The skies over King's Landing thundered with wings.
Syrax, golden-scaled and majestic, swooped over the Red Keep with a grace that commanded awe. Atop the dragon's saddle, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen grinned into the wind, her silver-blonde braid streaming behind her as the city below gazed up in wonder.
Children cheered, guards pointed skyward, and nobles shielding their eyes muttered prayers—or oaths of envy.
Syrax descended in a smooth spiral, landing within the Dragonpit's open dome with a reverberating thud. Rhaenyra slid from the saddle with practiced ease, sweat on her brow but joy on her face.
Waiting for her just outside the Dragonpit was Alicent Hightower, green cloak swept around her, arms crossed.
"You smell like dragon," Alicent said with mock disgust.
"And you smell like books," Rhaenyra shot back, smirking. "Which one do you think Father prefers?"
Alicent rolled her eyes but handed Rhaenyra a cloth. "You're late for the Sept."
"I'd rather serve Syrax's dinner than listen to Septa Marlow drone about the Seven."
"Rhaenyra!" Alicent chastised with a laugh. "You're supposed to pretend you care about the gods."
"I do.I pray better in the sky where I am closer to God."
They walked arm-in-arm toward the Red Keep, their steps echoing over the stone path.
"You're impossible," Alicent muttered.
"And you love me for it."
A brief silence stretched between them as they entered the castle, passing guards who bowed low.
"Your father's council is meeting today," Alicent said more quietly. "They're whispering. Not about the child."
Rhaenyra glanced at her friend. "Then what?"
Alicent's voice lowered to a near-whisper. "Rodrik Arryn."
Inside the Great Hall, King Viserys I held court, eyes alight with anticipation for the upcoming tournament. The nobles were gathered in colorful finery, banners rippling softly from open windows.
As Princess Rhaenyra entered the hall bearing the ceremonial wine cup, the room hushed. She knelt before her father, who kissed her forehead and smiled.
"My own little dragon," he said with pride.
But even amidst celebration, politics churned beneath the surface.
INT. RED KEEP – SMALL COUNCIL CHAMBER – DAY
The council table is weighed down with scrolls and ledgers. The sigil of House Arryn appears repeatedly—on ledgers, on trade manifests, on tongues.
Lyonel Strong breaks the silence.
"The Vale's prosperity has outstripped every other kingdom. Gulltown's ports see more ships than King's Landing now. Their trading fleet is vast. Their wealth… staggering."
He glances at the scroll before him.
"And yet, none of it is traced to Lord Yobert or young Rodrik's intellect directly. It's all attributed to a mysterious figure—an inventor, a scholar, unknown in name, but known by works."
Otto Hightower frowns.
"And therein lies the danger. A shadow leads a kingdom's innovation, not its lords. This… ghost behind Rodrik—he answers to no banner, no faith, no king."
Corlys Velaryon, arms crossed, voice clipped:
"They've overtaken Driftmark in Essosi trade routes. Yi Ti silks, Myrish glass, even spices from Sothoryos now come through Gulltown. Their pace is unnatural. Growth like that… is hard to control."
Otto, nodding curtly:
"Rodrik is but a boy—one flooded with power not meant for his age. And he never sought royal permission before instituting these changes. That is a breach of order."
Lyonel Strong, evenly:
"And yet, the realm has profited. The royal coffers swell from taxes on Vale goods. Trade with Braavos and Volantis has nearly doubled under their model."
Daemon, smiling slightly:
"So what you're saying is the boy's smart, and someone else is smarter. And we're all richer for it."
Corlys, avoiding mention of personal losses, adds diplomatically:
"It's not rebellion I warn of—it's momentum. Too much, too fast. The balance of power could shift."
Viserys, until now silent, finally speaks.
"This figure behind Rodrik… this man of science. What do we know of him?"
He turns his gaze to Larys Strong, the Master of Whisperers.
Larys, calmly:
"Very little, Your Grace. The Vale lords speak of him only in reverent tones—'the Architect,' 'the Ghost of the Eyrie.' No name. No confirmation. Only his inventions: pulley systems, crop innovations, glasswork, ship schematics..."
"Some believe he's an exiled Maester. Others, a foreign thinker from Essos. None speak openly. All defer to his brilliance, yet none claim to know him."
Viserys narrows his eyes.
"Then find him. If one man is shaping the future of an entire kingdom, I want his name—and his allegiance—before that future challenges my own."
Lyonel Strong, placing a report on the table:
> "There's more, Your Grace. Word from our northern scouts says the Vale is mobilizing a substantial force. The target: the mountain clans."
Otto Hightower narrows his eyes.
> "Subduing those clans is no mere patrol. This is the kind of campaign only a crown—or a rival to one—undertakes."
Corlys Velaryon, calm but firm:
> "It may be time to ask if the boy's ambition knows restraint."
Daemon Targaryen, lounging in his seat, grins:
> "He's young, clever, and rich beyond reason. I rather like him already."
Otto shoots him a glare.
> "You like anyone who rattles tradition and law."
Daemon smirks, savoring the jab.
> "No, I like anyone who irritates you, Lord Hand. And it seems Rodrik Arryn is doing a splendid job of that."
Otto, biting down his temper, replies coolly:
> "He is still a subject of the Crown. Yet he's enacted sweeping reforms without consent, amassed power unchecked, and may be leveraging that shadowy 'advisor' to shield his ambitions. That's not bold—that's dangerous."
Daemon shrugs with mock innocence.
> "Perhaps. Or perhaps he's just what the Seven Kingdoms need—a noble with vision. The Crown's coffers have grown fatter with his rise. You should be thanking the boy."
Corlys, trying to refocus:
> "Regardless of favor or distaste, his actions affect the balance of the realm. And now he wants volcanic ash from Dragonstone."
Lyonel, contemplative:
> "For agriculture, likely. Or some other invention… only the gods know. But this expansion cannot be ignored."
Viserys, finally raising his voice after silent contemplation:
> "Enough."
The council falls still.
> "We will not speak of Rodrik Arryn as if he were some rogue prince. He is a vassal of the Crown—and a child, still."
He turns to the maester.
> "Send word to the Eyrie. The Queen's labor is near. Let Lord Rodrik attend. I would speak with him. I would see him."
Daemon chuckles softly, shooting a sideways glance at Otto.
> "Yes… let's all see the boy. Might be good for your nerves, Lord Hand."
Otto's jaw tightens, but he says nothing.