"Fear is the mind-killer. It is the little-death that brings total obliteration."

―Muad'Dib

…

The grey skies above Riverrun wept with a gentle drizzle, a fitting accompaniment to the solemn gathering in the godswood. The air carried the faint tang of wet stone and freshly turned earth. Oscar Tully, though but eighteen, stood with a composure belying his years, a black cloak draped over his broad shoulders and his face drawn in the appropriate solemnity of grief. The death of his grandfather, Lord Grover Tully, had been a thing anticipated with the resigned inevitability of winter's arrival, yet the finality of it had left its mark upon the young man. His new station as Lord of Riverrun was less a triumph than a burden, one he bore now under the scrutiny of a hundred expectant eyes.

The assembled mourners clustered in small knots, their whispers floating on the misty air. Rivermen of note—Mallisters, Freys, and Blackwoods among them—paid their respects, but their attentions lingered not on the departed Grover but on Oscar himself, the living embodiment of House Tully's future. He had grown accustomed to such notice in recent months, his grandfather's increasing frailty necessitating his assumption of many lordly duties. Yet now, with Grover gone, the weight of expectation had grown heavier, settling upon him like the damp chill of the morning.

The septon's voice rose in a sonorous prayer, its cadence blending with the soft rush of the Tumblestone River. Oscar bowed his head, his mind adrift amid the ceremony, when a sudden, distant roar shattered the tranquillity. Heads snapped upward as the shadow of a great beast darkened the sky.

A collective gasp rippled through the mourners. Overhead, the vast form of Vhagar soared, her bronze scales gleaming dully in the cloudlight. She circled once, her wings stirring the air with the might of a storm, before descending in a slow, graceful arc toward the fields beyond Riverrun's walls. The sight of a dragon so far inland was rare enough with its presence casting an immediate pall over the gathering.

Oscar's heart quickened. He turned to his steward, a grey-bearded man whose years had bred more caution than curiosity. "Fetch my horse, Harlan," he said briskly. "Quickly, now."

Harlan's brows furrowed in protest. "My lord, the funeral—"

"The funeral will proceed without me," Oscar interrupted, his tone firm but not unkind. "Our visitor demands attention."

The steward hesitated only a moment before hurrying off. Oscar straightened his shoulders and cast a brief glance toward the mourners, many of whom now stared at him in open curiosity. He offered them a reassuring nod before striding toward the gates, where his horse awaited.

----------------------------------------

The fields beyond Riverrun were damp, the grass glistening with rain. Vhagar loomed like a living mountain, her body a mass of sinewy power, her wings folded like banners at rest. Oscar reined in his horse some distance from the dragon, the beast's immense eye tracking his approach with unnerving intelligence. Beneath her shadow stood a figure clad in dark leathers and a long cloak, his hair pale as winter snow.

Prince Aemond Targaryen.

Oscar dismounted, his boots sinking slightly into the soft earth. He approached with measured steps, his heart a drumbeat in his chest. "Prince Aemond," he said, his voice steady despite the peculiar intimacy of the moment. "Riverrun is honoured by your presence."

Aemond turned toward him, his expression as inscrutable as the storm clouds above. His single remaining eye, a piercing violet, fixed on Oscar with unsettling intensity, while the sapphire in his empty socket gleamed faintly in the grey light. "Lord Oscar Tully," he said, his tone measured but not unkind. "It seems I have come at an opportune time."

Oscar inclined his head, his words carefully chosen. "We are in mourning, Your Grace. My grandfather passed but days ago."

Aemond's lips curved into a faint smile, a gesture devoid of warmth yet free of malice. "A loss anticipated is no less a loss. I offer my condolences. Lord Grover was a steadfast servant of the realm."

"My family is grateful for your kind words," Oscar replied, his hands clasped behind his back. "May I ask what brings you to Riverrun, my prince?"

Aemond's gaze did not waver. "I come on behalf of King Aegon, my brother, to secure the allegiance of the Riverlands. It is my understanding that a raven bearing word of King Viserys's final will was sent to you."

Oscar nodded. "The raven arrived, but its timing was... unfortunate. My grandfather's passing and the preparations for his funeral delayed my reply."

Aemond tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. "No reply was expected. The matter of Lord Grover's health was well known." He paused, his tone softening almost imperceptibly. "Still, I understand that mourning must take precedence."

Oscar hesitated, uncertain how to navigate the prince's peculiar mixture of formality and candour. "Riverrun has ever been loyal to the Iron Throne," he said carefully. "Our allegiance remains unchanged."

Aemond's faint smile returned. "That is good to hear. Loyalty is the foundation of all order. And yet…" He let the words hang for a moment before continuing. "It is best reaffirmed in person."

Oscar inclined his head again. "Shall I escort you to the castle, my prince? The funeral rites will conclude shortly."

Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

Aemond's gaze shifted toward Riverrun's distant walls, his expression briefly thoughtful. "I will attend, if only for a while. There are other matters that demand my attention."

Oscar felt a flicker of relief. "Your presence will honour my grandfather's memory."

"Then let us proceed," Aemond said, his tone brisk but not unkind. He gestured toward Vhagar. "I will follow."

Oscar mounted his horse once more, casting a glance back as Aemond turned toward the dragon to fetch something from its saddle. The prince's calm presence belied the storm his arrival had wrought, and as they made their way back to Riverrun, Oscar could not help but wonder what lay behind that piercing violet eye.

----------------------------------------

The wind howled like a thing possessed, tugging at Jacaerys's cloak as he followed Daemon up the jagged, treacherous path. Above, a sky heavy with grey clouds threatened rain, and below, the sea crashed against Dragonstone's black cliffs, sending sprays of foam high into the air. The climb was steep and unrelenting, yet Daemon moved as if he had walked the trail a thousand times, his boots finding purchase on slick stones without hesitation. Jace stumbled once but caught himself, his hand brushing against the cold, wet rock.

"Why are we going so high?" Jace finally asked, his voice raised against the wind, though his question was laced with confusion. "What is it you wish to show me?"

Daemon didn't answer at first. He simply continued upward, his cloak snapping in the wind like the wings of a restless dragon. Only when they reached a narrow plateau did he pause and turn. His silver hair glinted in the pale light, and his dark violet eyes seemed to pierce through the mist. "Tell me, boy," he said, his voice low and dangerous, "where does true power over Westeros lie?"

Jace frowned, taken aback by the question. "What sort of question is that?" he asked after a moment's hesitation. "The throne, of course. Whoever sits upon it—"

Daemon's laugh was sharp and sudden, cutting him off. "Naive," he said, shaking his head. "You think power comes from a chair of melted swords? You think Aegon conquered the Seven Kingdoms because he had a throne to sit on?"

Jace frowned, utterly baffled now. He opened his mouth to protest, but before he could, Daemon silenced him with a dismissive wave and turned toward the horizon. "Look," the older prince said, gesturing toward the distant sea.

Confused, Jace squinted into the gloom, where the sea met the sky in a grey, indistinct line. A small, lone ship was visible far off in the distance, its sails barely visible against the murky backdrop. Jace could make out no more than its dark silhouette, though the shape of it—a modest cog perhaps bound for King's Landing or the Gullet—seemed ordinary enough.

"That," Daemon said, his voice softer but no less intense, "that is where power lies."

Jace's frown deepened. He squinted at the shape. "The ship?"

"No," Daemon snapped impatiently. "Not the ship. What it carries. Spice, grain, wine, iron, gold, silk—The lifeblood of lords and peasants alike. That, boy, is power. That, and our dragons, of course."

Jace felt his stomach tighten. "What are you saying?"

Daemon turned back to him, his expression grim. "The Greens have been stealing power over the realm piece by piece, coin by coin… dragon by dragon. While we rested on our laurels, blind, they have amassed every form of authority imaginable. The Small Council, the City Watch, King's Landing, the Dragon's Bank… Even the Velaryons, who were meant to be our allies, seem to have given them two dragons—two! They now have six to our four: Vhagar, Sunfyre, Dreamfyre, Meleys, Moondancer, and Tesarion. And of our four, three are untested in battle. Even if they were, how much good will they do us when the Greens fly their mounts to war, backed by a fortune in gold? Gold that can buy armies, fleets, and the loyalty of men who swear otherwise to honour."

Jace could feel the cold bitterness of the truth creeping into his bones as Daemon's words took root in his mind. "That can't be true," he protested, grasping at whatever thread of comfort he could find. "The lords of Westeros are not so easily swayed. Grandmother, Grandfather—they wouldn't. They have their honour—"

"Honour?" Daemon spat the word like a curse. "Ha! The lords of Westeros are not nearly so noble as you imagine, boy. You think they will die on the altar of honour when their bellies can be full and their coffers even fuller? When they see the power of gold and dragons lined up against them? Honour is a luxury only the strong can depend on. Tell me, Jace—do you feel strong?"

The accusation stung, but Jace refused to falter. "Regardless, Mother said no action was to be taken until—"

"Your mother," Daemon interrupted, his voice rising, "is abed, bleeding and screaming while the Greens tighten their hold on the realm! If you want to sit on your hands and wait for her leave, do so. But do not, for the love of the gods, get in my way."

Jace's heart hammered in his chest as Daemon turned away, his cloak swirling in the wind. For a long moment, Jace stood there, the weight of his uncle's words heavy upon him, the cold wind cutting at his cheeks. Daemon's steps carried him down the path towards the castle, and Jace was left standing alone, staring out over the waves.

The merchant ship was almost out of sight now, a dark speck on a vast expanse of endless grey. For the first time, Jacaerys felt a deep, gnawing fear. Not just for his family, not just for the realm, but for himself.