King's Landing,
Days after the torching of the Triarchy Men at Bloodstone
Westeros
The Small Council was in session. The men whom the King of the Seven Kingdoms deemed capable of giving him good counsel were seated around the oak table. King Viserys himself sat at its head, in a large chair, idly twirling a cup of wine in his hand. His eyes drifted repeatedly toward the chamber doors, as if expecting someone. At his side stood the Hand of the King, Otto Hightower, who, like the rest of the council, wore a grim expression.
"Your Grace, you must take this matter seriously. House Velaryon's rise is a threat to the Crown. Wealth, influence, dragons—and now dark sorcery. They are doing everything it takes to match House Targaryen," Otto cautioned, his tone firm and persuasive. "You must act before it is too late."
"What do you expect me to do, Otto? Kill a boy of ten-and-three?" Viserys replied dismissively, waving his hand. "And it's not even confirmed that there's any truth to these rumors." His eyes flicked again to the door, then returned to the cup in his hand.
Laenor Velaryon, the boy in question, had been the subject of Small Council whispers for a week. Rumors claimed he could control the sea, drown all of Driftmark with the lift of a finger. Viserys laughed at such tales. The smallfolk needed their amusements. Stories bloated in taverns and mutated by word of mouth were nothing new.
"I received word from a source I trust completely," Otto pressed. "Laenor Velaryon made no attempt to hide his power. He flaunted his dark sorcery during the feast held on Driftmark to celebrate Lord Corlys's return from the Stepstones. It is true. The boy can control water through sorcery. And we should have expected as much—his dragons grow at an unnatural rate. No Targaryen dragon has ever grown so swiftly. Perhaps the boy practices the same dark arts once employed by Queen Visenya."
"Lord Hand speaks true in this, Your Grace," Maester Runciter added, his voice weary. "The growth of the Velaryon dragons has become a subject of great interest to the Citadel. But when they requested Lord Corlys to allow Maesters to study them from afar, he refused outright. As though he were hiding something. The Citadel only wished to observe—perhaps find an answer that might benefit House Targaryen's own dragons."
"The Maesters would have discovered nothing of value," Viserys said dryly. "Dragonlore is not something someone not of dragon blood can grasp. Dragons do not enjoy being watched and observed either. They would attack anyone who provokes them, Maester or Archmaester alike. If anything, those Maesters should thank Lord Corlys for saving their lives."
"What of Laenor?" Otto asked again, pressing the issue.
Viserys turned to another man at the table. "What do you think of the boy, Lord Strong? I would hear your counsel."
Lord Lyonel Strong, the Master of Laws, had been silently listening until now. He spoke slowly, choosing his words with care. "The Hand is correct. House Velaryon's continued rise should be a matter of concern to House Targaryen. And it is true—they now have dragons of their own."
Otto nodded in agreement, satisfied—until Lord Strong continued.
"But this threat could be turned into a boon, Your Grace. If House Targaryen and House Velaryon are joined once more by marriage, what now seems an uprising threat could be transformed into the greatest of allies for the House of the Dragon."
His words stunned many in the room—chiefly the Hand and the Grand Maester. But soon, shock gave way to consideration. One by one, the others began nodding, murmuring their approval of the Master of Laws' plan.
"I second Lord Strong's plan, Your Grace. House Velaryon is of Valyrian blood, with an ancient lineage, immense wealth, and growing influence. And Laenor Velaryon, their heir, now wields new powers. He would make a fine Prince Consort—and eventually King Consort—for Princess Rhaenyra, providing her with the support she may need if any lords question her claim in the future," said Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Harrold Westerling. The man loved the Princess as a father might love a daughter, and his words made that bond clear.
Otto, shaking off his initial shock, opened his mouth to speak—but was once again cut off, this time by the King himself.
"Hmm. The plan has merit, Lord Strong," muttered King Viserys. "Though I must consult with Alicent first. And Rhaenyra hasn't yet come of age."
"I would advise against it, Your Grace. Such a marriage would bring House Velaryon dangerously close to the Throne, and we know not their true intentions—"
Otto's warning was cut short by a derisive snort from Ser Harrold.
"What are you implying, Lord Hand? House Velaryon has always been close to the Throne. I don't recall a single Velaryon betraying House Targaryen for power. Do not forget—they were the first to bend the knee to Aegon the Conqueror," Ser Harrold reminded him, his voice sharp.
"And yet," Otto replied tightly, "Lord Corlys and Prince Daemon are waging war without His Grace's permission. Corlys is ambitious—that is no secret. Unlike his predecessor, he does not hide it. Have you forgotten how he tried to sway the Lords of the realm during the Great Council to choose his wife as heir?"
"If seeking prosperity and wealth for one's house is now a crime," Ser Harrold countered coldly, "then we'll have no shortage of criminals in the realm—starting with you, my Lord Hand. Or are we to suspect House Hightower as a threat now, simply because Queen Alicent married the King?"
"Watch how you speak of House Hightower—and of my daughter, your queen, Ser," Otto snapped, rising to his feet.
Ser Harrold's hand moved instinctively to the pommel of his sword, gripping it tightly, ready to draw at a moment's notice.
"Enough!" barked Viserys. "Otto, sit. Ser Harrold, control your temper."
A tense silence fell over the chamber.
"Let us end this session," Viserys said at last, his voice firm. "I have heard all your counsel. I will inform you of my decision soon."
With that, the King stood and left the chamber, though his thoughts remained restless. The image of Laenor Velaryon—barely a boy and yet commanding powers that defied reason—swirled in his mind like a maelstrom.
The idea of Laenor discovering the long-lost magic of Old Valyria both unnerved and intrigued him. That another house—one not of Targaryen name—might be reclaiming the arcane might of their fallen homeland was disquieting. Yet… a part of him felt wonder. The Valyrians had once been the greatest civilization known to man. Perhaps, through Laenor, some part of that glory might return.
But such thoughts could wait. The Triarchy still threatened the Stepstones, and they would not yield easily. Perhaps it was time to send more than gold to aid Corlys.
A matter for tomorrow's council.
For now, Viserys intended to find his wayward cupbearer and demand why she had once again neglected her duties. And unsurprisingly, she was nowhere to be found.
His realm's delight had flown off on her dragon again.
The gods had given him a restless daughter indeed.
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