King's Landing had never been a quiet city, but that morning, it seemed to breathe more deeply than usual, as if the very air trembled with a new energy. From the River Gate to the Red Keep, thousands of people crowded the streets, drawn by the announcement of a grand event: the tournament to celebrate the one year and six moons of the two princes, Aemon and Rhaegar Targaryen.
The capital was just emerging from the War of the Nine Pennies. The scars were still visible everywhere: burned houses, grieving families, gaunt faces of soldiers who had returned too soon or too late. The narrow alleys still smelled of sweat, grime, and dried blood. Yet, the people smiled. They needed to believe that peace would return. They needed to forget.
The red and black banners of the Targaryens fluttered in the wind, clean, new, almost arrogant. The main streets had been swept, the worst beggars chased away, and fresh straw even spread to mask the smell of the port. The autumn sun struck the slate roofs, making the city shine as if it were made of polished steel.
A fisherman summed up the general mood with a shrug: "We celebrate because the king said so. The kingdom itself has nothing to celebrate."
His neighbor elbowed him. "Shut up. Today is for joy and smiles, or else the Royal Guard will teach you how to smile harder."
The threat was not empty. Around the third hour of the morning, King Aerys II himself appeared on the terrace of the Red Keep, surrounded by his Kingsguard. The crowd erupted in shouts.
"Long live the king!" "May he reign for sixty more years!"
Aerys raised his hand, saluting his people. He was smiling. A perfect, studied, princely smile. But just beneath that facade, his right hand was trembling. He hid it in the sleeve of his cloak before anyone could notice.
This day was meant to be a triumph. The princes were alive. The kingdom was surviving. And the crowd truly believed that Aerys II would reign for decades more, perhaps even sixty or seventy years. The truth, however, was much darker. Only Aerys knew he would not live long. The forbidden technique he had used in his youth to reach the gold rank had condemned him. Every breath reminded him of the price he had paid for power. His aura, once colossal, was now gnawing away at his life like a slow fire under the skin. But Westeros knew none of this. Westeros loved its illusions too much.
The market set up around the arena resembled an anthill. Merchants shouted, children ran, animals escaped from flimsy cages. Amidst the shouts, insults, and laughter, an old armsmaster tried to maintain a semblance of authority in front of a group of young nobles too rich to understand the world's violence.
"Come closer, come closer. You want to understand what you will see in the arena? You must understand the aura ranks. Otherwise, you will applaud without knowing what you are watching."
The teenagers drew closer, intrigued.
"The aura is not a toy," the old man began. "It is not given to just anyone. It awakens in nobles between five and seven years old. Commoners? Hah! Most die of hunger before they even have a chance to awaken it."
He rested his old lance against his shoulder.
"The best become bronze around fifteen. The true beginning of knighthood. That's when the boys understand that the world can kill them. Those who survive long enough reach silver around thirty, thirty-five."
A young noblewoman frowned.
"And the gold rank?"
The armsmaster let out a dry laugh.
"Gold, my children... gold is a promise you will almost never see. It takes sixty years of a life spent bleeding and getting back up. Even then, only the most talented manage it."
He leaned in, lowering his voice: "You want to know what a gold knight can do?"
They nodded, fascinated.
"Three thousand men. Less than twenty minutes. Not heavy soldiers, no: ordinary men, peasants with pitchforks and dull knives. But three thousand all the same."
They fell silent, mouths agape.
"And even then, a gold knight is not an adult dragon. Almost... but not quite."
A woman spoke up: "And the legendary rank?"
The old man gritted his teeth, as if the word brought back bad memories.
"Legendary... there has only been one. Aegon the Conqueror. And Valyria broke him. Or changed him. Perhaps both."
The young nobles shivered. The world suddenly seemed much more dangerous to them. They did not imagine that, a few streets away, an eighteen-month-old child already possessed an inner fire so powerful that it had to be sealed.
Not far away, the white pavilion of the Kingsguard attracted an even denser crowd. The three-headed dragon embroidered on the fabric fluttered in the wind, watched over by six knights in immaculate armor.
"Look at them well," a merchant said to a group of townsfolk. "The Kingsguard. There are six of them, but the seventh is missing. The king might name one during the tournament."
A murmur of excitement ran through the people.
"There, you see him? That's Ser Gerold Hightower, the Lord Commander. Gold rank. A mountain in armor. They say he stopped ten men with a single swing of his sword."
Further on, a young white knight watched the crowd with no expression.
"And him, that's Ser Barristan Selmy, the young prodigy. He reached gold too early, burning all his potential. He will never progress again."
"But he doesn't need to," a woman behind him interjected. "What he already is is enough to fill songs."
The other four guards—of silver rank—stayed in the background, but each wore the same hard, ready-to-act expression. They didn't need an aura to inspire fear: their oath was already a weapon.
The merchant concluded: "Two gold ranks in the same guard... that's almost worth an army."
In the heavy, suffocating air of the Lanterns brothel, the two Red Keep guards were slumped on torn, wine-stained silk cushions. One of them, the more sober one, still held a half-empty bottle, while his companion, already dead drunk, his eyes glassy and his entire body limp, was the focus of a prostitute's attention.
She was on her knees between his spread legs. Her slender fingers wrapped around the base of his already hard cock, the skin hot and taut under her palm. Without a word, she lowered her head and her mouth descended upon him. Her lips first closed around the head, licking it with a slow, expert movement of her tongue, making the drunk guard shudder. Then she took him deeper, letting him slide to the back of her throat, her nose brushing against the coarse hairs of his pubis. She then began a steady rhythm, her head bobbing to the pace of her sucking, the wet, obscene sounds mingling with the coarse laughter and the clinking of glasses in the room.
The drunk guard, his head thrown back, let out a grunt of pleasure before speaking, his voice slurred and clumsy. "I'm telling you... that kid, little Aemon... there's something about him. A look in his eye... It's almost like..."
His more clear-headed companion clamped a rough hand over his mouth, interrupting both his sentence and the moment of pleasure. "Shut up! You want to end up on a pyre, or with your throat slit in an alley? We don't talk about princes like that."
The prostitute looked up at them without stopping her movements. Her gaze was jaded, indifferent to the secrets of men, which she considered as common a currency as the money they gave her. She felt the tension rise, knew that it was often she who paid the final price.
The sober guard added, his voice low and grave: "The king is nervous, more than before. Anything could go wrong. So keep your tongue in your mouth, not in your dreams."
The drunkard pushed his friend's hand away. The prostitute felt his cock twitch in her mouth as he spoke in a voice suddenly calm, almost possessed. "Two sparks..." he said. "And when they ignite... they'll still be talking about it centuries from now..."
A strange silence fell, suspended in the stale air. Even the prostitute stopped, the guard's warm member still between her lips, her gaze fixed on the man's illuminated face.
Then the spell broke. The sober guard shrugged and emptied his bottle. The laughter resumed. The prostitute, with a mechanical movement, resumed her sucking, deeper this time, swallowing the guard down to the base, feeling his thrusts become more frantic until he spilled into her throat with a raspy groan. She swallowed without expression, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand before straightening up, the secrets already drowned in the din and the wine.
At the top of the city, in a place few could reach, two little boys watched the world stirring below them. Aemon and Rhaegar, seated on embroidered cushions, watched the arena with fascination. Their eyes followed every move of the knights entering the field. The sun struck the armors, making some so bright they looked like shards of dragon.
Rhaegar clapped and laughed. Aemon, however, remained surprisingly calm. He didn't understand what he was seeing, not really. But he perceived something: the auras around the warriors. Some were weak, others unstable. One, further away, burned with a silver sheen. He didn't know what it meant. But his heart did.
Aery arrived behind them. His walk was noble, straight, perfectly controlled. But his breathing betrayed something. Each step seemed to cost him more than he let on. In the stairs leading to the balcony, a violent pain had pierced him. A burning flash in the chest, as if a thorn of fire had planted itself in his heart. He had to stop for a second, placing his hand against the cold wall. He closed his eyes, praying silently that no one would see him. He straightened up before the Kingsguard noticed anything. A king never shows his weakness. Never.
When he finally reached his sons, his face displayed a perfect smile. "Here is the world that awaits you, my sons."
The trumpets sounded. The fighters entered. The crowd roared, echoing through the stones of the Red Keep. But Aerys did not hear the shouts. He thought: I will not have forty years to prepare you. Perhaps not even thirty.
Aemon turned his head toward his father. And for the first time, Aerys had the feeling that the child saw everything: the pain, the fear, the truth he was hiding from an entire kingdom. The sensation struck him like lightning.
The clamor of the crowd exploded as a knight was thrown from his horse. Rhaegar burst out laughing. Aemon, however, remained silent.
Aerys placed his hand on his son's shoulder. His palm was icy. He thought: He must be ready. Before me.
And under the sunlight, as the dragons of Targaryen fluttered in the wind, the shadow of death, meanwhile, was already resting upon the king's shoulders.
📌 Announcement — Official Discord + Early Access on Patreon
Hello everyone!
I've just created an official Discord for the novel, as well as a Patreon for those who want to support the project and get early access to the story.
✅ Patreon — Early Access
On Patreon, you will eventually get access to more than 30 chapters in advance compared to the normal release, along with exclusive posts and behind-the-scenes information about the novel.
👉 Patreon: patreon.com/empereur300
Note: If you can't see the Patreon page yet, that's completely normal — it simply means the page hasn't been approved by Patreon yet. It will become visible as soon as the approval process is complete.
💬 Discord — Community & Discussions
I've also opened a Discord server to bring the community together:
Polls (preferences, choices, and direction of certain elements)
A place to discuss the book, the chapters, and theories
A space to talk directly with me
👉 Discord: discord.gg/T97quQvCGC
Thank you all for your support, and I'm looking forward to seeing you there 🔥🐉