Title: The Last Entry
Title: The Last Entry
Year and Month: 103 AC, 2nd Moon
The final two years of my father's life were a long, drawn-out twilight. The great King Jaehaerys I, the Conciliator, the Wise, the man who had reigned for fifty-five years and defined an entire epoch of Westerosi history, was gone in all but breath. He was a spectre haunting the halls of his own memory, a frail old man lost in the fog of his griefs. He rarely left his chambers, and when he did, he would often mistake a servant for his long-dead mother or speak to my sister Gael as if she were Alysanne. His mind, once the sharpest instrument in the Seven Kingdoms, was now a shattered mirror, reflecting only fragments of the past.
As his father faded, my reign began. As Hand of the King and Prince of Dragonstone, I was the undisputed ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. The Small Council reported to me. The lords of the great houses sent their petitions to me. The ambassadors from the Free Cities sought audience with me. I was the King in everything but name, the twenty-one-year-old executive who now had complete operational control of the largest corporation in the known world.
The realm was stable, prosperous. The reforms I had instituted years ago were bearing fruit. Trade was flourishing, the treasury was full, and the King's Peace was untroubled. The system ran smoothly, efficiently, a well-oiled machine under my meticulous management. My days were a relentless succession of meetings, reports, and decrees. I would meet with Lord Corlys to review the progress of the Dragon Fleet and the fortress on Bloodstone, which he had named Aegar's Pride in a fit of Velaryon hubris I found amusing. I would spend hours with Lord Beesbury, analyzing crop yields and adjusting tax levies with a precision that left the old Master of Coin dizzy. I governed with the aid of charts, ledgers, and spies, my decisions driven by data, not dogma.
My public persona remained one of quiet, severe competence. I was not beloved like Baelon had been, nor revered like my father in his prime. I was respected, and perhaps a little feared. They called me the Iron Prince behind my back, a name I found fitting. Iron was strong, unyielding, and useful. It did not need to be loved.
My nights were my only respite, my only time of true freedom. I would take to the sky with Balerion. The Black Dread was ancient now, even with the serum bolstering his life force. He was over two hundred and twenty years old, a living monument of a forgotten age. The serum had arrested his decay, filled him with a dark, smoldering vigor, but it could not erase the immense weight of his years. He flew slower now, his great wings beating a more ponderous rhythm against the night air. He slept more, deep, long slumbers in the Dragonpit, his dreams filled with the ghosts of conquests and the fire of a younger world.
Our bond had deepened into a silent, perfect understanding. He was my oldest and only true confidant. Through his eyes, I watched my kingdom, a vast, sprawling chessboard of which I was now the undisputed master. He was the last living creature who had seen Valyria. He was my final, living connection to the source of my family's power, and as my father's life waned, I found a strange, cold comfort in the dragon's ancient, unwavering presence.
The end for my father came in the second moon of 103 AC. The maesters had been predicting it for weeks. He had stopped eating, his body simply beginning its final shutdown. I managed the process with the same efficiency I managed all things. I cleared his wing of the castle of all but the most essential servants. I ensured a maester was always present. I sat with him for hours each day, a dutiful son holding a silent vigil.
During one of those long, quiet afternoons, as the winter light slanted through the windows of his bedchamber, his eyes suddenly cleared. The fog lifted, and for a fleeting moment, he was not the senile old man, but the King, my father. He looked at me, truly looked at me, for the first time in years.
"Aeryn," he whispered, his voice a fragile, papery sound. He reached out a trembling hand, and I took it. It was little more than bone and skin.
"I am here, Father," I said, my voice even.
"The sword…" he murmured, his gaze flickering to the Valyrian blade, Ledger, which I now wore at all times. "A sword named for a bookkeeper's sums. I thought you a fool at first." He coughed, a dry, rattling sound. "But you were right. It is all sums, in the end. The numbers of days. The number of children a man buries." A tear, the first I had seen him shed since Baelon's death, traced a path through the wrinkled landscape of his cheek. "I have… I have lost the count."
"The realm is strong, Father," I said, steering him away from the treacherous ground of his grief. "Your legacy is secure."
"My legacy?" He gave a short, bitter laugh. "My legacy is you, my strange, cold son. You saved the city from the plague. You prevented a war between my sons before they even knew they were to fight. You have governed this kingdom more wisely in three years than I did in my last ten. You have done all of this… and I do not think you have felt a moment of joy, or love, or sorrow in your entire life."
He squeezed my hand, his grip surprisingly strong. "I have feared you, Aeryn. From the day you were born. I feared your power, your mind. I feared you would be another Maegor. But you were not cruel. You were never cruel. You were simply… efficient."
He stared at me, his eyes searching my face for an answer to a question he didn't know how to ask. "What will you do, when I am gone? When the throne is yours? What is the sum of it all for you?"
It was the final question from the dying Chairman of the Board. What was my ultimate motivation? My endgame?
"I will do what is necessary," I replied, my answer as honest as it was revealing. "I will ensure the company remains profitable. I will protect the assets. I will eliminate the liabilities. The goal is not joy, Father. The goal is stability. The goal is permanence. A Targaryen dynasty that will not crumble in a generation, but will last a thousand years."
He stared at me for a long moment, and then he smiled, a true, sad smile. "Ah," he whispered. "A dynasty. The last entry. The final balancing of the books." He understood. He finally understood the cold, ruthless, and utterly impersonal nature of my ambition. He saw that I viewed the throne not as a birthright or a divine calling, but as the ultimate prize in the ultimate corporate game.
His eyes began to cloud over again, the brief moment of clarity passing. "Alysanne…" he murmured, his gaze turning towards the window. "Is it time to go flying?"
He slipped back into the fog of memory, his hand going slack in mine. Those were the last lucid words he ever spoke to me.
King Jaehaerys I Targaryen, the Conciliator, the Wise, the Old King, died two days later, just after sunset. He passed peacefully in his sleep, his long, remarkable, and tragic reign finally at an end.
I was there when he drew his last breath. I felt the life leave him, the last ember of the great fire finally extinguishing. I closed his eyes, stood up, and walked out of the room. I felt no sorrow. I felt only the quiet, profound satisfaction of a plan reaching its successful conclusion. The final variable had been removed. The path was clear.
I went straight to the Small Council chamber, where I had ordered the members to assemble. They rose as I entered, their faces a mixture of grief and uncertainty.
"My lords," I announced, my voice devoid of any emotion. "The King is dead."
A wave of shock and sorrow went through the room, even though the news was expected. Lord Beesbury began to weep openly. Lord Corlys bowed his head in a gesture of respect.
"The period of mourning will last seven days," I continued, my voice cutting through the rising tide of emotion. "Lord Beesbury, you will see to the funeral arrangements. It will be a state affair, befitting a king of his stature. He will be cremated on a pyre in the castle courtyard, as is the tradition of our House. Grand Maester Allar, you will send ravens to every corner of the realm. Announce the King's passing, and my ascension. Proclaim a month of peace, where no lord may raise banners against another, in honor of the Conciliator."
I was issuing orders, managing the transition with swift, decisive authority. I was leaving no room for a power vacuum, no space for uncertainty.
"My coronation," I concluded, "will take place on the eighth day. It will be a simple, solemn ceremony in the throne room. My first act as King will be to confirm all of you in your current positions. Your service to my father was valued, and your service to me will be essential. We have work to do. That is all."
I left them to their grief and their whispered conversations and went to the one place I needed to be. I went to the Dragonpit.
As I entered the vast, cavernous space, a low, rumbling groan echoed from the darkness. It was a sound of ancient, primal sorrow. Balerion knew. He had not needed to be told. He had felt the life of the man who had been a boy when he first climbed upon his back finally extinguish.
I walked towards the great beast. He was lying down, his massive head resting on the sand, a thin wisp of black smoke curling from his nostrils. One immense, golden eye, as large as a shield, opened and fixed on me. In its depths, I saw a sorrow that was older than any kingdom, a grief for the passing of a time, of an age, of a man he had known for the entirety of his long life. The serum had revitalized his body, but it could not erase his memory.
I reached out and placed my hand on his great, warm snout. The scales were as hard and smooth as polished obsidian.
Yes, I replied. An age has ended.
He pushed himself to his feet, a mountain of black scales and living history rising in the darkness. He shook his great head, the sound like a rockslide, and let out a single, powerful roar. It was not a roar of grief, or anger. It was a roar of proclamation. A declaration to the world, to the heavens, that the Black Dread had a new master, a new King to serve.
I stood before him, the Hand, the Prince, the last son. But as the echoes of his roar faded, I was none of those things. I was simply Aeryn of House Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm. The ledger was balanced. The final entry was made. My reign had begun.