The courtyard of the Red Keep was already a crucible of cold tension, even on a day bright with the harsh sun of King's Landing. Aemond Targaryen, standing near the training grounds, was engaged in a venomous, low-voiced argument with his kin. Viserys, frail and slumped in his chair, was trying to mediate. Aegon II, perpetually sullen, was nursing a goblet of wine, and Helaena, always gazing into some far-off place, was quietly humming a song about silk and three blind mice.

Nearby, the "Blacks" were equally present, adding to the toxic equilibrium: Rhaenyra stood with the cool dignity of a Queen-in-waiting, flanked by Daemon, whose expression was perpetually one of predatory challenge. Their children—Jacaerys, Lucerys, and the younger ones—stood nearby, caught in the undertow of the family feud. The entire scene was a ticking clock. Suddenly, the brilliant sunshine vanished. It was instantaneous and total. Not a cloud, not a storm, but a profound, overwhelming eclipse. A shadow so vast, so incredibly dense, fell over the entire city of King's Landing that the world plunged into a surreal, unnatural twilight. Faces that were just moments ago illuminated by the sun were now drawn and pale in the deep, purplish gloom.

The arguments ceased. Every head—Gold Cloaks, Kingsguard, Targaryens alike—snapped skyward. The sheer size of the shadow defied any known natural phenomenon. It was too wide, too low, and moving too slowly to be a simple cloud formation. Aemond Targaryen, who knew dragons better than any person alive, was the first to react with cold, pure fury. His single, sapphire eye widened in disbelief and then narrowed in immediate, aggressive recognition."Look!" Aemond roared, his voice cutting through the sudden, terrified silence of the court. He pointed an accusing finger at the sky, his attention entirely ripped away from the squabbles over the succession. "That is not a storm! That is not a common beast! What is that magnitude of shadow?"

He immediately spun toward the nearby Kingsguard, whose white cloaks suddenly looked sickly grey in the gloom. "Ser! The dragon-hunting weaponry! Now! You fools, do you think that the Black Dread himself has returned to mock us? Fetch the heavy crossbows—the ones forged with iron heads specifically designed to pierce a dragon's hide! And be swift, or we will all be consumed by whatever colossal horror that is!" His focus then snapped to the Blacks, his voice rising to a raw, accusatory scream directed across the courtyard at his niece, Rhaenyra.

"Rhaenyra! Daemon! What grotesque mockery is this?! Did you send some beast from the Shadow Lands to demonstrate your power? Was Caraxes not large enough to impress us? Answer me! If that is a dragon, it is one bred from the depths of Valyria itself! Tell us what treasonous horror you have unleashed upon the King's city, or by the grace of the Seven, I will fetch Vhagar and burn the very air beneath that thing!"