'Questions, Doubts & Duty'

| Author's Note: Apologies for the delay, Christmas is coming, and so I am trying to make the most of my holidays. I am also hoping to release at least 1 more chapter before we reach the 24th day of December, as I don't plan to post anything from the 24th to the 26th.

So please, have a nice read.

.

. .

. . .

"You are deluded if you believe, even for a moment, that I would dare gather anything on him to serve your schemes."

— By Gwayne Hightower.

. . .

. .

.

| At the same time that Aenys met with the City Watch's Captains, within the tower od the Hand, Otto Hightower's Pov:

He sat rigid in his high-backed chair, his hands steepled beneath his chin as he stared at some random place of his chamber's wall. The evening sun shined softly, its light throwing long shadows across the room's walls, and Gwayne Hightower,— his eldest son,— paced before him, his leather boots thudding faintly against the stone floor.

"What is it, Father?" Gwayne's voice was clipped, bordering on exasperation. "You've been sulking in that chair for half an hour, staring into nothing but thin air. That's unlike you,— no schemes, no commands, no carefully measured words,— what's gotten into you? Is this about yesterday, about the appointment of the new heir?"

Otto's jaw tightened faced with his son's questions, though his eyes did not move from their previous position to adress his son. "You wouldn't understand."

"And yet I do!" Gwayne countered after a few moments of stunned silence, his tone growing sharper, more emotional. "I understand that you think your plans to join our house to the royal family have grown more complicated. You are afraid that 'he' will see through them, and retaliate againstour family for your ambitions."

And at that, Otto's gaze snapped to his son for the first time in a while, icy and unyielding. "Careful with what you say, boy..." he said, his tone a low warning as his fists turned white from clenching them too harshly. "The walls have ears in this place, and I have raised you well enough, for you to know of this already."

"And yet..." Gwayne kept on 'poking' him, undeterred in his advance for the truth, "... you did not call me a liar. Because it is the truth, isn't it? You would stoop so low as to push my sister,— your own daughter,— toward a grieving king, hoping he would find solace in her arms while you position yourself even closer to power."

"ENOUGH!" Otto's voice cracked like a whip, rising suddenly from his desk with half-a-thought of nearing Gwayne's position in anger, though he quickly mastered himself, his expression hardening into its usual mask of composure. "I did not summon you here to endure your blind prattling about familial love,— I have something I need you to do from this day onward."

Gwayne stopped pacing then, turning to face his father fully, his mouth twisting into a half-hearted sneer. "And what would that be, Father?"

Otto then rose from his chair with measured deliberation, stepping closer to his son, his voice low and steady, each word calculated.

"You will befriend the prince." And Gwayne blinked, his disbelief palpable in the silence that stretched. "You want me to befriend Aenys Targaryen? The firstborn son of Baelon? Are you unwell, Father? He's returned from exile just a few days ago,— surely a man like that has no need of my company."

"He has been gone sixteen years, Gwayne." He pressed on, despite his son's evident displeasure with his necessary and desperate plan. "He lacks allies, and he lacks connections. It is precisely this absence of familiarity in our court that you will exploit, eventually earning his trust, learn his thoughts, discover his weaknesses, his ambitions, his desires,— anything that could bring about his fall, you shall know in time."

"And you expect me to fool him like this?" Gwayne scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. "Do you truly think I can deceive a man like him? He's no fool. He's Aenys Targaryen, Father. One of the best, if not the best warrior this generation has ever seen, a dragonlord on top of that,— of Cannibal no less... I'd waver that he'll see through this ploy in a heartbeat."

His expression however soon darkened, his tone brooking no argument. "This is not negotiable, Gwayne. You will do as you are told. Or,-" he added coldly, "...- I will see to it that you are sent back to Oldtown on the morrow to learn some more manners on how you need to adress me when we speak..."

Gwayne's lips pressed into a thin line, his anger barely contained. "Whatever you say. But know one thing, if these damned games of yours result in harm coming to my sister..." His son then leaned closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Know that we will have a serious problem to resolve, Father."

Otto's lips curled into a mirthless smile. "Get out of my chamber." And Gwayne lingered for a moment, his fists clenched, before spinning on his heel and storming out, the door slamming shut behind him.

He exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose as he muttered under his breath.

"Ungrateful boy. You will understand one day, not today you won't, but you will eventually."

However, not a very long time after, a knock that was both sharp and deliberate, echoed in the chamber. And Otto straightened, smoothing the folds of his robes and taking a seat at his desk once again.

"Come in." A man entered, dressed plainly, his hood pulled low, closing the door behind him with quiet precision, before offering a small bow. "My lord."

"Well?"

Otto said sharply, his gaze piercing. "What have you discovered? Out with it."

The spy hesitated only briefly before stepping forward, his voice low and steady.

"The prince flew out of the city with the princess yesterday's night, as is widely known by now." Otto snapped impatiently, waving his hand. "Yes, yes... everyone knows that. What of consequence have you learned?"

The man's next words sent a chill through the room. "The prince and princess returned with yet another dragon, my lord."

Otto froze, his eyes narrowing. "Another dragon? Elaborate."

The spy nodded. "Vhagar, my lord. And we think that the prince somehow bonded with Vhagar... despite already being bonded with the Cannibal,— since we have seen him interacting closely with both dragons on the morrow of the day before."

Otto's face drained of color, his composure momentarily slipping. "What did you just say?" The spy shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. "It is true, my lord. We believe that Vhagar now answers to the prince."

For a moment, Otto said nothing, his mind racing as he processed the implications. His grip on the armrest of his chair tightened, his knuckles white. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and venomous. "Leave me, I must think on the matter."

The spy bowed quickly and retreated, leaving Otto alone in the chamber. He stared into the window near his desk, his thoughts swirling.

Aenys Targaryen, bonded to two dragons.

He thought it was a power play unlike any he had anticipated, a direct threat to every carefully laid plan of his, even though he could not understand how a single man had been able to bond to two diferent dragons.

His lips pressed into a thin line, his mind already calculating his next move. "Things have changed, yet again..." he muttered to himself in frustration.

.

| Back to the present, the next day, Aenys Targaryen Pov - The Royal Family's Dining Hall:

The morning sunlight streamed through the tall, narrow windows of the dining hall, casting golden patterns on the polished stone floors. Aenys sat at one end of the table, his expression calm yet purposeful.

Beside him, in the center of said table, was his younger brother, King Viserys, nursing a goblet of wine with the faint weariness of a ruler burdened by matters of state. Across from them however, Princess Rhaenyra ate delicately, her lilac eyes watching her uncle with a mix of curiosity and wariness.

And after a few moments of peace, he decided to brake the silence first, his tone light but direct. "So, niece..." he began, his sharp gaze flicking to Rhaenyra. "I believe your father has already mentioned to you that the three of us would be training today. Have you prepared yourself?" His question was followed by a small smirk appearing on his expression for a brief moment.

Faced with the playfull question, Rhaenyra set down her goblet of water, while her brows arched in mild surprise. "I did hear something of the sort, Uncle." she said. "But will I truly 'wield a weapon'? With you and my father?" She questioned, glancing at Viserys, whose face betrayed no immediate reaction.

He leaned back in his chair, his lips quirking into a faint smile. "Why, yes. That is precisely what we'll do once we've broken our fast. Do you oppose the idea?"

Rhaenyra hesitated, he noted, probably unsure on how to tread the ground between deference and honesty. "No, not at all. On the contrary, I find it... intriguing. But I confess I don't quite see the need for me to partake. Father, perhaps,— I see the value in keeping him 'active',— but me?" He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "There's no pressing need for it indeed, niece."

Viserys, finally setting down his goblet, interjected with a faint smile. "Then why, brother? Enlighten us. Why drag us both into this sudden notion of swordplay?"

Aenys's expression grew more serious, his tone firm but not unkind. "I believe we're reaching a turning point in our family's history, one where simply relying on others will no longer suffice. Take the Stepstones, for example. I hear reports of piracy growing rampant in those waters. If, one day, one of our ships is set on their sights during a voyage, would it not be preferable for our blood to have the means to defend itself,— when relying on others is no longer an option?"

Rhaenyra's gaze softened as she absorbed his words. "I suppose… that's a sound idea." she admitted, her voice quieter. "Do you agree, Father?" she added, turning to Viserys.

"That you, as a woman, should train with a weapon?" Viserys shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Not quite." he said, his tone hesitant.

And yet, Aenys's sharp laugh soon broke through the tension. "Well, fortunetly for you, your father has no say in the matter." he said bluntly, his violet eyes gleaming with amusement. "We'll be doing this together,— for our own sake."

Rhaenyra studied her uncle for a moment, her expression thoughtful, and finally, she nodded. "I see. Well, I'm not opposed to the idea, Uncle,— if that's what concerns you."

"I thought as much." Aenys said, his smirk returning. "That's why I planned for us to begin today. After all, there's no better time to start like the present, and afterwards, you can both train without me at all." Viserys sighed, running a hand through his thinning silver hair. "Enough talk of training." he muttered. "You've yet to explain yourself, brother. How did you manage to bond with Vhagar, our late father's dragon?" Aenys's smirk faded, replaced by a more somber expression.

"Ah." he said, setting down his fork. "Well. I suppose it was inevitable that I'd have to explain it eventually." Rhaenyra leaned forward as well, her curiosity piqued. "I think so too, Uncle." she said softly.

Aenys took a deep breath, steeling himself, "There's no point in lying to you two,— as you're my closest family. The truth is… I discovered a magical ring during my years in Old Valyria." As he explained, he took his ring-bearing hand near the center of the table, letting both brother and niece look at it for a while. "It grants its bearer the ability to bond with up to three dragons, regardless of whether the formers are already bonded with one or not." And Viserys blinked, his surprise evident. "Three?" he repeated. "And how did you even come to understand the purpose of this ring?"

"There was an old parchment..." Aenys explained, "... that somehow got preserved through the Doom. It detailed the ring's purpose,— and the price one must pay to wield its power."

"The price?" Rhaenyra asked, her voice tinged with apprehension. "What is it, Uncle?"

Aenys expression turned solemn. "The cost is that I will gradually lose the sight in one eye." At that he allowed both of them to carefully look into his left eye, as the two eventually noticed a black hue surrounding it, like some king of slowly growing fog. "It hasn't happened yet, but in time, my left eye will go completely blind. It's a loss of magic, a consequence of the Valyrian blood needed to fuel the ring's power. That's why my left eye has begun to darken,— it's the magic present in it,— fading."

Rhaenyra's lips parted slightly, her expression conflicted. "That's…" she began, only for Viserys to finish the thought for her.

"Only fair." the king said quietly, and he gave his brother and niece a grim smile. "Indeed. I lose an eye but gain the ability to bond with three dragons. A small price, I'd say,— as with Cannibal and Vhagar already under my command, no dragon or force in existence should be able to stand against me in battle. And when I bond with a third…" He trailed off, his tone laden with quiet confidence, though in his mind, he did know of a force that could very well defeat and kill him, along with his future three dragons...

Rhaenyra's eyes lit with a mixture of awe and fascination. "That's… incredible... so that's why she followed us-...,— followed you." she murmured. Aenys's laughter rang out, warm and genuine. "Ahahaha! In some ways, yes, I suppose it is. But power always comes with a cost, dear niece. Never,— ever, forget that."

Viserys then leaned back in his chair, his expression a mixture of resignation and pride. "Only you, brother, could turn the burden of losing an eye into a matter of triumph."

And he met his gaze with a smirk. "Only because I've learned, little brother, that triumph is worth the price,— well, almost always."

.

The sun hung low in the morning sky, spilling pale gold across the Red Keep's training yard.

The smell of damp stone and fresh hay lingered in the air, mingling with the faint clang of swords echoing from the nearby barracks, as Aenys Targaryen stood at the edge of the yard, the polished steel of his vambraces catching the sunlight as he adjusted his armored dark gloves.

He cast a slow gaze across the grounds, taking in the small gathering that awaited him. Viserys looked as though he'd rather be anywhere else, a hand resting idly on the pommel of his belt dagger as he muttered something to Ser Harrold. The knight, ever dutiful, offered a low chuckle, though his attention remained on the king.

Rhaenyra stood a few paces away, her silken skirts gathered in her hands to avoid the dust. She turned at his arrival, her lips curving into a faint, mischievous smile.

"Uncle." she quipped, her voice light with amusement. "How surprising of you to join us on such a sunny day."

Aenys let a dry laugh escape him as he strode forward, his boots stirring the loose dirt beneath his feet. "Very funny, Rhaenyra." he said, his tone laced with mock reproach.

But his gaze shifted to Viserys, whose tired expression spoke volumes. "Must I truly entertain this, brother?" Viserys asked, exasperation seeping into every word.

"Yes." Aenys replied sharply, his expression hardening into something unyielding. "You must. It's far past time you picked up a blade again."

Viserys sighed, running a hand down his face, but there was a flicker of recognition in his eyes,— he knew Aenys would not budge.

"Very well." he muttered, relenting with a dismissive wave of his hand. Aenys clasped his hands behind his back and addressed the group, his voice steady and commanding. "Ser Harrold will be training with you, brother, while I teach Rhaenyra how to wield a dagger." He turned to each of them, his gaze firm. "Is that agreeable to everyone?"

Ser Harrold nodded, his expression softening with approval. "A fine idea, my prince." Viserys groaned but gave a reluctant nod. "Yes, yes, if it must be done…"

Without another word, Ser Harrold led Viserys to one side of the yard, drawing his blade with a crisp, ringing sound. Viserys followed with visible reluctance, his shoulders slumping as he unsheathed his own training sword. Meanwhile, Criston Cole and Ser Steffon Darklyn lingered near the yard's edge, their watchful eyes never straying far from Aenys and Rhaenyra.

Then, Aenys motioned for his niece to follow him to the far side of the training grounds, where the shadows of the towering walls offered a modest reprieve from the sun.

"Do you think my father will survive?" Rhaenyra asked, her tone caught between jest and genuine concern, as she glanced over her shoulder to see Viserys hesitantly parrying one of Ser Harrold's careful swings.

Aenys smirked, though the amusement did not fully reach his eyes. "We can only hope..." he replied, his voice low. "He has grown far too lenient,— with others and with himself,— since my exile."

Turning his attention back to her, he raised a brow, his tone shifting to something lighter.

"But enough about your father. Let us focus on you now." He reached to his belt, drawing a dagger from its sheath. The blade gleamed wickedly, its edges fine and sharp, and the hilt was wrapped in black leather.

"This..." he said, holding it out to her, "... is what you'll be learning to use today." And Rhaenyra hesitated only briefly before taking the dagger from his hand. It sat awkwardly in her palm, heavier than she had expected.

Her fingers curled tightly around the hilt, her knuckles whitening with the strain. "Hold it steady." Aenys instructed, stepping closer.

His sharp violet eyes followed every movement, studying the way she adjusted her grip, and she frowned, her frustration evident as the dagger wavered slightly in her grasp. "You're strangling it." he said, his voice calm but edged with amusement.

"Hold it like that, and you'll tire your hand before you land a single strike." Rhaenyra's gaze snapped up, a flicker of annoyance flashing in her eyes. "I'm holding it just fine, Uncle." she shot back, though the tremble in her wrist betrayed her confidence.

Aenys chuckled softly and stepped closer, the dirt crunching beneath his boots. "Fine?" he echoed, his tone teasing. "If sheer stubbornness were enough to win a fight, I'd crown you queen this instant." Her lips twitched, but she refused to smile. "Maybe I'll win regardless." She countered.

He grinned, stepping behind her, as the air shifted, tension crackling faintly between them. "Here." he said, his voice low and steady. "Let me show you."

Before she could argue, his hands enveloped hers, guiding her fingers into a more natural grip. His touch was firm but gentle, the roughness of his calloused palms contrasting with the softness of her own.

"Loosen your hold." he murmured, his breath warm against her ear. "The dagger is not your enemy, it's an extension of you. So let it move with you." Her breath hitched, just barely, and she nodded.

Slowly, he guided her arm into position, adjusting the angle of her wrist. "Relax your shoulder." he continued, his tone almost coaxing. "You're too rigid..."

"I am relaxed!" she muttered, though the stiffness in her posture suggested otherwise.

He chuckled, the sound rich and warm. "You look as though you're wrestling a dragon."

She turned her head slightly, her eyes meeting his with a glint of defiance. "Perhaps I am." His laughter rang out, filling the quiet yard. "Let's see if you can survive a training session first." he said, stepping back to give her space.

Under his watchful eye, Rhaenyra practiced a few tentative strikes. Her movements were hesitant at first, but with each correction,— a touch to her elbow, a nudge to her foot,— her confidence grew.

"Good girl!" he praised innocently, nodding in approval. "Now try it faster."

And she obeyed, the blade slicing through the air with newfound precision, as her cheeks flushed with exertion, but her determination never wavered. When she finally lowered the dagger, her chest rose and fell with heavy breaths.

She turned to him, pride and exhaustion mingling in her expression. "Well?" she asked, her voice breathless.

Aenys smiled, his gaze softening. "You've done well." he said. "But don't grow complacent, there's still much to learn."

Rhaenyra's lips curved into a grin. "Am I ready for the dragons now?" And he laughed, shaking his head. "Not quite, but you're slowly getting there." Then, he took a glance across the yard, where Viserys was faring poorly against Ser Harrold. "Now, let's see how your father is holding up."

.

A few hours later...

The streets of King's Landing were alive with noise and movement, a sprawling mixture of shouts from the merchants' cries, clanging bells, and the low murmur of countless conversations.

The midday sun burned high above, its golden rays glinting off the cobblestones and gilding the city's ever-present grime in a deceptive sheen of warmth. Yet beneath that shine lurked the stench of rot,— the mingling odors of human waste, spoiled fish, and the choking smoke from a dozen nearby forges.

Aenys Targaryen rode at the head of his retinue, his black destrier cutting an imposing figure amidst the throng.

The beast's muscles rippled with each deliberate step, its breath huffing in rhythmic bursts that parted the unwashed masses before them. Aenys' Valyrian steel armor gleamed beneath the folds of a golden cloak, its polished surface adorned with the black dragon of House Targaryen, as though the beast itself prowled upon his chest. He bore the weight of his station as the Lord Commander of the City Watch with silent purpose, his sharp violet eyes scanning the chaos around him.

Behind him rode his chosen few, such as Ser Harwin Strong, towering and grim-faced, his hand never far from the hilt of his sword, Captain Rosamund Vane of the Iron Gate, her stoicism a shield against the noise and disorder, and the eager, young Lieutenant Edrick Velaryon, his boyish face still untested by the cruelty of the streets. Ser Criston Cole brought up the rear, his silence a constant, shadowed by a calm vigilance that belied the steel beneath.

As they neared the Iron Gate, its towering portcullis loomed like a jagged maw over the throng passing beneath. The gate was the lifeblood of the king's Landing very own commerce, where merchants from the Crownlands and beyond converged, their carts heavy with goods for the capital's teeming markets.

Yet the scene was far from orderly.

Aenys' gaze swept over the gold cloaks stationed at the gate, their armor catching the sunlight. At first glance, they appeared well-equipped, but to Aenys, the cracks in their façade were glaring.

A sergeant leaned lazily against the gatehouse, his posture one of indifference rather than vigilance, while nearby, another guard haggled openly with a merchant, his gestures animated, his expression conspiratorial.

Aenys reined in his destrier sharply, the horse snorting in irritation as it came to a halt.

"Sergeant Waters!" Aenys' voice rang out, cutting through the din like the crack of a whip. The lounging gold cloak startled, nearly tripping over his own feet as he stood to attention, his face paled as recognition dawned, and he stumbled forward, bowing his head in an attempt to appear contrite.

"M-my prince! Apologies, I was just,—..."

"Save your excuses!" Aenys interrupted, his tone cold and unyielding. His violet eyes fixed on the man with a gaze sharp enough to draw blood. "If I see you lounging again while under my command, you'll find yourself guarding the sewers, not the gates. Is that understood?"

"Yes, my prince! Of course, my prince!" Waters stammered, bowing so low his chin nearly touched his chest. Aenys then turned to Captain Vane, his expression softening slightly but his voice retaining its edge of authority.

"Captain, I trust you will see to it that the sergeants under your command remember their duties. There will be no leniency for complacency. Not here,— not under me."

Rosamund allowed herself a faint smile, though her tone remained formal. "As you say, my prince. They'll remember."

The retinue moved onward, but Aenys' displeasure lingered. The Iron Gate was not merely an entryway,— it was a symbol of the city's strength, its discipline. A weak gate led to a weak city, and King's Landing, with its festering corruption, could not afford further weakness.

.

.

.

It was not long before another scene caught Aenys' attention. A merchant wagon, its wooden frame groaning under the weight of its load, stood halted near the gate. Two gold cloaks hovered close, their hands conspicuously lingering near the merchant's purse. The merchant, a thin man with darting eyes, looked everywhere but at the guards as coins exchanged hands with practiced subtlety.

Aenys dismounted in a single fluid motion, his boots striking the cobblestones with purpose. His men followed suit, their presence casting a shadow over the unfolding transaction.

"What's happening here?" Aenys' voice was calm, measured, and as cold as a blade fresh from the forge.

The nearer gold cloak turned, his face flushing with panic. "J-just inspecting the merchant's goods, my prince."

Aenys said nothing, his expression betraying neither anger nor amusement. Instead, he directed his attention to the merchant, who fumbled with the latch on one of the crates.

The man's hands trembled as he lifted the lid, revealing barrels marked with the sigil of Dorne. Their contents were unmistakable,— contraband wine, forbidden by the Crown's laws without proper levies.

Aenys' gaze returned to the guards, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "And were you planning to report this to your captain? Or were you content to line your pockets while the city rots under your watch?"

The guards stammered incoherently, but Aenys raised a hand to silence them.

"Ser Harwin..." Aenys said, his voice steady. "Arrest them. I want their names, their ranks, and a full report by sundown. Captain Vane, see that this merchant is fined accordingly and his goods confiscated." Rosamund Vane nodded once, sharply. "At once, my prince."

As the guards were dragged away, Aenys turned to Edrick Velaryon, whose youthful face betrayed a mixture of admiration and unease. "Do you believe they acted alone, my prince?" Edrick asked, his voice low.

And Aenys' lips pressed into a thin line.

"Doubtful... corruption festers in the shadows, Lieutenant. And your task is to drag it into the light, whenever and however you can." The rest of the patrol passed without incident, though Aenys' mood remained grim.

By the time they returned to the Red Keep, the weight of his new role hung heavy upon him, and that very same night, in the solitude of his chambers, he set quill to parchment, drafting the first of many reforms for the City Watch.

The road ahead would surely be long and fraught with resistance, but Aenys welcomed it. The city needed a firm hand, and he would provide it,— one gate, one man, and one reform at a time.

.

. .

. . .

| Fire & Blood |

. . .

. .

.