again.
Years of childbirth had reshaped her body, robbing her of the beauty she once wielded so effortlessly.
"This one is strong," she murmured, rubbing her swollen belly. She had not ridden her dragon, Syrax, since she conceived. The great golden beast had been howling within the Dragonmont for weeks.
"Must be a boy."
Her maids did not dare respond.
Rhaenyra only chuckled. "No need to be so nervous. If it's a girl, she will still be my little princess. Now—where are my children?"
The bravest maid finally answered. "Prince Jacaerys is in the Dragonmont with Vermax. Prince Lucerys and Prince Joffrey are still in their lessons. Prince Aegon is sleeping—his nurse just finished feeding him."
"Good," Rhaenyra sighed, waving them away. "Leave me. I wish to rest."
The maids obeyed, but as one turned, she nearly ran straight into Prince Daemon Targaryen.
He was a hard man—his once-impeccable silver hair now carelessly tied back, his face lined with years of battle and politics.
Yet, his presence remained undeniable.
At his back, his dragon, Caraxes the Blood Wyrm, still loomed large in the minds of Westerosi warriors.
Daemon merely smiled at the startled maid, gesturing for her to go. Then, he slung a satchel from his back.
A dragon egg, still warm.
He strode to the brazier in the center of the room—its bronze basin glowing with embers—and carefully set the egg within.
"Syrax has done well," Daemon murmured, turning to his wife. "She laid another. That wild black dragon tried to steal it, but Caraxes and Syrax drove it off."
"The Cannibal?" Rhaenyra frowned.
That thief of eggs and slayer of young dragons had become an ever-growing problem.
"Daemon, once this child is born, we should hunt it down before it kills another hatchling."
Daemon nodded, washing his hands in a nearby basin before approaching her bed.
He knelt, pressing his ear gently to her belly, as if listening for the unborn child.
Even his voice lowered. "Don't trouble yourself. I will handle it."
Then—
A thunderous dragon's cry shook the very walls of Dragonstone.
Daemon immediately placed his hands over Rhaenyra's ears, his own head snapping toward the window.
Two massive shapes loomed beyond the stone walls.
A bronze dragon soared into the sky, wings cutting through the air as it sped westward.
Behind it, a silver dragon followed.
Daemon narrowed his eyes.
"Vermithor? And Silverwing?"
Were they hunting? Seeking food?
But Rhaenyra frowned.
Since the deaths of King Jaehaerys I and Queen Alysanne, these two had been riderless.
"What are they doing?"
Then—a third roar.
This one was sharper. More serpentine.
From the Dragonmont, Syrax and Caraxes echoed the call, though they did not take flight.
For a long moment, the skies were filled with nothing but the sound of dragons.
Then, silence.
King's Landing
Word from Dragonstone arrived at the Red Keep.
"A message, Your Grace." Grand Maester Mellos bowed, presenting the letter.
King Viserys I Targaryen barely looked up.
A portly man with a silver beard and soft features, he sat before his great model of King's Landing—an ambitious project meant to reshape the city.
Aegon the Conqueror had built the foundations of the capital, but much of it was messy, unplanned.
Jaehaerys the Conciliator had stabilized it.
Viserys wanted to perfect it.
With careful precision, he adjusted a miniature tower before finally stretching his aching back.
"Read it," he ordered.
Mellos cleared his throat.
"Your Grace, a report from Dragonstone. Vermithor and Silverwing have left the island. Prince Daemon pursued them briefly but found no cause for alarm. It appears they are hunting over the Narrow Sea."
"Hunting?" Viserys muttered, rubbing his temple. "Let them. If Daemon isn't concerned, neither am I. Anything else?"
Mellos glanced toward the door.
"The Hand wishes to speak with you."
Viserys exhaled sharply.
"Otto? No. Not tonight. Send him away."
"As you wish, Your Grace."
And so, everything remained peaceful.
For now.