"Prince Draezell, by tradition, I serve as His Grace's proxy in the king's presence and preside over royal occasions. But tonight, you are the host of this feast, and so I must seek your permission."
Viserys spoke earnestly, offering a slight bow.
Draezell glanced at him, and Viserys immediately felt a chill crawl up his neck, making him instinctively shrink back—though his expression remained unchanged.
Only Rey, Rhaegor, and Dan caught that fleeting shift in Viserys's demeanor.
Dan couldn't resist leaning toward Jacaerys and whispering, "Brother, it seems Prince Viserys has some… ill-advised ideas."
Jacaerys snorted dismissively, muttering back, "His thoughts mean nothing. Not before Father, nor before our brother." He then shot a sharp glare at Prince Aegon, whose eyes kept straying toward the girls of House Vaelarys, forcing him to look away.
Orion, noticing the unreadable expression on Seryna's face, leaned in and murmured, "Seryna, want me to teach that brat a lesson after the feast?"
Seryna shook her head. "No need." The famed "Light of the Marches" smiled dangerously. "This is Father's banquet. So long as the royal family remains in our castle, guest right protects them."
"I wasn't going to make him bleed," Orion grumbled, pouting. …Liar. Just moments ago, Orion had been imagining cutting off Prince Aegon's manhood and shoving it down the fool's throat after catching the way he looked at Seryna.
They had all read Hegon Dargaleon's reports. Even Hegon, usually unshakable, had nearly lost his composure—let alone the rest of them. Prince Aegon was truly a special kind of "talent". Viserys knew of six bastards, but that wasn't even the full count. By eighteen, the prince had already bedded a kitchen maid and begun sowing his seed far and wide. After moving to Oldtown, with Viserys buried in governance and Lady Larra utterly disillusioned, Aegon had somewhat restrained himself—but his lust remained unchecked. No wonder Samantha had opposed marrying Princess Rhaenya to him.
Meanwhile, another Rhaena—Orion's mother, Rey's wife, and daughter of Daemon and Lady Laena—sipped quietly at her steaming, sugar-sweetened milk. She observed the younger Targaryens with a careful eye. As a daughter of House Vaelarys by marriage, her loyalty lay with them—but she was still a Targaryen by blood.
She couldn't help but weigh the future of her birth house.
Of the next generation, only Daeron and that boy Aemon seem worth anything… Rhaena took another sip, her husband Rey noting her gaze but saying nothing. It was only natural. Rey turned his attention back to his brother, awaiting his response.
"Of course, Prince Viserys. I respect the traditions of the realm." Draezell smiled, gesturing for Viserys to proceed—while discreetly replacing the wine in Diana's cup with the tonic prepared by Maester Evens.
Diana had aged. Time had left few marks on Draezell's face, but it had stolen Diana's youthful beauty. Her once honey-smooth hair had faded to the same silver as her husband's; her emerald eyes had dulled, and faint wrinkles now traced her once-soft cheeks.
After bearing seven children, her status in the kingdom had become unique. The Faith of the Seven eagerly sought to curry favor with the ascendant House Vaelarys—so much so that the High Septon himself decreed that Septan Corlan's proposal to venerate Diana as a living saint be honored.
Diana was now recognized as the "Avatar of the Mother". The realm knew the Seven had blessed her with seven healthy children. She was, in their eyes, the "Mother Made Flesh".
But only she knew the true cost.
When Rhaegon was born, she might have died on the birthing bed had Draezell's magic not shielded her. Long before that, Draezell had urged her to stop—but Diana had insisted on bearing Rhaegon.
She held to one belief:
In the world she was raised in, a woman's battlefield was the birthing chamber. Victory won there was no less glorious than a man's triumph in war.
But the price was her ability to bear any more children.
Samantha Tully's death years later had struck Diana hard. Though her health had since stabilized, it was never the same.
Prince Viserys resumed his duties as feastmaster—but before he could speak, Valar raised his cup. "Viserys, take a lesson from your brother. Skip the pomp and just let us drink." Without waiting, he downed his spiced wine in one go, forcing a servant to hastily refill it.
Seeing that neither Draezell nor Rey moved to stop Valar—and that neither Queen Samantha nor King Aegon objected—Viserys swallowed his words and let the feast begin.
The banquet was straightforward: first the side dishes, then the main course. The centerpieces were a roasted suckling pig with an apple in its mouth, a peacock dressed in its own resplendent feathers, and a massive pie stuffed with assorted fish. The feast reached its peak when King Aegon himself carved into the pie.
Even the children soon abandoned their seats, twirling across the hall in dance.
Prince Aegon approached Seryna—only for the great beauty to rise gracefully, take Orion's arm, and walk away without a word, leaving him standing foolishly with his cup.
"Hah! Rejected, cousin?" Daeron taunted, arm-in-arm with Jeyne Vaelarys after a courtly dance. "That's Uncle Orion's wife. You trying to get yourself killed?"
Prince Aegon shot him a glare before turning toward Velenna, seated nearby.
"Prince Aegon, if you need a dance partner, allow me." Dan stepped smoothly into his path, goblet in hand. He clinked his cup against Aegon's and drained it without expression.
The prince froze—then quickly realized his predicament.
Jacaerys and his wife, Lady Helena, watched him coldly as they danced, their gazes alternating like blades.
Valar, who had been laughing uproariously while downing wine, was also watching him.
From the high table, Rey's gaze was far from friendly.
Prince Aegon shuddered, drained his cup in one gulp, and slunk back to his seat—pretending he had only come to offer a toast.
Prince Aemon took no part in the dancing, instead methodically cutting his beef and savoring each bite. With Naelys absent, he saw no reason to involve himself in the festivities.
Only when the dancing ended and the feast neared its conclusion did Viserys raise his cup to Draezell. "My prince—"
"I know, I know." Draezell waved a hand. "I may be old, but I haven't forgotten my promise. Vermax is in the Dragonpit. You may attempt to tame him whenever you wish."
Those were the words Viserys had been waiting for. He nodded to Prince Aegon, signaling him to prepare.
With a resigned sigh, the prince slipped quietly from the hall.
Samantha noticed his departure. Her face paled, and she leaned urgently toward her husband. "Your Grace, Prince Aegon has gone to claim Vermax."
"I know." King Aegon swallowed a mouthful of roast, speaking around the food. "The prince gave his permission. What of it?"
"Viserys doesn't understand, but you do!" Samantha hissed. "Did your father not share the late king's final words with you?"
The king froze, a fried onion half-chewed in his mouth.
"Vermax will not accept..." Samantha bit back the words "the unworthy." She knew the king was aware of his namesake's... indiscretions. "...a rider like Prince Aegon."
Realization dawned on the king—but as monarch, he could not abandon the feast.
"I'll go." Samantha rose with a resigned shake of her head.
Aegon nodded vigorously. With a sigh, the queen excused herself, offering a vague explanation about needing rest before slipping away.
Viserys seemed to grasp something but held his tongue, his eyes flicking instead to his other son, Aemon.
Jacaerys and Seryna exchanged glances of barely concealed disappointment at Samantha's departure—a reaction that nearly made Rhaegor's face twitch. His wife, Daenyra, shot him a puzzled look.
He knew those two too well. They'd have been thrilled if Vermax roasted Prince Aegon alive. But Samantha was still a Targaryen queen.
Like Rhaena, she would never stand by while a scion of House Targaryen came to harm.
Vermax does not tolerate the unworthy. Every child of House Vaelarys knew this.
A pity, then, that Prince Aegon was precisely the sort of disgrace neither Vermax—nor Jacaerys I—could abide.
---
The Dragonpit of Dragon's Nest
Prince Aegon crept toward Vermax's lair, muttering "Seven bless me" under his breath like a prayer.
The dragons noticed him the moment he entered. Candlelight lifted its golden head to observe but lost interest. In the shadows, Sendros opened its glowing, malevolent eyes—yet restrained itself at its bonded rider's command.
Unaware, Aegon pressed on, guided by his father's map, until he stood before the moss-green dragon's den.
Vermax slept deeply.
The prince surveyed the lair—spacious, smooth-floored, with a grisly collection of bones piled in one corner. The sight sent a shiver down his spine... and yet, a strange thrill followed.
"A dragon..." For all his carnal weaknesses, Aegon was still a Targaryen. His longing for a mount burned as fiercely as any man's.
Then Vermax inhaled sharply—and raised its head.
It had sensed him.
Aegon stumbled backward, scrambling for the exit in panic. His lantern clattered to the ground, forgotten.
Vermax stretched its neck, advancing slowly.
There's still hope.
When the dragon didn't immediately attack, excitement briefly overrode fear.
"Vermax," Aegon called, voice trembling. "Listen—I am Aegon of House Targaryen, son of Viserys. Your last rider, Jacaerys, was my uncle!"
The dragon paused. Its eyes swept over him—then, without hesitation, it opened its maw.
A torrent of flame engulfed the cavern.
The prince's last memory before blacking out was a sinuous, shadow-gray tendril wrapping around his waist—