A Song of Ash and Empire

Chapter 5: Omen or Folly



The solar was quiet again, the boy's nervous voice lingering only as a faint memory.

Jaehaerys Targaryen sat in his chair by the fire, a goblet of wine cradled in his hand, his thoughts heavy. The boy—Rhaegar—had surprised him. Not because of the dream itself. No, dragon dreams were not unheard of in Targaryen blood, though they were rare enough. What surprised Jaehaerys was the boy's composure, his choice to bring such a matter directly to the king, and the conviction in his young voice.

He was only eight.

Eight years old, and yet Rhaegar had stood there, trembling but determined, weaving a story of fire and blood that left even Jaehaerys uncertain. The boy had looked fragile, like a sapling trying to weather a storm, but there was steel in him. A quiet, dangerous steel.

Jaehaerys took a slow sip of wine, his gaze fixed on the flickering flames in the hearth.

Fire. Blood. A prince struck down by shadow.

The words rolled over in his mind, circling like vultures. Rhaegar had been vague, as dreamers often were, but the images he described felt uncomfortably clear. Fire rising high, blood falling, a shadow in the Stormlands. A prince lost.

Jaehaerys frowned. Aemon. His eldest son, the Prince of Dragonstone, had been spending more and more time dealing with unrest in the Stormlands. Petty rebellions, Stepstone raiders, troublemakers who needed to be put in their place.

Could the boy have seen his uncle's death?

The thought made his stomach tighten. Aemon was strong, capable, and cautious. But no man was invincible. One bolt, one arrow, one blade in the dark was all it took to snuff out even the brightest flame.

Jaehaerys set the goblet down on the desk with a soft clink, his lips pressing into a thin line. He wasn't a man prone to flights of fancy. Dreams, prophecies, omens—such things could not be trusted blindly. They were slippery things, full of half-truths and riddles, easy to misinterpret.

And yet, he could not ignore them. Not when they came from Targaryen blood.

Daenys the Dreamer had seen the Doom of Valyria in her visions and saved her family by leading them across the Narrow Sea. Her dragon dreams had been true, and the Targaryens owed their survival to her. Other dreamers had risen since, each leaving their mark on the family's history.

But dragon dreams were not always so grand. Sometimes, they were fleeting glimpses of nothing, or strange riddles that revealed themselves too late. How could he know whether Rhaegar's dream was truth or folly?

I can't, he thought grimly. Not yet.

The boy himself was another puzzle entirely.

Jaehaerys leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers as he replayed the encounter in his mind. Rhaegar had been nervous—terrified, even—but beneath the fear, there had been something else.

Conviction.

The boy had spoken as if he truly believed in what he had seen. There had been no hesitation in his words, no sign of deceit. And yet…

He's clever. Too clever for his years.

Jaehaerys had ruled long enough to know when someone was hiding something. Rhaegar had been earnest, yes, but there had been a flicker of calculation in his violet eyes, as though he were weighing each word before he spoke.

"What are you hiding, boy?" Jaehaerys murmured to himself.

He rose from his chair and began to pace the room, his hands clasped behind his back. Rhaegar was his grandson, and a promising one at that. The boy had always been sharp, devouring books and asking questions that made his tutors pause.

And now, at eight, he had brought the king a dream of fire and shadows. Was it truly a warning, or was it something else? A child's imagination, perhaps? A ploy for attention? Or—Jaehaerys paused, his brow furrowing—something more deliberate?

It was no secret that Targaryens were ambitious, even as children. Could Rhaegar have fabricated the dream to gain favor or sow fear? The boy was certainly intelligent enough to try.

Jaehaerys shook his head. No, that didn't feel right. Rhaegar had been too frightened, too uncertain. A schemer would have come with more confidence, more polish.

And yet…

The king's gaze shifted to the map on the wall, his eyes tracing the Stormlands. Trouble had been brewing there for months, growing like a weed beneath the surface. Aemon had been sent to deal with it, and he would undoubtedly succeed. But now, Jaehaerys couldn't shake the image of his son standing in the flames, blood spilling down his throat.

"A shadow in the Stormlands," Jaehaerys murmured.

The boy's words gnawed at him, their vagueness both frustrating and haunting. A shadow could mean anything—a person, a place, even a concept. But if it were true, if Rhaegar's dream was a warning, then what could he do to prevent it?

Should I recall Aemon? No, that would show weakness. Should I warn him? But how do I explain why? 'My grandson had a dream, so stay inside your castle'?

Jaehaerys sighed, his shoulders heavy. He had ruled long enough to know that sometimes, even a king could do nothing but wait.

I will write to him. Warn him to be cautious and alert.

He returned to his chair, lowering himself slowly, the weight of his years pressing down on him. For now, he would watch. He would listen. If Rhaegar's dream was true, the signs would reveal themselves in time.

But there was one thing he knew for certain: Rhaegar had the blood of the dragon in him, and that made him dangerous.

Dangerous, and perhaps necessary.

As the fire crackled softly in the hearth, Jaehaerys reached for his quill, his thoughts settling into quiet determination.

"I hope your words are facetious and not an omen, boy," he murmured.


Tip: You can use left, right, A and D keyboard keys to browse between chapters.