292 AC
Kings Landing
Third Person POV
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. He was reviewing some mundane trade reports.
Then, a sharp, insistent knock shattered the stillness in his chamber. It was not the usual gentle tap of a servant. This was quick, urgent. Wylar's head snapped up.
"Enter," he commanded, his voice tight with a premonition of urgency.
His assistant, a young, pale man, entered the room, his eyes wide with a sense of immense importance. He clutched a sealed parchment. "Master Wylar," he stammered, his voice breathless, "a priority message. Just arrived. From the North. From Winterfell. From King Rickard Stark himself."
Master Wylar's face, etched with the strain of the past week of fruitless searches, suddenly went rigid. His eyes, usually sharp and discerning, widened with a sudden, desperate hope that dared to bloom despite the despair of the last seven days. He sprang from his seat, moving with surprising agility for his age, practically snatching the message from his assistant's trembling hand.
He broke the three-headed dragon seal, his fingers fumbling slightly in his haste. He unfolded the parchment, his eyes devouring the words. As he read, his initial hope gave way to a complex mixture of profound relief, swiftly followed by a chilling confusion, and then a dawning dread that etched itself onto his features. His brow furrowed deeply, a line appearing between his eyes, a tangible mark of his growing alarm. He reread the message, his lips moving silently, as if to ensure his eyes weren't deceiving him. The implications of the words, terse and direct, were immense, terrifying in their scope.
A low, strangled gasp escaped his lips. The air in the chamber, usually filled with the gentle hum of activity, seemed to thicken with his palpable distress.
He made his way swiftly, almost clumsily, to the solar of Prince Aelor Targaryen, the Hand of the King, who had been sitting patiently nearby, reviewing a stack of recent petitions.
"Prince Aelor!" Master Wylar gasped, his voice hoarse, a mix of triumph and terror struggling within it. "A message! From Winterfell! From King Rickard himself! They've found them!"
Prince Aelor, his own face pale from sleepless nights and the weight of the missing dragons, moved swiftly. He rose from his seat, his eyes fixed on Wylar's distressed face. "What news, Master Wylar? Have they truly found them? All of them?" Hope, raw and desperate, flickered in his voice.
Master Wylar thrust the parchment into Aelor's hand, his own still trembling violently. "Read, Your Grace! Read! It's... it's beyond belief!"
Prince Aelor snatched the message, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. His eyes scanned the familiar Northern script, his breath catching in his throat. As he read, his own face underwent a similar transformation to Master Wylar's. Relief washed over him first – they are found! – quickly followed by a chilling, profound unease that stole his breath.
His hands began to sweat. His eyes widened, fixing on a particularly disturbing line, then another, and another. The words in the letter seemed to echo in his mind, ominous and contradictory, painting a picture that defied reason. He reread the message twice, three times, desperately hoping to find a mistake, but the stark facts remained.
He took a deep, shaky breath, trying to process the information, but the sheer strangeness of it, coupled with the ominous location mentioned, sent a wave of fresh, paralyzing terror through him. He knew the prophecy. He knew what lay beyond the Wall. And this message seemed to pull those two terrifying realities closer than ever before.
Without a moment's hesitation, Prince Aelor turned and rushed from the chamber, clutching the crumpled letter. He moved with an urgency that disregarded all courtly decorum, his mind consumed by the chilling implications of the message. His Kingsguard, two stark white shadows, moved swiftly to keep pace, their faces grim at the sight of their Hand's distress.
Prince Aelor found King Maekar in his private solar, deep within the Red Keep, pouring over old maps . The King looked up as Aelor burst in, his stern features tightening at the sight of his Hand's panicked face and the obvious urgency in his movements.
"Your Grace!" Prince Aelor choked out, his voice hoarse, his breath ragged from his frantic dash. He thrust the crumpled letter into Maekar's hand, his own trembling uncontrollably. "From Winterfell! From King Rickard! You must see this immediately!"
King Maekar snatched the message, his eyes immediately assessing Aelor's raw terror. He read the words, his face grim, absorbing each piece of information with startling speed. His jaw clenched, a muscle ticking in his cheek.
He finished reading, his expression hardening into a look of grim, absolute resolve. The brief flash of panic he had shown a week ago, when the dragons first vanished, was gone, replaced by a cold, dangerous fury that promised swift, decisive action.
"You are dismissed for the day," King Maekar commanded, his voice sharp and clear, though no one else was present in the solar except his Kingsguard. He spoke to them, his tone leaving no room for question. "Send word. Every Targaryen member in the Red Keep. Those of age. To the meeting room. Now. Immediately. Do not wait."
The Kingsguard moved swiftly, their white cloaks a blur of motion as they dispersed to carry out the King's urgent summons. The Red Keep, which had been a hive of orderly activity just moments before, now resonated with a tense, hurried silence as the royal family was summoned, their presence required for a matter of dire importance.
Within the next anxious hour, the private meeting room filled with the royal family. 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 arrived, their faces serious, their presence radiating a sense of grave anticipation. King Maekar's brothers, Prince Aelor and Prince Aerion, were already present, Aelor still visibly shaken by the news he had delivered. 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, like a statue carved from ice. He did not waste time with pleasantries. His eyes, though still holding a trace of fear, were now filled with a grim determination, an unshakeable resolve to face the impending crisis.
"A message arrived this morning," King Maekar announced, his voice clipped and stark, cutting through the anticipation that had thickened the air in the room. "From King Rickard Stark himself. From Winterfell."
He paused, taking a deep, fortifying breath, bracing himself for the impact of his next words. The silence in the room was absolute, every Targaryen leaning forward, hanging on his next words, their breath held.
"The wild dragons," King Maekar revealed, his voice strained, a tremor running through it despite his efforts to control it, "have been found. They were sighted at the coasts of Karhold."
A collective sigh of relief swept through the room. Murmurs of gratitude, of "Thank the Seven," and "They're alive!" filled the air. Faces brightened, smiles appeared, and shoulders slumped in momentary release. The immediate terror of their loss was momentarily lifted, replaced by a fragile sense of hope.
But King Maekar held up a hand, his gesture sharp, silencing them instantly. His grim expression had not changed. "However," he continued, his voice dropping, now laced with a chilling undertone, "the message states they are moving further North."
The relief instantly drained from the Targaryen faces, replaced by a dawning comprehension, then stark fear. Karhold was deep in the North. "Further North" meant towards the Wall. Towards what lay beyond. The implication was clear, terrifying.
"Further North?" Prince Rhaegar exclaimed, his voice sharp with dread, his scholarly mind immediately grasping the terrifying implications. "But... why? What in the gods' names would draw them beyond the Wall? It defies all reason!" His mind instantly leaped to Aegon's Prophecy, to the words King Rickard had spoken during the tourney.
"And there is more," Maekar added, his voice like stone, cold and unyielding. "King Rickard's message states there is a ship beneath them. A ship with a golden kraken sigil on its sails."
The revelation added another layer of confusion and alarm, a bizarre detail that seemed utterly out of place, yet terrifyingly real.
"A golden kraken?" Prince Baelor boomed, his brow furrowed in utter bewilderment. "That is the sigil of the Greyjoys! What madness is this? which madman sails beyond wall with dragons top of his ship"
Prince Aelor's eyes narrowed, his mind racing through possibilities. "So it is the Greyjoys then, or at least a renegade branch of them. They are the ones behind this! They've somehow orchestrated this, leading our dragons north!" His voice was filled with a mixture of disbelief and fury. "We should send a letter to Lord Greyjoy immediately and deliver it by dragon. Demand answers. See his response for it."
"Twenty wild dragons?" Prince Rhaegar countered, shaking his head, his scholarly mind still grappling with the impossible logistics. "No ship, no matter how grand, could 'capture' them. Not all at once. And why would they fly North with a ship? It makes no sense. The Greyjoys are pirates, raiders, not sorcerers who can command dragons."
"It must be related to the prophecy," Prince Baelor whispered, his face pale, the chilling words of Aegon's vision echoing in her ears. "The darkness. The ancient enemy. The dragons are being drawn, or driven, towards it. And this ship... who would travel to such a place? What connection could they have?"
King Maekar slammed a fist on the table, the sharp crack silencing the room instantly. His face was grim, but a steely resolve had begun to replace his earlier panic. He was a King, and a Targaryen, and he would not crumble in the face of the unknown.
"We need answers," King Maekar stated, his voice now firm, resolute, cutting through the lingering fear. "And we need to act. Now. Prince Rhaegar, Prince Baelor, ready your dragons. You will fly North. To Karhold. Find them. And find out what this means. Do not engage the ship. Do not provoke them. But observe. Understand. Report everything."
He turned to his brothers. "Prince Aelor, send a return message to King Rickard. Thank him for the vital information. Ask for any further details, any additional observations of the ship or the dragons. And request continued vigilance from the North. His aid is invaluable."
"Prince Aerion," King Maekar commanded, his eyes burning with a cold fire, "You personally deliver the message to Lord Greyjoy. Demand to know what madness this is. Demand to know why his sigil is found beneath our dragons heading north. And tell him this: if he does not give answers to our satisfaction, answers that are swift and truthful, then we will burn his castle to the ground. Every single one of them. We will show the Ironborn what true fire is."
"This is not a matter for debate," King Maekar concluded, his voice unwavering, filled with renewed authority, silencing any potential objections. "This is our family. This is our realm. The dragons are heading towards the darkest myths of the North. We will know why. And we will be prepared. Winter is coming, and it seems our dragons know it better than we did."
The meeting, filled with renewed dread and urgent purpose, quickly turned to action. The hunt for the lost dragons had taken a chilling, unprecedented turn. The Targaryens, once so confident in their golden age, now faced a cold, terrifying unknown, propelled towards a destiny long foretold.