The Golden Wyrm

That Addam and Alyn were dragonseed no man who looked upon them could doubt, though their mother steadfastly refused to name their father."

―writings of Gyldayn

…

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Alyn was all grins, the excitement of a new journey lighting his eyes as he spoke of the construction efforts at the Stepstones. He made light of it, joking about the rough seas and the even rougher men who awaited him there, but Addam knew his brother well enough to catch the slight tension beneath his bravado. Alyn was brave, perhaps too brave, and Addam felt the pang of worry gnaw at him, though he masked it with a grin of his own. They clasped arms, and Addam clapped his brother's shoulder. "Keep your head down, brother," he said, though he knew the advice would likely go unheeded. Alyn laughed, a bright sound that seemed to carry over the water. "And you, try not to get into too much trouble without me," he replied. Addam watched as Alyn boarded the ship, his form growing smaller until it was just another shadow among the sailors. The gangplank lifted and the ship pulled away from the dock.

Addam stood there, watching as Alyn's ship floated down the Blackwater Rush until its mast was swallowed by the horizon. The late afternoon sun reflected off the water, turning it into a sheet of blinding gold, and he squinted, feeling the sting of salt and sun in his eyes. He gave a quick, dismissive nod to the dockhands who saluted him, then turned his back to the docks, hands resting on his hips as he took in the sprawling port.

The city seemed to have swollen of late, growing not just in size but in the sheer frenzy of life it contained. King's Landing had always been a place of noise and chaos, but now its pulse pounding with a relentless energy that Addam found slightly dizzying. The new wharves jutted out into the Blackwater Rush like neat, orderly teeth, their timbers freshly cut, standing straight and proud. Customs houses, built from sturdy stone, rose up along the waterfront, and the warehouses loomed behind them, silent sentinels overlooking the ceaseless activity. Merchant banners snapped in the breeze, their bright colours—greens and golds—standing out against the smoky haze that hung over the port. The air smelled of salt and tar, and the tang of unfamiliar spices, brought in from Essos, lingered on the breeze. Addam moved through the crowds, weaving between sailors with sun-weathered faces and traders hawking goods from handcarts, their cries mingling with the laughter of children darting about underfoot. There was a rhythm to it all, an ebb and flow like the tides themselves, and the constant hum of voices and clatter of wheels created an unending symphony of commerce and survival.

Addam made his way past the towering warehouses and bustling customs houses, stepping onto the recently expanded cobblestone roads that shone pale in the sunlight, their edges smoothed by the steady traffic of wheels and feet. The street teemed with life, merchants pushing handcarts laden with sacks of grain or crates of fruits, their muscles straining as they manoeuvred through the throng. Smallfolk jostled for position, calling out to vendors selling fresh bread, herbs, or salted fish. The air was thick with the mingling scents—sweet apples, pungent onions, and the sharper tang of queer spices. Addam's gaze drifted to the great Bazaar up ahead, its domed structures rising proudly, festooned with bright silks that seemed to dance in the light breeze. Tapestries of vivid purples, golds, and greens spilt out from the booths, the shimmer of fine cloth catching his eye. The Merchant Guild building stood nearby, an imposing structure with carved stone reliefs and banners denoting its authority, but Addam barely glanced at it. Instead, he veered left, slipping into a narrow alley, its cool shadows offering a brief reprieve from the clamour. This alley was one of his favoured shortcuts—a place where the walls were close and the noise of the city dulled, a hidden path leading toward the quieter Artisan District.

The alley opened up into another widened road, where the clang of hammers and the scent of sawdust filled the air. Shops spilled onto the cobblestone, their wares displayed on rickety tables or hung from the doorframes—intricately carved wooden figures, dyed wool, and jewellery that glinted under the sun. Addam paused at a small stall, where a Braavosi merchant with a hawkish nose stood behind a collection of brass trinkets laid out on a deep blue cloth. The merchant's eyes narrowed, suspicious of a local perhaps, but Addam merely grinned. "What would you ask for this fine dragon, good ser?" he asked in fluent Braavosi as the prince had schooled him, pointing at a brass figurine with wings unfurled, its eyes tiny rubies that glowed in the light. The merchant's eyebrows shot up, his surprise breaking into a broad smile. "Ah, one who speaks with the tongue of the daughter," he said, his tone now warm. They haggled for a few moments, the exchange more a dance than a true bargain, until at last, Addam walked away with the small dragon figurine tucked into the pouch by his belt. The merchant's laughter—genuine, amused—followed him as he left, echoing off the stone walls and mingling with the sounds of craftsmen at work.

The road broadened again as he neared the inn. It was a well-known place, not far from the brothels that lined the Street of Silk, a place frequented by Red Cloaks. Addam pushed the door open, stepping into the warmth and noise of the common room. The scent of ale and roast meat hit him, mingling with the smoke of the hearthfire. He spotted Garren and Nettles immediately, sitting at a corner table, their voices rising over each other in a heated argument. Rowenna sat with them, her expression unbothered, fingers tapping lightly on the table as she watched the two. Wyl, predictably, was at the bar, a hand resting on the barmaid's arm as he whispered something that made her laugh.

Addam slipped into the seat across from the arguing pair. He raised a hand, signalling for ale, and leaned back, eyeing Garren and Nettles. "Am I cursed to always find you two at each other's necks?" he asked, his voice amused. "What is it this time?"

Garren scowled, his jaw tightening. "She won't admit she's wrong," he said, jabbing a finger in Nettles' direction.

"Wrong?" Nettles scoffed, her eyes flashing. "You wouldn't know right if it bit you in the arse."

Rowenna's lips twitched, though she didn't look directly at either of them. "It's a philosophy problem, Addam. Something the prince left us with."

Addam hummed, a smile tugging at his lips. Prince Aemond was fond of his riddles and his debates. It kept their minds sharp, he said, though sometimes Addam thought it kept their tempers sharper still. The serving maid arrived, setting a mug of ale before him, and he took a long drink, letting the cool bitterness wash down his throat.

Wyl returned then, sliding into the seat beside Rowenna, a grin on his face. "So," Addam said, setting down his mug. "Anyone has an idea where the prince's flown off to this time?"

"Perhaps to convince the fish of the Narrow Sea to trade with King's Landing," Garren said dryly.

"Or maybe he's gone to teach ravens how to speak better Valyrian than the maesters," Nettles added with a smirk.

Addam rolled his eyes, but it was Rowenna who answered seriously. "The Vale," she said, her voice calm. The others fell silent, eyes turning toward her.

"The Vale?" Addam echoed, frowning. "And how do you know that?"

Rowenna shrugged, her expression unbothered. "I asked the princess. She said he flew to the Vale to attend to some matters."

Wyl whistled low. "The Vale, eh? What sort of matters, I wonder?"

"Probably to finally find himself a woman," Nettles said with a scoff, clearly joking. The others laughed and moved on quickly, throwing out other far-fetched guesses. They debated it for a while longer, though none of them came close to the truth. Eventually, the conversation shifted, and Wyl brought up what they might do with their newfound freedom. "We've not been idle like this for a long time," he said, his eyes bright with mischief.

"We could go find Ulf the Sot again," Nettles said, her grin wide and wicked. "He ought to have more grand tales for us."

Rowenna, however, shook her head. "No. We return to our studies. There's no sense creating problems for the prince when he's not here."

Nettles groaned, and Wyl threw his head back, exasperated. "Rowenna," he complained. "You know how to suck the joy out of a room."

Rowenna merely raised an eyebrow, then sighed, her gaze softening as she resigned herself to indulging the others. "The amphitheatre then," she amended, her tone less stern. "I heard it opened a fortnight ago. Let's go see what it's about. Maybe it'll be worth our time." She paused, her eyes meeting each of theirs, a flicker of a smile tugging at her lips. "But after that, we return to our studies."

There was some grumbling, but no real protest, and so they left, making their way through the city streets until they reached the amphitheatre. It was a somewhat grand structure, its stone seats rising in sweeping arcs, filled with people of all sorts—merchants, nobles, smallfolk, and a few Red Cloaks to keep the peace. They watched a series of performances: a troupe of mummers reenacting a bawdy tale of knights and maidens that had the audience roaring with laughter, a fire-breather who elicited gasps as he spun and spewed flames that danced across the stage, and a singer with a haunting voice that seemed to make the twilight linger. As the sun dipped below the horizon, the last performance featured a masked performer who moved with the grace of a shadow, telling a story with only the silent elegance of their movements, their silhouette against the flickering torchlight.

Later, they returned to the Red Keep and said their farewells, each peeling away to their own quarters. Addam found his chamber door ajar, and he stepped in cautiously, his hand drifting to the knife at his belt. A shadow shifted in the dim light, and Addam tensed, his eyes narrowing.

"Easy now, ser," came the soft, rasping voice of Larys Strong. The club-footed man sat in the corner, a casual smile on his lips. "I've only come to talk."

Addam's grip on his knife tightened, but he forced himself to relax, closing the door behind him. "Talk, then," he said, his eyes never leaving Larys.