Title: The Reallocation of Assets

Title: The Reallocation of Assets

Year and Month: 109 AC, 3rd Moon

A King's word is law. A King's decree, sealed with the royal wax, is an unassailable fact, a change to the very fabric of the realm's governance. My decree regarding the future of the dragons Vhagar and Seasmoke was dispatched from the Red Keep with the quiet, inexorable force of a tide turning. It was not a proposal to be debated in council. It was not a suggestion to be considered. It was a formal reallocation of two of the House's most significant strategic assets, a move designed to secure the long-term dominance of my direct bloodline and to eliminate any future ambiguity about where the true power of the dragon resided. It resided with the Crown. And I was the Crown.

I did not concern myself with the emotional fallout of this decision. Emotions were liabilities, unpredictable variables that clouded judgment. From my perspective, the decree was a masterpiece of corporate restructuring. I was ensuring that the company's most valuable, patent-protected technology remained in the hands of the central leadership, not a powerful but ultimately separate subsidiary. It was clean, logical, and efficient.

But the members of my family, the other shareholders in this great enterprise, did not deal in the cold, clean language of ledgers. They dealt in the messy, passionate language of pride, legacy, and love. The arrival of my decree, therefore, was not received as a corporate memorandum. It was received as a declaration of war.

Dragonstone

The royal raven arrived at the ancient seat of our house on a day thick with sea mist. On the battlements of the Stone Drum, Princess Rhaenys Targaryen was watching her two children, Laena and Laenor, as they flew their dragons over the churning grey water below. Vhagar, ancient and immense, was a bronze mountain taking wing, her roar a sound that could curdle milk and shake the stones of the fortress. Seasmoke, a beautiful pale silver, was a flash of lightning by comparison, darting and weaving around his colossal companion. It was a sight of immense power, a vision of the might of House Velaryon, the second dragon-house of the realm.

Lord Corlys Velaryon joined his wife on the battlements, his face, weathered by a hundred sea voyages, holding a rare expression of contentment. He watched his children command the two great beasts, his chest swelling with a pride that was as vast as his ambition. This was the culmination of his life's work. His blood, wed to the dragon, now commanded the skies.

The maester of Dragonstone approached them with a bow, holding out the parchment with the black seal. "A raven from the King, my lord, my princess."

Corlys took the scroll, his expression curious. He expected a routine communiqué, an update on the progress of the fleet, perhaps. He broke the seal and read. Rhaenys watched his face, her own brow furrowing as she saw the color drain from it. His contentment vanished, replaced by a cold, sharp fury. His hand, holding the parchment, began to tremble with rage.

"What is it, Corlys?" she asked, her voice sharp with concern.

Without a word, he thrust the scroll at her. She took it and read the King's decree. Her reaction was different from her husband's. His was the anger of a thwarted king. Hers was the deep, soul-shaking grief of a mother whose children had just been disinherited.

"…By the authority of the Crown and the ancient laws of House Targaryen… be it known that the dragons Vhagar and Seasmoke, upon the passing of their current, noble riders, Lady Laena Velaryon and Ser Laenor Velaryon, shall revert to the direct care and command of the Crown… to be claimed by the royal heirs, Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen and Princess Visenya Targaryen, respectively…"

"He dares?" Rhaenys whispered, the words catching in her throat. The wind whipped her dark hair across her face, but she did not seem to notice the cold. "He dares?"

"This is the Dragon's Clause made manifest," Corlys spat, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "This is the true price of our alliance. He did not just forbid our future children from claiming dragons. He has stolen the dragons from the children we already have! He lets them borrow their power, and then, upon their deaths, he repossesses it for his own line."

"They are my grandchildren he speaks of," Rhaenys said, her voice rising with a furious, wounded pride. "They have the blood of the dragon from me! From Prince Aemon! Are they not Targaryens enough for him?"

"No," Corlys said, his eyes turning to the two dragons still flying free over the sea. "It is clear now. In the King's eyes, there is only one Targaryen line that matters. His own. We are not partners. We are not even valued vassals. We are… tenants. And our lease on power has just been given an expiration date."

Laena and Laenor, sensing their parents' distress, guided their dragons back towards the fortress. They landed in the great courtyard, the ground shaking under Vhagar's immense weight. They dismounted, their faces flushed with the joy of flight.

"Mother? Father? What is it?" Laena asked, seeing their grim expressions.

Rhaenys looked at her beautiful, powerful daughter, who commanded the largest dragon in the world. And then she looked at the decree in her hand. A decree that said the moment Laena drew her last breath, her magnificent beast, her soulmate, her legacy, would be taken from her line and given to a babe in a cradle a thousand leagues away.

"Your uncle… the King…" Rhaenys began, but her voice broke. She could not bring herself to say the words.

Corlys Velaryon stepped forward. He put his arms around his wife and his children, pulling them into a tight, defiant circle. He looked up at the black battlements of the castle, his gaze turned south, towards King's Landing. "The King has made a move," he said, his voice cold as the sea. "He has drawn a line. He believes his power is absolute." He held his family close. "He will learn that the tide does not bow to any king. The tide has a will of its own."

King's Landing – The Red Keep

The decree arrived in Prince Viserys's hands during a quiet afternoon in his lavish apartments. He was a man who craved peace above all else. His marriage to Aemma Arryn was a happy one, and though it had been touched by tragedy in the birthing bed, they had a single, beloved daughter, Rhaenyra, a bright, precocious child of eight. Viserys was content with his position as a senior prince of the realm, a trusted nephew to the King, and the commander of the new Dragon Fleet, a position that brought him great honor with little actual danger.

He read the decree, and a deep, weary sigh escaped him. He felt not anger, but a profound sense of exhaustion. He had just witnessed Aeryn's cold, brilliant management of the Great Spring Sickness. He had seen his uncle save the city through sheer force of will and intellect. And he had seen him watch his own brother, Viserys's father Baelon, die without being able to stop it. He understood that Aeryn was a different kind of man, a different kind of king.

"Another decree," his wife, Aemma, said, noticing the look on his face. "More work for the scribes, I imagine."

"More than that," Viserys murmured, handing her the scroll. "Aeryn has… clarified the line of draconic succession."

Aemma Arryn read the words, and her hand went to the small swell of her own belly; she was pregnant again, hoping desperately for a son. "He is claiming Vhagar and Seasmoke for his own children," she said, her voice quiet. "He is disinheriting Rhaenys's line."

"He is securing his own," Viserys corrected gently. "He is ensuring there is no question, no rivalry, a generation from now. You know how he is. He sees a potential future conflict and… prunes it. Like a gardener cutting back a branch before it can grow crooked."

"It is a cruel cut, Viserys," Aemma said. "To Rhaenys and Corlys, this will feel like a declaration of war."

"No," Viserys said, shaking his head. "It is a statement of fact. Aeryn does not declare war. He announces the terms of surrender before the battle has even begun. He is reminding Corlys that all his power, all his wealth, even the dragons his children ride, exist only by the King's grace. It is a harsh lesson, but… it is not an untrue one."

He looked at his own daughter, Rhaenyra, who was playing with a wooden dragon near the hearth. His heart ached. He was a man who loved his family, all of it. He hated this coldness, this division. But he also knew he was powerless to stop it. His uncle was the King, a king whose mind moved in ways he could not comprehend, a king who had saved them all.

"What will you do?" Aemma asked.

"I will do my duty," Viserys sighed. "I will support my king. I will command his fleet. And I will pray to the Mother for a son, and to the Father for peace in our house."

King's Landing – The Barracks of the City Watch

The decree found Prince Daemon in the armory, personally sharpening the Valyrian steel edge of his sword, Dark Sister. He was surrounded by the noise and sweat of fighting men, the world where he felt most at home. A page brought him the scroll. He took it, his hands stained with oil and whetstone dust, and read it where he stood.

As he read, a slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. It was not a smile of joy, but of pure, intellectual appreciation. It was the smile of a master swordsman watching another master execute a perfect, deadly thrust.

"Gods, he is magnificent," Daemon whispered to himself. The knights around him fell silent, unsure how to react to their prince's strange mood.

He read the decree again, savoring the cold, brutal logic of it. Disinheriting the Velaryons. Reclaiming the two greatest dragons for his own direct line. Citing law and tradition while simultaneously forging a new, absolute reality. It was a move of breathtaking audacity.

His brother Viserys would see it as a tragedy, a source of family strife. His cousin Rhaenys would see it as an insult. The Sea Snake would see it as a threat. Daemon saw it for what it was: a masterpiece of power politics.

He had always been torn in his feelings for his uncle. He resented Aeryn's coldness, his dispassionate nature. But he was also helplessly drawn to his strength, his intelligence, his utter refusal to play by the sentimental rules that governed other men. While Daemon's ambition was a hot, roaring fire, Aeryn's was a glacier, immense, unstoppable, and utterly cold.

This decree solidified it. Aeryn was not just a king. He was the dragon, in every sense of the word. He was hoarding the power, consolidating the bloodline, ensuring the absolute supremacy of the Targaryen name. He was acting as Daemon himself would have acted, had he the power, but with a subtlety and strategic foresight that even Daemon had to admire.

"Ser Criston," Daemon called out to a young, gifted Dornish knight he had recently taken into his service. "A toast!"

He raised the scroll as if it were a wine glass. "To King Aeryn the First! The Iron Prince! The King who understands that power shared is power lost!"

He laughed, a sharp, wild sound that echoed through the armory. The knights cheered, following their commander's lead.

Daemon's mind was already racing. His uncle had just alienated the Velaryons, the most powerful house in the realm. He had created a rift. And in that rift, a cunning man could find opportunities. His loyalty to Aeryn was real, but it was the loyalty of one predator to a greater one. For now, he would serve. He would be the King's sharpest sword. He would watch, he would learn, and he would wait. Because the game had just become infinitely more interesting. The King had just reminded everyone of the true nature of power, and Daemon was an eager and appreciative student.