The Golden Wyrm

"I will allow you to discover your own destiny, but only if you follow the paths I have set."

— God Emperor Leto II

…

​

The morning was bright and cool as Daeron Targaryen tugged the saddle's leather straps taut around Lord Ormund Hightower's prized destrier, murmuring softly to keep the animal calm. The bay gelding snorted, shifting slightly on its hooves as he worked, but Daeron's hands were practised, his motions sure. He could smell the mix of hay and leather, tinged with the petrichor of the nearby Honeywine. In the distance, the faint murmur of early morning activity in Oldtown reached his ears—a trader's call, the creak of wagon wheels, the occasional whistle of a city guard.

Tending Lord Ormund's mount was one of the prince's daily duties as the lord's squire, a task he completed without question. To most boys his age, saddling and brushing down a horse might seem a dull chore for stable boys and attendants, but Daeron thought differently. With a smile, he untangled the horse's mane and polished the saddle, ensuring it gleamed as bright as any knight's armour. Lord Ormund, for all his gruff ways, valued his mount highly, and Daeron took pride in his duties, however menial.

When he'd finished with the saddle, he paused to pat the horse's neck and lifted his head to take in his surroundings. The morning light cast a soft glow over the nearby stone walls of the Hightower, towering over Oldtown like an ancient guardian. As he stood there, catching his breath, he saw his uncle Gwayne approaching from the training grounds, signalling for Daeron to join him. Daeron took up his practice sword then from where it rested against a low wall and trotted over.

A man of stern discipline but warm eyes, Gwayne was the only family Daeron had truly come to know in this place, and his presence provided the sort of steady companionship Daeron often craved. His uncle's calm strength was a reminder of the duty and restraint that defined their house—qualities Daeron aspired to embody, though he often fell short, his mind always trailing back to the image of his brother, Aemond, and the fierce, unyielding spirit that seemed to burn eternally within him.

Today's lesson was with sword and shield, a more restrained art than Daeron might have liked. The longsword he favoured was resting against the barracks wall, waiting for him to return, but his uncle insisted on well-roundedness.

"Steady, Daeron," Gwayne said as they locked shields. "Don't let the shield slip. Your strength is in the block as much as in the swing."

"Yes, uncle," Daeron replied, gritting his teeth as he took the brunt of Gwayne's next strike.

They trained for nearly an hour, till the prince's arms burned and his back ached from exertion. Yet, just as they finished and Daeron took a gulp of water from a skin, a loud commotion sounded from the edge of the training grounds. He turned, noticing a small group of commoners gathering near the gate. Most wore expressions of shock or awe, their voices a low hum of excitement and fear. One of the townsmen, an older man with a patchy beard, caught sight of Daeron and Gwayne and made his way over.

"Lordling," he said, slightly breathless. "They say a dragon's come—big as a mountain, copper and green, with scales like bedrock. Landed in the fields beyond the walls, it did. Near swallowed up the whole sky when it flew over."

Daeron's heart skipped a beat. Copper and green, a dragon vast as a mountain—that could only mean one thing.

"Vhagar," he murmured, barely able to keep the smile from creeping across his face. He felt a surge of excitement rise within him, an energy that made his limbs feel light as air. He barely registered the commoner's words of thanks before the man turned to leave, his eyes still wide with awe.

"Daeron!" Gwayne's voice was stern, cutting through his thoughts. "You're not about to abandon your duties, are you?"

"No, Uncle," Daeron replied, though his thoughts were far from obedience. Aemond is here, he thought, trying to contain his anticipation. My brother has come to Oldtown.

The young prince made a decision then, and with a respectful nod to his uncle, he said, "Though, with your leave, Uncle, I'd go and greet my brother."

Gwayne raised an eyebrow, studying him for a moment before he let out a low sigh and waved a hand in dismissal. "Fine, then. Go," he grunted. "But remember, you'll have twice the training tomorrow to make up for today's liberties."

"Thank you, Uncle," Daeron replied, his voice tinged with excitement. He barely waited for Gwayne's nod before he turned and raced towards the outer gates of the city. He dashed through Oldtown's winding streets, weaving between startled townsfolk who turned to watch the silver-haired boy racing past. Aemond's letters had been sparse, his duties demanding, and though Daeron understood the responsibilities that weighed on his elder brother, he missed him dearly.

He reached the fields, gasping as he took in the sight before him. Vhagar towered above the landscape, her scales like aged iron, a living fortress of ancient might and beauty. She rested on the ground, wings partially furled, her golden eyes scanning the crowd with an almost human intelligence.

And Daeron he saw him—Aemond, standing some distance away from the old queen, tall and proud, the wind tugging at his long silver hair, his expression one of calm authority. The older prince's gaze was steady, piercing, even as he spoke to a member of the City Watch. There was an ease in his stance that felt entirely natural.

"Aemond!" Daeron called, his voice carrying across the field as he raced over. His brother turned, his expression softening as he met Daeron's eyes, a flicker of warmth breaking through his otherwise stoic demeanour.

"Daeron," Aemond greeted when Daeron came near, his voice low but unmistakably pleased. The older prince reached out, clasping the younger's shoulder with a firm hand. "You look well."

Daeron flushed with pride, standing a little taller. Then realising something, he glanced at Vhagar before turning back to Aemond. "Does this mean you won't be staying long?" he asked. "You didn't send a raven informing us to prepare for your arrival."

"Unfortunately, I won't," Aemond admitted, his tone carrying a hint of regret. "There is much that still demands my attention, and I have come for little more than a passing visit to settle some matters." He glanced out toward Oldtown's walls, his eyes distant for a moment before focusing back on Daeron. "And you, little brother—how has Ormund been treating you? Is he working you hard?"

Daeron nodded, eager to share all he'd done, all he'd learned. Still, his curiosity won over his excitement. "Where are you going?" he asked and Aemond answered.

"The Eyrie."

"...Why are you here then if you are still heading north?"

A mirthful smile creased Aemond's face as he ruffled Daeron's hair. "Besides the errand I came to fulfil, I am also here to see Lord Ormund. I was hoping he could lend you to me for a short while."

Daeron was so surprised by the declaration that, for a moment, he forgot to respond. "...You want me to come with you?" he asked eventually.

"Of course," Aemond nodded, much to Daeron's growing elation.

"You and Tessarion both. It should be fun."

***

The seas were choppy that morning, a tumultuous reflection of the emotions boiling within Rhaenyra. The ship swayed, and she held a hand to her belly as the child within shifted. She had always loved sailing, finding comfort in the vast, open waters, but today was different. The winds carried her toward Driftmark, toward the iron will of Princess Rhaenys, a woman who had more reason than most to mistrust her.

Rhaenyra could feel the tension in the air even before she saw the high stone walls of High Tide rising above the surf. She glanced to Rhaena, who stood beside her, the girl's silver hair caught in the wind, eyes fixed on the distant shore. Rhaena was quiet, her lips pressed thin, the echoes of her own uncertainties matching her mother's fears. What would they find on Driftmark? An ally? Or an adversary?

The harbour was bustling, sailors moving in concert like bees in a hive, unloading cargo from vessels and shouting orders amidst the cries of gulls. As Rhaenyra's party docked, she helped Rhaena descend, and they were met by retainers of House Velaryon, whose stiff bows spoke more of formality than warmth. They were led up the path that wound toward the Hall of Nine, the salty tang of the sea and the crunch of pebbles underfoot their only companions.

When the doors to the great hall opened, Rhaenys was waiting, resplendent in dark blue velvet embroidered with silver waves, her bearing regal as ever. Baela stood at her side, a flicker of genuine warmth brightening her expression when she caught sight of her sister. The two girls ran to embrace each other, and for a moment, the room seemed lighter. Rhaenys inclined her head to Rhaenyra, a slight smile on her lips that did not reach her eyes. "Princess Rhaenyra," she said, her voice all courtesy and distance.

"Princess Rhaenys," Rhaenyra replied, her own smile mirroring the same careful politeness. "If you might indulge me in a moment of privacy," she added, glancing at Baela and Rhaena.

Rhaenys nodded, waving the girls away. "Go, my loves. We shall speak soon." Rhaena gave her grandmother a quick hug before she and Baela departed, their excited chatter fading as they moved down the hall.

Once alone, Rhaenyra hesitated, her eyes softening as she looked at Rhaenys. "It has been some time since we spoke in confidence," she began, her tone gentle, almost wistful. "I have always admired your strength, Princess, especially now with Lord Corlys away. It is my hope that we can speak plainly, as family." She took a breath, her gaze earnest.

Rhaenys raised an eyebrow, her lips curving slightly. "Speak plainly, then. What troubles you so, that you have sailed all this way to Driftmark?"

"...I fear the intentions of those in King's Landing," Rhaenyra continued after a brief pause, her voice lowered though there were no ears save Rhaenys' in the hall. "Vaemond is to be named Master of Ships. The Small Council is behind this decision, and with my father's health failing…" She paused, her gaze searching Rhaenys's impassive face. "I fear if Vaemond gains influence in such a position, he may grow bold enough to challenge Lucerys's right to Driftmark."

Rhaenys's eyes, still and unreadable, studied Rhaenyra for a long moment. Then, as though weighing her words, she said softly, "And why should I care for the games played at court? The realm's squabbles over titles do not concern me here."

Rhaenyra's heart sank, her fingers tightening around her skirts. "It affects your grandchildren, Princess," she pressed, her voice tinged with urgency. "I ask you to contest this appointment, as you are ruling Driftmark in Corlys's stead. Your word would carry great weight."

Rhaenys's gaze dimmed, though her tone remained measured. "Rhaenyra, you come seeking my aid, and yet there are shadows between us that I cannot ignore. The circumstances of my son's death weigh heavily upon me, and I wonder if there is more I should understand before we proceed."

Rhaenyra froze, a chill spreading through her despite the fire burning in the hall. "...I don't understand."

"Don't play the fool. You know what I speak of."

For a moment, Rhaenyra couldn't find her voice. When she did, it was with a waver she couldn't keep out of her tone. "I swear to you, Rhaenys, I had no part in Laenor's end," she said, her voice trembling with the effort to control it. She could see the doubt in Rhaenys's eyes, the distrust, the unspoken accusation. The older princess held her gaze a moment longer, then sighed, her lips pressing into a thin line.

"Perhaps," Rhaenys said quietly, "but words alone bring little comfort." She waved a hand, brushing the matter aside as though it were a passing cloud. "You come to ask favours when you cannot speak plainly with me. Vaemond's appointment, you say. I have known of it for some time, Princess, and I find no reason to contest it."

The words struck Rhaenyra like a blow, and she fought to keep her composure. "No reason?" she echoed, incredulous. "Vaemond would see my son's claim undone! Driftmark belongs to Lucerys by Corlys's own decree."

Rhaenys's gaze did not waver. "Driftmark belongs to Corlys. And when he returns, he shall decide what will be done. As for Vaemond, he has not moved to challenge your son—not yet. And if he does? That is more your matter to resolve than mine."

Rhaenyra swallowed her rising panic, her eyes narrowing. "Then consider this," she said, shifting tactics. "I'll make you an offer. Back Luke's claim and let us betroth Laena's children to mine. Baela will be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and her sons will be heirs to the throne. Rhaena will rule in Driftmark, and the seat will pass to her and Lucerys's children in time.

Rhaenys's expression softened, but not with warmth; it was pity that tinged her smile. "A generous offer," she replied. "Alas, another offer has already been made to me. Vaemond seeks Baela's hand should he be named Lord of Driftmark. His brother, Rhogar seeks Rhaena's hand in turn."

Rhaenyra's breath caught, her stomach lurching. "And you would consider it?"

"I would consider waiting," Rhaenys said, her voice calm, deliberate. "Corlys will return, and he shall decide. If your husband, Daemon, allows us that honour and does not arrange their futures before then, that is. I have no intention of interfering with the appointment of Vaemond as Master of Ships. It does not concern the direct succession of Driftmark, only the realm's fleets." She paused, her gaze unwavering. "If you are to be queen, Rhaenyra, then be patient and act as one. Undo Vaemond's appointment when you wear the crown, if you so wish."

Rhaenyra could only nod, her throat tight, her heart heavy as lead. She had come seeking an ally, but she found herself alone once more, adrift amidst the dangerous currents of ambition and distrust. Rhaenys's face was unreadable, a mask of serenity that betrayed nothing of her true thoughts.

"Thank you for your time, Princess," Rhaenyra said finally, her voice hollow.

"Safe travels back to Dragonstone, Rhaenyra," Rhaenys replied, her tone cool, polite—and unyielding.

Rhaenyra turned, her steps heavy as she left the hall.