Chapter 20: It's Good to be the Third-Favorite Son

My father returned from Duskendale two days after I had returned. It was hardly a surprise- a raven had arrived the previous evening, after all, and the court had prepared accordingly.

The doors of the Red Keep had been thrown open, revealing a commanding view of the city. The Hand of the King had returned to the table set up in front of the iron throne with all the councilors in a position of relative deference.

Every seat at that table occupied, save for the young Master of Laws. Well, young for a member of the Small Council. Aemon Targaryen had long been a man grown, but he still seemed half a boy when he was surrounded by his fellow councilors.

Luckily, that did not hold true when in our father's seat.

The Iron Throne loomed large, dominating the room. A crude series of steps, forged from the blades of kings brought low by dragon flame, flanked on either side by uneven groups of blades, somehow still razor sharp after more than seven decades. At the very top was a seat, for a given meaning of the word, uncomfortable by design and as blunt a metaphor for kingship as there ever was.

And that was where my brother sat, acting as regent until my father returned.

Presumably, anyways.

And thus, everything having been put in place, we waited.

It took a few hours, time that was spent hearing no shortage of minor cases. A man's dispute with his neighbor, a baker's dissatisfaction with his guild, mediation for inheritance disputes, a litany of minor problems was brought before the throne. Minor problems that could have been resolved by a mayor, or even a local assembly.

But delegation of authority was apparently a secret on par with the creation of valyrian steel, lost to the ravages of time. Perhaps I should get around to writing a guide to good governance. Not that anybody would follow it, given my lack of actual experience in the field, but it would give me the chance to say 'I told you so' in the coming decades.

Or, more likely, would give future generations the opportunity to do so. If it survived.

The twin roars of approaching dragons tore me from my thoughts. The smallfolk appealing to the throne stopped in their arguments, turning to the wide-open doors in confusion. While by no means rare, a dragon's roar still commanded attention. Two dragons commanded undivided attention. After all, who else but the royal family could lay claim to such beasts?

Some might plan to change that fact, but they would fail.

Off in the distance, two blurry smudges slowly grew in size and clarity, one bronze and one a pale blue. Vermithor and Dreamfyre, carrying my father and Maegelle. And probably some knights of the Kingsguard.

The blurs grew larger and larger as they approached, resolving into the distinctive silhouettes of dragons in flight. The case currently being presided over was forgotten as every member of the court dutifully turned to look at the approaching dragons.

Perhaps that was a bit premature, as the great beasts took their sweet time approaching the keep. Not that I could blame the dragons, they were trained to approach and land at the dragon pit. Wait, no they weren't. Vermithor roosted at the keep, and Dreamfyre had never roosted there until her last rider died at Harrenahl. Neither was trained to land at the pit. So why did it take them so long?

The answer made itself clear as the dragons made to land not at one of the baileys of the keep, but right at the wide-open doors to the great hall. Landing with a resounding thump that echoed through the hall, Vermithor stretched his serpentine neck through the open doors, the top of his head noticeably larger than most of the men in the Great Hall.

My father dismounted confidently, doffing his helmet in one smooth motion, the white knights seated behind him moving far more cautiously. Even in riding leathers and lacking his crown, there was no mistaking this man for anything but a king. No cloak, no fine raiment, just a man with the sheer presence that proclaimed to the world 'I am the King.'

Even as the councilors rose in a carefully planned show of deference, and my brother began his slow descent from the throne, the assembled courtiers and petitioners broke out in enthusiastic cheers and applause. It was hard not to- after all, a dragon large enough to swallow any of them whole was but a stone's throw away.

The king in question did not so much as turn and acknowledge the crowds as he strode confidently towards the throne- towards his throne. Aemon reached the bottom just as father drew close enough to embrace him. Some words were no doubt exchanged, but I was too far away to hear them.

Not that the continued applause of the assembled courtiers and petitioners helped much on that front, producing a persistent flood of noise until my father took his seat at the top of his throne.

Seated far above the crowds on a barely shaped pile of mysteriously rust-free iron and steel, my father raised a hand, finally acknowledging the applause. The applause took its sweet time dying down, perhaps as long as a minute. Once silence reigned in the court, as he began to speak.

"Beloved friends, your deference does me honor," my father said, playing the role of the deferential king. An Augustus, not a Domitian. It still struck me as odd that he would feel the need to act the part when our family was at its strongest, but I had been witness to more than my fair share of court events, so I was used to it. "Truly, returning to this beautiful city is an honor and a privilege."

More applause followed the statement as the courtiers ate it up. Or, more likely, as they did not want to be seen as disrespectful. A little column A, a lot of column B.

"While I must apologize for my sudden departure, I do bear some good news." At this, the crowd murmured in anticipation. What could the news possibly be? For whom was it good news? How could they exploit it? "Our realm now knows yet more dragon riders."

As if by some pre-arranged cue, which it most certainly was, another serpentine head wound its way through the open doors to the great hall, this one a pale blue, with a far younger rider. Dreamfyre and Vermithor must have landed at the same time to pull that off. Oh, that had been clever. My sister Maegelle dismounted far less smoothly than my father, no doubt due to a lifetime's difference in experience, but maintained her composed appearance.

"My daughter, Princess Maegelle Targaryen, rider of Dreamfyre!" my father announced with a grandiose tone. Obligingly, the court erupted with applause. Less than with father's arrival, but we could not all be a refreshingly competent monarch. With luck, Aemon would follow that trend.

My father waited only long enough for the applause to die down while Maegelle walked over to join me, standing just close enough for her to squeeze my hand, and me hers.

"The victor of the joust at the tourney of Duskendale, second place in the melee of the same tourney. My son, Prince Vaegon Targaryen, rider of the Cannibal!" For half a moment following my father's pronouncement, the hall remained silent. Was it shock? Was it confusion? Did they know who the Cannibal was? Did they know there was a tourney at Duskendale?

For a heart-wrenching moment, only silence filled the air. Was I not worthy of their praise? Had I wronged them somehow? Thankfully, it was only a moment until a deafening round of applause took the place of the silence. Louder even, dare I say, than the applause that had greeted my father.

If he showed any discomfort at the idea, my father did not show it. If anything, his smile seemed the very image of paternal pride. But why? Did my exceptional performance not endanger his preferred heir's status? Did an increase in my prominence not threaten the realm's stability? Or was he merely that good an actor?

No, I chastised myself, my father was merely a good man. A good man who liked his sons to be warriors. He was genuinely happy to see his son rise, happy to see an obvious match in the making. No matter his reservations about my personal choices, he was happy that I was proving myself worthy of the Targaryen name.

Likewise, I was happy to show the world that I was indeed worthy of it. Brighter than Baelon, bolder than Aemon, godlier than both put together, sufficiently skilled at arms to match grown men at only four and ten.

And yet, not a knight. That little detail was a bit more than just a niggling doubt at the back of my mind. It meant nothing if I earned my spurs now or in two years, at least to me. To the realm, this ever-so-hierarchical society, it meant everything. From the lowliest hedge knight to the lords of the kingdoms, they could take pride in the fact that they were knights, and I was not.

I knew that I could buy a knighthood, but that would taint my reputation more than it would help it. When men asked who had knighted me, others would speak of the hedge knight or free rider who traded the honor of the position for a few coins and a wineskin. But a knighthood from the king or one of his Kingsguard? None could scorn me for that.

No, I would have to wait for my father to authorize one of the white cloaks to knight me. Waiting for a few years was far better than a lifetime of mockery and jeering for having bought my spurs. Better to prove myself the patient and pious princeling than the reveal myself as a foolish boy playing at being a warrior.

For now, I chose to be content with what I had.

And the company that chose to stand at my side.

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