105 AC - Kings Landing - Third Person POV
The Seven Kingdoms basked in the golden age of House Targaryen, their dragons soaring above a realm united under King Viserys I. In King's Landing, the Red Keep's small council chamber was a crucible of ambition and strategy, its walls adorned with tapestries of Aegon's Conquest. On a balmy morning, Viserys presided over a meeting, his silver-gold hair gleaming, his genial demeanor masking the weight of the crown. Around the polished table sat his advisors: Lord Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake; Ser Otto Hightower, Hand of the King; Lord Lyman Beesbury, Master of Coin; Lord Lyonel Strong, Master of Laws; Grand Maester Mellos; and Ser Harrold Westerling, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. The air was thick with tension, as the Stepstones' pirate scourge dominated the agenda.
The Small Council Meeting
The Red Keep's small council chamber was a study in contrasts: opulent yet austere, its high windows casting slants of morning light across a polished oak table. King Viserys I Targaryen, a man of middling years with silver hair and a genial demeanor, sat at the head, his fingers tracing the rim of a golden goblet. His crown, a simple band of Valyrian steel, rested lightly on his brow, but his eyes betrayed a weariness born of endless debates. Around him gathered his advisors, each a titan of influence, their voices a chorus of competing agendas.
Lord Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, dominated the room's energy. His sea-green robes shimmered, embroidered with the silver seahorse of his house, and his weathered face was taut with barely restrained fury. As Master of Ships, his mercantile empire spanned the Narrow Sea, yet recent losses gnawed at him. "Your Grace," he began, his deep voice resonating like a drum, "the situation in the Stepstones grows dire. Craghas Drahar—Crabfeeder, they call him—chokes our trade with his piracy. My ships are harried, my men slaughtered. House Velaryon faces ruin if this continues. We must act. Send the fleet, burn them out, clear the shipping lanes!"
His hands, usually restless with the vigor of a man who'd sailed from Driftmark to Qarth, were clenched, knuckles white. The room stilled, the weight of his words sinking in. Lord Corlys was no mere lord—he was the realm's greatest mariner, his wealth rivaling the Lannisters', his pride as vast as the seas he commanded.
Otto Hightower, Hand of the King, responded with practiced calm. Tall and lean, his green doublet immaculate, Otto's voice was smooth, each word measured to soothe or sway. "Lord Corlys," he said, gently clearing his throat, "we understand your concerns deeply. Your losses pain the Crown. However, direct involvement carries significant risks. If we attack the Stepstones, the Triarchy—Myr, Tyrosh, Lys—may interpret it as aggression against them. We could find ourselves in a larger, costlier war."
His gaze flicked to Lord Lyman Beesbury, Master of Coin, who flinched, his elderly hands fumbling with a ledger. "A war?" Beesbury squeaked, his voice thin. "The treasury is strong, but a prolonged conflict… the cost, Your Grace, could beggar us."
Corlys scoffed, his patience fraying. "Pirates, Lord Hand! Not a kingdom! They're rabble, preying on our weakness. We have dragons—Syrax, Caraxes, Meleys! We have ships! Let us show the world Targaryen might!"
Ser Harrold Westerling, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, shifted in his white cloak, his voice gruff. "Dragons are no small matter, Lord Velaryon. Deploying them risks escalation. The Triarchy has wealth and sellswords aplenty."
Grand Maester Mellos, his chain clinking, nodded sagely. "And dragons are not invincible. A stray scorpion bolt, a cunning trap… we've lost them before."
Viserys sighed, his shoulders slumping. He was a man who craved peace, his reign built on feasts and tourneys, not bloodshed. The Dance of the Dragons, a future he could not foresee, was but a distant storm, yet the Stepstones' unrest stirred his unease. "Lord Corlys," he said, his voice quiet but firm, "your concerns are valid, and I value your vigor. But the realm cannot afford war—not now. Ser Otto is right. We must seek diplomacy. Envoys will be sent to the Triarchy. Perhaps terms can be negotiated, a price paid for passage."
Corlys's jaw tightened, his eyes flashing, but he held his tongue. The Hand's influence had prevailed, as it often did. Otto, sensing the tension, pivoted smoothly. "Your Grace, let us turn to brighter matters. The preparations for the tourney are going splendidly."
Viserys's face brightened, his love for spectacle evident. "Well done, Ser Otto. A grand tourney, with knights from every corner. Lord Beesbury, what is the tourney price?"
Beesbury, relieved to escape war talk, shuffled his papers. "Ten thousand gold dragons, Your Grace, for prizes, feasts, and stands. The smallfolk will flock to it."
Lord Lyonel Strong, Master of Laws, leaned forward, his golden hair catching the light. "A tourney strengthens alliances, Your Grace."
Corlys, still simmering, muttered, "A tourney won't clear the Stepstones."
Otto's smile was thin. "Patience, Lord Velaryon. Diplomacy will resolve it."
The meeting dragged on, touching on minor matters: a border dispute in the Stormlands, a petition from the Faith, the upkeep of the dragonpit. One by one, the advisors bowed and departed, Corlys's strides heavy with unspoken frustration. Viserys remained, staring at the table, his thoughts on his unborn child and the fragile peace he hoped to preserve.
#### The Stepstones: A New Dominion
Meanwhile, in the Stepstones, Domonic Augustus, Daenerys Targaryen, and Missandei Augustus stood on Bloodstone's shores.
The morning sun burned away the mist as they prepared for King's Landing. Domonic, in a Golden tunic, checked his inventory, his Elder Wand at his side. He cast Disillusionment charms on them and then apparitioned to the Street of Steel. Then he said, his voice calm. "We're travelers, not conquerors—yet."
Daenerys, her silver hair hidden under a hooded cloak, grinned, her Mera Mera no Mi simmering. "I can't wait to see Syrax and Caraxes. Rhaenyra's dragon will be a sight."
Missandei nodded, her emerald silks practical for travel.
Domonic cast the Disillusionment Charm, rendering them invisible, and they apparated with a *pop* to a grimy alley in King's Landing's Street of Steel. The stench of shit and piss hit like a hammer, making Daenerys wrinkle her nose. "Gods, this place reeks."
Missandei gagged, her voice muffled. "How do they live like this?"
Domonic raised his Elder Wand, casting Bubble-Head Charms. Fresh air enveloped them, and he grinned. "Better. Let's explore."
They roamed the city, invisible, weaving through crowded markets where hawkers sold fish and bread. The Red Keep loomed above, its spires a stark contrast to Flea Bottom's squalor. At the dragonpit, they slipped inside, the Disillusionment Charm shielding them from guards. Syrax, Caraxes, and Dreamfyre lounged in their chains, their scales glinting. Daenerys's eyes sparkled. "Look at them—magnificent. Syrax is Rhaenyra's, Caraxes Daemon's."
Missandei's vines stirred, her voice soft. "They're caged, Dany. Dragons should fly free."
Domonic's Haki scanned the pit, sensing no threats. "They're strong, but Rhaegal's fiercer. Let's move."
On the streets, they overheard talk of the Heir's Tourney, a grand event for Viserys's unborn child. A fishmonger boasted, "Ser Borros Baratheon will win the melee, mark me!" A baker countered, "Nay, Prince Daemon's got fire in him!" Domonic's grin was sly. "A tourney? I'm in."
Daenerys raised an eyebrow, her voice teasing. "Going to show off, love?"
Missandei chuckled, her vines twitching. "He can't resist. Let him have his fun."
They roamed until dusk, noting the Red Keep's spires and the city's pulse. With a final pop, they apparated back to Bloodstone, the castle's warmth a stark contrast to King's Landing's filth.
Domonic turned to Missandei, his voice decisive. "Missy, I want the Stepstones green. Trees, vines—make it ours."
Missandei's Mori Mori no Mi surged, her hands glowing. "As you wish." Vines erupted across Bloodstone, spreading to every island. Oaks and cedars rose, their roots cracking stone, transforming the barren Stepstones into a verdant archipelago. By nightfall, the islands bloomed, a testament to her power.
Daenerys clapped, her laugh bright. "It's beautiful, Missy. A pirate's grave turned paradise."
Domonic nodded, his voice proud. "This is our base. Now, we plan for King's Landing—and Essos."
Over dinner in the castle's hall, they discussed their next steps, the Heir's Tourney looming large. Domonic would enter as a mysterious knight, testing this era's champions. Daenerys would observe, she would pose as his wife of Valyrian descent, while Missandei prepared for her travel to Astapor. The Stepstones, now a green fortress, stood ready to anchor their ambitions in 105 AC, as the World Travel Gate's promise of infinite worlds whispered of adventures yet to come.