Chapter Text
Everything began with a matter so small that, in any other time and place, it would have passed unnoticed. But not in King’s Landing. Not at a court where every whisper could become a spark, and every gesture the beginning of a fire.
The dispute concerned military prerogatives: who held the right to oversee the Gold Cloaks, who decided on patrols, investigations, and how to respond to the rising tensions in the city. On one side stood Prince Aemond Targaryen - young, ambitious, convinced that it was his destiny to defend the dynasty and the capital. On the other - Ser Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, father of Queen Alicent, a man who had kept the city in order for years through cold calculation and political instinct.
Aemond believed the Gold Cloaks were once again slipping into corruption, that their captains took bribes and their men turned a blind eye to brawls, thefts, and shady dealings. He wanted change. He wanted authority. He wanted command.
Otto saw danger in that. He had no intention of surrendering control of the capital to a young prince whose temper - and reputation after losing an eye - unsettled even his allies. Especially since another prince, even more unpredictable, had never formally relinquished his own authority over the City Watch.
Tension built for weeks until it finally snapped during a meeting of the Small Council.
Aemond, irritated by yet another dismissal of his proposals, rose sharply, his voice echoing off the stone walls:
“If King’s Landing is to burn, it will not be by my hand - but by your blindness.”
Otto replied coolly, with venom sharp enough to cut:
“A dragon is not the cure for every problem, Your Highness. And at times, it is the problem itself.”
Alicent tried to calm the situation, but it was already too late. Aemond - wounded, convinced he was being treated like a boy rather than a prince - stormed out of the chamber.
The next morning, he left King’s Landing as well.
He took no retinue. No advisors. Only weapons, coins, some provisions and clothing… and Vhagar.
Aemond flew north, keeping close to the coastline. The wind howled, waves crashed against the cliffs, and Vhagar glided above the water like the shadow of some ancient beast.
The reactions of the people changed with every league he put between himself and the capital.
Though formally loyal to the crown, the city of Duskendale had long held strained relations with the Targaryens. When Vhagar appeared in the sky, panic erupted. People fled the streets, hiding under roofs, and the Darklyns sent a messenger in haste, asking whether the prince required hospitality - more out of fear than courtesy.
Aemond did not land. He circled the harbour, observing ship movements and fortifications, then flew on.
The Manderlys of White Harbour, the only openly pro-Targaryen house in the North, greeted the sight of Vhagar with a mix of pride and unease. People on the docks knelt, though some did so reluctantly - northern blood did not bend easily.
Lord Desmond Manderly lit signal fires, offering the prince shelter. Aemond did not descend.
Otto’s words still thundered in his mind.
The farther north he flew, the less enthusiasm he met.
The Dustins of Barrowton watched the dragon with cool reserve. In their lands, the memory of the old Kings of Winter ran deeper than loyalty to the Iron Throne.
Vhagar inspired fear, but not awe. Aemond noticed - and remembered. At Karhold, the reaction was almost indifferent. The Karstarks had no reason to love or hate the Targaryens. A dragon was a sign from a distant world, not their concern.
Aemond felt he was entering lands where his name meant little.
He reached Eastwatch by the Sea, where the brothers of the Night’s Watch - men of many houses and origins, but equal here - greeted him with a mixture of respect and bewilderment.
A dragon was not a common visitor.
Aemond wished to rise above the Wall, to see what lay beyond. But as Vhagar approached the summit, the air thickened, as if made of ice and ancient magic.
Her wings trembled. The Wall - ancient, saturated with the power of the Children of the Forest and the First Men - repelled the dragon, just as it did with King Jahaerys' and Queen Alysanne's dragons.
Vhagar roared, frustrated and enraged. Aemond felt the invisible force pressing against them both, as though something whispered: “You shall not pass.”
After several attempts, he had to relent. Vhagar grew more furious with every movement, her flight growing erratic.
Aemond looked upon the Wall - that frozen monument which had endured thousands of years - and for the first time in a long while, he felt something he disliked feeling.
Humility.