Chapter Nine: A Flame in the Cold
King's Landing simmered under the breath of summer, but to Vaeron Targaryen, it felt colder than a northern winter. Though the sun baked the city's red walls and cobbled streets, the warmth never reached him. Not in the marble halls of the Red Keep, where whispers twisted like snakes through shadowed corridors, nor in the great feasting halls where he sat apart despite the richness of his blood.
He had been in the capital for three moons now. Cannibal, his dragon, now resided within the shadowed ruins of the Dragonpit, his great obsidian bulk rarely seen except as a distant shape soaring above the city. The people feared him. Even the other dragons of the royal family kept their distance. And in court, the Cannibal's rider was no less a curiosity—or a threat.
Vaeron moved with care through the castle, mindful of the stares that followed. Servants bowed, nobles gave half-hearted nods, but the Small Council remained divided. He knew what they called him when the doors were closed.
The Bastard Prince of the North.
He had read the minutes of council meetings in secret, thanks to a quiet nod from Maester Selwyn. Most lords doubted his place, especially Lord Hightower, who argued that Cannibal's return heralded instability. "A dragon born of Skagos and raised outside the laws of succession," he had warned. "Can we afford such a creature near the Iron Throne?"
Even Uncle Viserys, ever graceful and mild, had raised concern.
"We must weigh legacy against danger," he had said, not unkindly.
But Elia Martell, the Queen, remained firm.
"He is Rhaegar's son. Lyanna Stark's son. The blood of the dragon flows in him, no less than in my children."
Still, the King remained silent. Rhaegar Targaryen, the Silver Prince who had won the Trident and rebuilt Westeros in peace, rarely spoke of Vaeron. Not in public. Not in private. Not even to him.
It was on a pale morning that things began to shift. Vaeron was in the training yard, sparring with Ser Garlan Tyrell, a court knight of skill and kindness who treated him not as an outcast, but as a fellow noble. They circled each other with blades drawn, the sound of steel and breath echoing across the stones.
Garlan feinted, but Vaeron caught it. He twisted his weight and stepped in, slamming the flat of his blade against Garlan's shoulder, forcing a step back.
"You've grown faster," Garlan said, winded. "Not stronger, but sharper."
Vaeron nodded, panting. "I don't need strength to win. Only the will."
"And what do you will, Your Grace?"
He paused. "To be worthy. Of my name. Of the dragon I ride. Of the North."
Before Garlan could answer, a voice called across the yard. "Well said. But words do not win the game of thrones."
Tyrion Lannister, younger brother of the Queen and rising master of courtly maneuvering, approached with a goblet in hand and mischief in his eyes.
"Come, Prince Vaeron. Queen Elia wishes to speak with you."
---
Elia's solar was sunlit and warm, adorned with Martell banners and Dornish art. She sat beside a large map of Westeros, with markers placed along the Neck, the Riverlands, and the North.
"There are stirrings," she said as Vaeron entered. "Lords in the Reach and the Westerlands speak of a 'bastard dragon' gathering too much attention. They say your presence threatens the peace."
Vaeron stiffened. "I was summoned to court by your grace. I've done nothing but serve loyally."
Elia met his gaze with calm steel. "And yet you are a storm, Vaeron. Like your mother before you."
Tyrion chimed in, "Storms unsettle old trees. But they also bring needed change."
Elia pointed to the map. "We are sending you to the Riverlands. To Riverrun. Lord Hoster Tully has called for renewed ties with the crown, and your presence there will signal unity."
Vaeron blinked. "A diplomatic mission?"
"More than that," Elia said. "It is a test. And an opportunity. Make allies. Show the lords you are no pretender."
---
That night, Vaeron stood atop the high tower of Maegor's Holdfast, looking toward the east, where Cannibal rested on the cracked dome of the Dragonpit. The bond between them was unspoken, forged not of commands but of shared understanding. Vaeron could feel the dragon's restlessness, the yearning in its ancient blood.
A quiet voice interrupted him.
"He's magnificent."
Rhaenys Targaryen, his half-sister, stepped beside him. Her violet eyes studied Cannibal with awe and caution. "He frightens the others. Even Balerion the Younger won't fly when he's near."
Vaeron said nothing.
She turned to him. "I was taught to fear the wild. You are wild, brother. Not in cruelty—in spirit. But I think Westeros needs wild things now."
He looked at her, surprised. "You don't hate me?"
Rhaenys smiled, soft and sad. "I hated the silence. I hated that you were never spoken of, like a shadow in the walls. But now you're here. Real. And not what I expected."
"Nor I you," he admitted.
For the first time, they laughed together. Not fully trusting, not yet, but enough.
---
Before he left for Riverrun, a raven arrived from the island of Skagos. Its feathers were white-streaked black, and it bore a scroll wrapped in seal-less hide. Vaeron read it in his chambers, the words scrawled in a language half-forgotten: Old Valyrian, rough and older still.
The dragon of shadow and flame is not born. He awakens. The blood remembers. Come home. Come below.
He stared at the parchment for a long time.
Was it a summons? A warning?
He folded it away. Cannibal stirred in the distance, and Vaeron felt it in his bones. A bond not just of rider and mount—but of fate.
He would go to Riverrun. He would prove himself. But afterward, he would return north. To Skagos. To the beginning. To whatever truth lay sleeping in the stone.
The game of thrones had not ended with the Silver Prince's victory. It had merely begun anew, with dragons in the shadows—and one in the cold, ready to burn.