The scratching of quill on parchment was the loudest sound in the dim chamber, as the Red Keep settled into dusk. A brazier nearby popped once in protest to the dying flame, and Rhaegar Targaryen dipped the nib of his quill back into the inkpot without looking up. The scroll beneath his hand was yellowed, the ink faded from years of sunless neglect.
Transcription duty. For two weeks now.
It was, he supposed, a relatively light sentence, given the circumstances. After all, someone had blown a hole in the side of the Dragonpit, unleashed two dragons into the skies above King's Landing, and sent nearly the entire royal court into a fit of collective heart failure.
And someone, of course, had been him.
Well, mostly not him. But proximity, he had learned, was often indistinguishable from guilt.
The punishment had come directly from Jaehaerys himself. No fiery rebuke, no tirade. Just a decree that had been delivered with surprising calmness, "For every hour you lessened from your grandmother's lifespan, you will return one in quiet service."
And now here he was, spending hours with ink-stained fingers and a sore back.
His ability to read and write at a level far beyond his age had long been touted as a mark of brilliance. Now, it had come to bite him in the arse—because unlike Viserys or even Rhaenys, he could actually be useful as a scribe.
Meanwhile, the other two had gotten off relatively well.
Both Viserys and Rhaenys were essentially grounded. A night-time curfew. Mandatory dragonriding drills under Baelon's supervision.
Baelon, who had barely returned from Tarth a moon past, now spent his mornings barking orders in the Dragonpit. Viserys was a mess of bruises, but also of pride. He glowed every time he limped through the courtyard.
And Rhaenys? She was the most jubilant he had ever seen.
The entire court still whispered about it—how both of them had flown dragons with no saddle, no formal training, how they had taken to the skies like true dragonlords of old Valyria. A bit too much exaggeration if you asked Rhaegar.
His aunt Jocelyn couldn't decide whether to throttle her daughter or hug her.
Queen Alysanne had been a colder storm. Her disappointment was like the biting frost. She had looked at the three of them with such disappointment in her eyes that Rhaegar had briefly considered throwing himself into the Blackwater out of shame alone.
Baelon had been absolutely livid, having broken multiple chairs.
His uncle Aemon was the most confusing. He had said little. He sat there with bandages still wrapped around his chest, studying them like a man studying a puzzle whose pattern he couldn't quite make out.
And Jaehaerys?
The Old King's relative silence had been the loudest of all and almost just as confusing.
The realm, however, had not been silent.
Two new dragonriders—both children—had taken to the skies without warning. The Dragonpit was damaged, though not beyond repair. Flames had scorched the inner walls. One dragonkeeper had nearly lost an arm. Another, a leg. No one had died, which was likely the only reason Rhaegar still had his head.
There was outrage. There was awe. There were rumours. Ballads. One singer was already peddling a song in the taverns about "The Crimson Maiden and the Sapphire Prince."
Rhaegar sighed and stretched his fingers. They ached. His ink bottle was nearly dry.
And then another stack of scrolls hit the table beside him with a wet thud.
He turned his head slowly, narrowing his eyes at the offending heap. If he had been in Essos, he'd have started believing in the Many-Faced God just for the mercy of death.
"This is barbarism," he muttered to himself.
"Aye, it would seem so, my prince," came a voice from behind.
Rhaegar turned to see Ser Ryon Celtigar stepping through the archway. The knight's silver hair was pulled back loosely, and his armour looked recently polished, though a slight nick above the left pauldron suggested he'd been in training.
He approached with a measured gait, pausing beside the pile of scrolls.
"Your exile seems more ink-stained than I expected."
"If you're here to laugh, leave. If you've brought wine, sit."
Ryon pulled up a stool with quiet ease and sat beside him.
"I am afraid I have not brought wine, my prince," he said as he settled in. "But I do bring pleasing news."
Rhaegar raised a brow. "Go on then."
Ryon leaned forward and lowered his voice.
"It's nearly done."
Rhaegar blinked.
"One or two agreements remain to close, but for all practical purposes, you now hold nearly half the brothels and taverns in King's Landing," Ryon said in a quiet whisper.
A slow breath escaped from Rhaegar as the words settled in.
Then, gradually, the corners of his mouth curled—not in surprise, but in quiet, hard-earned satisfaction.
It was his first genuine smile in days.
Street of Silk. Flea Bottom. A few near Visenya's Hill. Most of the establishments were modest or run-down, though a handful held enough polish to attract wealthier clientele.
Over the past year, what small portion of profits from Dragon Tide that were not being reinvested back into the growing Consortium, his father and Corlys had been kind enough to give him. And using them, through a web of proxies, fictitious Essosi traders, and holding names, he had started to acquire businesses in almost every part of Kingslanding.
The effort was slow, discreet, and expertly veiled. Not a single tavern girl or brothel keeper in the capital could have guessed whose coin held their reins.
Rhaegar leaned back, silent for a breath. That small, almost imperceptible wave of satisfaction spread through his chest.
"How much coin is left?"
"Almost depleted," Ryon said. "A few gold dragons here and there. Considerable, but nothing substantial."
Rhaegar exhaled slowly. "Well done. Use what's left, if it's enough, to better some of the higher-end establishments. Refurnish. Replace staff if needed. Only where it matters."
He was not worried about depleting his funds. The acquired businesses would replenish it plenty.
Ryon nodded once, brisk and professional and rose with a slight bow, brushing the dust from his gloves.
"If you'll pardon me, I'll leave you to your duties, my prince."
Rhaegar looked down at the table and immediately regretted it—more scrolls waited.
Ryon, half-turning, stopped suddenly as he sat down again.
"There is one last thing, my prince. Though I am unsure of its importance."
Rhaegar did not raise his head as he gestured the knight to continue.
"There has been chatter around the docks and in the streets. About some strange red-haired woman. Pale in complexion. Accent looks to point east."
Rhaegar's pen froze.
"Volantene?"
"Likely. Wears red, speaks in riddles. Seems... religious."
Rhaegar didn't answer.
Ryon gave a final nod and left.
Rhaegar stared at the candlelight flickering across the scroll, but his thoughts were already elsewhere.
Fire, again.
It always came back to fire.