292 AC
Kings Landing
Third Person POV
A full year has passed since the grand tourney at Dragonhold, a week of splendor that had showcased the unity and prosperity of the Seven Kingdoms. The realm, under the firm hand of King Maekar Targaryen, was at peace, a quiet hum of progress filling the air where once there had been the clamor of war.
King Maekar sat upon the Iron Throne, a formidable figure in the vastness of the Great Hall. The court was in session, a daily affair where the King addressed the myriad concerns of his sprawling kingdom. Sunlight streamed through the high windows, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air, creating a serene, almost detached, atmosphere.
Today, the discussions revolved around various land disputes and trade tariffs. Lord Arryn was petitioning for a new trade agreement with the Stepstones, while a minor lord from the Stormlands complained about a disputed fishing weir with his neighbor. King Maekar listened intently, his expression stern but fair, offering precise judgments and delegating tasks to his various councilors.
The Kingsguard, fifty strong and gleaming in their white cloaks, stood vigilant, their presence a silent testament to the Crown's unwavering security. Two Kingsguard flanked the Iron Throne itself, their eyes sweeping the hall, missing nothing.
"Your Grace," began Lord Estermont, a stout lord from the Stormlands, stepping forward from the assembled nobility. "The matter of the disputed fishing weir between my lands and those of House Mertyns remains unresolved. Their fishermen continue to trespass, depleting my waters."
King Maekar listened, his gaze steady. "Lord Estermont. I have reviewed the letters from your seneschal and Lord Mertyns's reports. The maps provided by Dragonhold scholars clearly show the traditional fishing boundaries, established during the reign of King Daeron the Good. Lord Mertyns's actions are indeed a transgression."
He turned his head slightly towards Prince Aelor Targaryen, his Hand. "Prince Aelor, dispatch a royal decree to Lord Mertyns. He is to cease all fishing operations within the clearly delineated boundaries of Lord Estermont's lands immediately. Any further transgression will be met with a fine of two hundred dragons and a month's suspension of his fishing fleet."
Prince Aelor nodded, already making a mental note. "It shall be done, Your Grace."
Lord Estermont bowed deeply, relief evident on his face. "Thank you, Your Grace! Your wisdom is a true boon to the realm."
"Next," King Maekar commanded, his voice clear, "Lord Tarly. Your petition regarding the trade tariffs with the Stepstones."
Lord Tarly stepped forward, a scroll in his hand. "Your Grace, the current tariff on textiles exported from Hornhill to the Stepstones remains prohibitive. It stifles commerce and impacts the prosperity of our merchants. We believe a reduction of five percent would greatly stimulate trade without significantly impacting Crown revenue."
King Maekar nodded, considering. "Prince Aerion, Lord of the Stepstones, your thoughts on this? Your kingdom relies on this trade."
Prince Aerion, from his seat among the royal family, replied, "Your Grace, while a reduction might initially impact our immediate revenue, Lord Tarly speaks truly of stimulation. My own reports from the Stepstones indicate that the current tariff discourages larger shipments. A slight reduction could lead to a greater volume of trade, ultimately benefiting both our treasuries."
"A valid point," King Maekar mused. "Master Wylar, have you calculations on the projected increase in trade volume should this tariff be reduced?"
Before Master Wylar could reply, a subtle stir occurred near the foot of the dais. An acolyte, young and nervous, dressed in the simple black robes of the Master of Communication's service, approached the Master of Communication's seat.
Master Wylar, a man of advanced years with a neatly trimmed white beard and sharp, intelligent eyes, was listening to a plea from a merchant's guild. The acolyte moved swiftly, extending a sealed letter, its wax bearing the distinctive three-headed dragon sigil of Dragonstone.
Master Wylar, accustomed to receiving countless missives, took the letter with a practiced ease. He broke the seal, unfolded the parchment, and began to read. His eyes scanned the familiar script, his brow furrowing slightly as he processed the words.
Then, imperceptibly at first, a change came over his demeanor. His posture stiffened. The slight, almost imperceptible tremor in his hands began. His eyes, usually so steady, widened, a flicker of disbelief, then a dawning horror, seizing them. The color drained from his face, leaving it a sickly pale.
His breath seemed to catch in his throat. He read the letter again, more frantically this time, as if hoping the words would change, but they remained etched in ink, stark and terrifying. A low, strangled gasp escaped his lips.
The merchant's guild representative, who had been speaking, trailed off, sensing the Master of Communication's sudden, profound distress. The quiet hum of the court seemed to amplify the silence around the Master of Communication's panic.
With a trembling hand, Master Wylar turned, his gaze fixed on the seated figure of Prince Aelor Targaryen, King Maekar's brother and the Hand of the King. Aelor was a man of quiet wisdom, accustomed to the subtle intrigues of court, but rarely given to overt displays of emotion.
Master Wylar held out the letter, his hand shaking so violently that the parchment rattled. He tried to speak, but only a choked sound emerged from his throat.
Prince Aelor, seeing the Master of Communication's extreme distress, frowned. He took the letter, his brow furrowing as he noticed the urgency in Wylar's eyes. He quickly unfolded the parchment and began to read.
As Aelor's eyes scanned the message, his own composure began to crack. His face, usually so calm, blanched. A bead of sweat, then another, trickled down his temple, despite the cool air of the hall. His hand, holding the letter, began to tremble uncontrollably.
His breathing hitched. He reread the message, his eyes darting frantically across the page, as if he could somehow disbelieve the stark reality of the words. His shoulders slumped, and a look of utter terror, raw and unconcealed, spread across his face. The usual confidence in his eyes was replaced by wide, fearful disbelief.
Prince Aelor, utterly terrified, no longer caring for courtly decorum, stood abruptly. He stumbled slightly, his legs almost giving way beneath him. His gaze was fixed on the imposing figure of King Maekar on the Iron Throne.
He hurried, almost ran, towards the dais, his movements clumsy and desperate. The parchment, now crumpled in his hand, seemed to vibrate with the terrifying news it contained.
"Your Grace!" Prince Aelor choked out, his voice hoarse with panic, his eyes wide with an unspeakable dread. He thrust the letter into King Maekar's hand, his own trembling. "Your Grace, you must... you must see this. From Dragonstone!"
King Maekar, accustomed to the calm, efficient delivery of news from his Hand, sensed the immense gravity of the situation. He took the letter, his brow furrowing in a deep frown. His eyes quickly scanned the message from Dragonstone.
As he read, the last vestiges of his usual stern composure vanished. His face transformed, hardening into a grim, unyielding mask, a shadow of concern settling over his features. The color drained from his cheeks, leaving him pale, his jaw clenched tight. He looked up, his gaze sweeping over the court, his eyes cold and distant.
"This court is dismissed!" King Maekar's voice boomed, cutting through the murmurs that had begun to rise from the shocked assembly. His voice brooked no argument, no delay. "Immediately! Everyone, away from the Hall!"
The abruptness of the King's command, coupled with his grim demeanor and Prince Aelor's terrified state, sent a ripple of confusion and alarm through the court. Lords and ladies whispered, exchanging bewildered glances, but they obeyed. The Great Hall quickly emptied, leaving only the King, his Hand, and the silent, watchful Kingsguard.
King Maekar, his face still grim, turned to a Kingsguard captain. "Send word," he commanded, his voice tight with urgency. "Every Targaryen member in the Red Keep. Those of age. I require them in the meeting room. Now. Immediately."
The Kingsguard captain bowed and moved swiftly, relaying the king's urgent summons. The Red Keep, which had been a hive of activity just moments before, now resonated with a tense, hurried silence as the royal family was summoned.
After a tense, anxious while, the meeting room began to fill. One by one, every adult Targaryen member in the Red Keep arrived, their faces etched with concern, their Kingsguard remaining outside the chamber doors. Prince Rhaegar and Prince Baelor were there, their faces serious. Princess Rhaelle is now seated. King Maekar's brothers, Prince Aelor and Prince Aerion, were already present, Aelor still visibly shaken. Even the younger adult Targaryens, cousins and distant kin, quickly gathered, sensing the unusual gravity of the summons.
King Maekar stood before them, his hands clasped behind his back, his posture rigid. He did not waste time with pleasantries. His eyes, though still holding a trace of fear, were now filled with a grim determination.
"A letter arrived this morning," King Maekar announced, his voice clipped and stark, cutting through the anticipation in the room. "From Dragonstone. From the Dragonkeepers."
He paused, taking a deep, fortifying breath. The silence in the room was absolute, every Targaryen leaning forward, hanging on his next words.
"All the wild dragons," King Maekar revealed, his voice strained, a tremor running through it despite his efforts to control it, "have gone away. They flew. All of them. At once. We do not know where."
The words landed like a physical blow. A collective gasp, then a wave of stunned silence, followed by an explosion of panicked voices.
"Gone?" Prince Rhaegar exclaimed, his face paling. "All of them? That's impossible!"
"The wild dragons?" Prince Baelor stammered, his eyes wide with disbelief and dawning terror. "But... why? Where could they have gone?"
Princess Rhaelle's hand flew to her mouth, her eyes fixed on her father, her expression horrified. Prince Aelor, already terrified, merely nodded, his face confirming the dreadful news. Prince Aerion looked utterly bewildered, his usual martial confidence gone.
The room erupted into a cacophony of panicked guesses and questions. "Did someone steal them?" "Were they driven off?"
"They wouldn't just leave!" Prince Aelor finally managed to say, his voice shaking. "There must be a reason. A powerful reason for them to have flown away all at once. It's unprecedented!"
King Maekar slammed a fist on the table, the sharp crack silencing the room. His face was grim, but a steely resolve had begun to replace his earlier panic.
"We need to know why," King Maekar stated, his voice now firm, resolute. "And we need to know where. Immediately."
He looked at his sons, his brothers, his family. "Send scouts. Send dragonriders. Send letters to every corner of the world. To the North, to the East, across the Sunset Sea. We need eyes everywhere. We need to know where our dragons are."
"This is not a matter for rumor or speculation," King Maekar concluded, his voice unwavering, filled with renewed authority. "This is a matter for House Targaryen. We will find our dragons. And we will understand why they left. This realm cannot afford to lose its most potent symbol of power. Not now. Not ever."
The meeting, filled with dread and urgency, quickly turned to action. The hunt for the lost dragons had begun.