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Chapter Text

Daemon POV

Daemon’s steps were heavy as he made his way back to their chamber in the Sea Dragon Tower, each footfall dragging him further into the depths of his own torment. The castle's ancient stone seemed to press down on him, the weight of its history and the burden of his lineage threatening to crush him beneath their collective might. He had spent the whole day ensuring the loyalty of the Queensguard, his every command laced with the unspoken threat of what would happen should they fail in their duty, and the whole night making sure that the defense in Dragonstone is tight. But it was all a distraction, a futile attempt to outrun the agony that gnawed at his soul.

The pregnancy was too young, just a little more than seven moons. Daemon knew, with a bitter certainty, that the babe would not survive. The thought of it made his stomach churn, the bile rising in his throat as memories he had tried to bury clawed their way back to the surface. of his fierce mother, Princess Alyssa's heart-wrenching screams trying to bring his brother to the world. Only for her to waste away and eventually die. Of Laena, his adventurous and beautiful wife, had chosen death by dragonfire rather than the butchery of childbed. Her screams, the heat of the flames, the sight of Vhagar’s fire consuming her—all of it haunted him still. He had tried to hide how deeply it had wounded him, how the trauma had festered in his heart like a wound that refused to heal. But hearing Rhaenyra’s shouts, her cries of pain echoing through the corridors of Dragonstone, had ripped open that old scar.

Rhaenyra, his niece, his beloved wife—he could protect her from the poison-tipped swords of their enemies, from the scheming of the Greens, but he could not protect her from the cruel hands of fate. He could not shield her from the perils of childbed, the very thing that had claimed his mother, his aunt Daella, his cousin Aemma and his second wife, Laena. The thought of losing her as he had lost them was a terror so profound that he could scarcely breathe. If she died, if Rhaenyra was taken from him by this cursed birth, Daemon knew he would burn the whole of the Seven Kingdoms to the ground. Let the Greens hope and pray that his wife survived, for if she did not, there would be no place in the world that would be safe from his wrath.

He had spent the entire night roaming the castle, inspecting every guard, every gate, every hidden corner of Dragonstone, as if by securing its defenses he could somehow secure Rhaenyra’s life. Her shouts reverberated through his mind, and he could not bear to be near them. They were a siren’s call, dragging him back to the worst moments of his life. But he could not stay away forever. When word finally reached him that Rhaenyra had delivered a stillborn girl, but that she herself had survived, Daemon felt the icy grip of dread loosen just slightly.

The sun was already rising by the time he found himself standing before the door to their room. His hand, usually so steady, trembled as he pushed it open. The sight that greeted him was one that would be seared into his memory for the rest of his days. Rhaenyra, pale and drawn, was wrapping their child in cloth, her movements slow and deliberate. Daemon’s eyes were drawn to the stone table where the tiny body lay—so still, so heartbreakingly small.

A girl. They had a girl.

Rhaenyra had always wanted a sister to dote on and love. She had spoken of it often, of how she had longed for a companion, someone she could protect and cherish. But instead, she had been given a half-Andal sister, one whom she had been kept from by the Green Queen. The Green Bitch, Rhaenyra had called her, bitterly recounting how Alicent had never allowed her near the child. As if Rhaenyra were some sort of contagion, as if her mere presence might taint the girl. But it was not Rhaenyra’s blood that had polluted their Valyrian heritage; it was Alicent’s. Daemon’s lip curled in disdain as he thought of the Hightower brood—a drunken rapist, a one-eyed beast who took pleasure in tormenting those weaker than himself, a simpleton girl who was either mad or cursed, and a forgettable son raised in Oldtown. All twisted in one way or another, each a testament to the corruption of their mother’s Andal blood.

Daemon approached Rhaenyra slowly, his gaze fixed on their daughter’s tiny form. His heart ached with a sorrow so deep it threatened to swallow him whole. Rhaenyra did not look up as he neared, her attention focused entirely on the task at hand. She was broken, but she would survive. She was strong, stronger than anyone he had ever known, and that strength would carry her through this. But at what cost? Daemon reached out, his hand hovering over the cloth that wrapped their daughter. He wanted to touch her, to feel the reality of her existence, but he could not bring himself to do it. Instead, he let his hand fall to Rhaenyra’s shoulder, offering her the only comfort he could.

When Rhaenyra turned to Daemon, her eyes were hollow, void of the light he loved so fiercely. The deep sorrow etched into her features was unmistakable, a grief that went beyond the loss of their child. Her skin was still pale from childbirth, her strength sapped by the agony she had endured. When she finally spoke, her voice was distant, almost as if she were speaking from another realm.

“I dreamt,” she whispered, her gaze unfocused. “While I was laboring, I was awake, but I know I dreamt.”

Daemon’s heart clenched at her words, a cold dread settling in his chest. “What did you dream about?” he asked, his voice rough with the fear he tried to keep at bay.

Rhaenyra turned back to the tiny body she was wrapping in cloth, her movements slow and deliberate. “Our deaths,” she said softly. “All of us will die. Visenya, then Luke, Rhaenys, Jace, little Viserys, you, Joffrey, and then me. Aegon will follow next. We will all die.”

It hit Daemon like a blow. He moved closer, his hand brushing against hers as if to anchor her in the present, away from the terrible visions. “I will protect you,” he vowed, his voice fierce with determination. “I will protect all of you.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes, still distant, flicked to his. “No matter how mighty the Rogue Prince is, you are only one man,” she said with a quiet intensity. “You will die trying to secure me the crown. I will not let that happen again. Not for a chair of melted swords.”

Daemon’s frown deepened at her words, a mixture of disbelief and frustration boiling within him. “You wish to surrender?” he asked, his voice thick with incredulity. “Give up your rightful throne?”

Rhaenyra averted her eyes, her focus returning to the delicate task of wrapping their daughter. She did not answer him, and her silence only fueled the turmoil inside him. He began to pace the room, his agitation growing with each step. He was trying to compose himself, trying to find the right words to make her see reason, but the fear of losing her, of losing everything, clouded his thoughts.

“Even if you give up your claim to the throne,” Daemon said, his voice rising with a desperate edge, “the Hightowers will never let you or our children live. They will put everyone to the sword the minute they can.”

“I know.” Rhaenyra murmured, her voice barely audible. “But I do not want to put the kingdom to the torch.”

Daemon’s frustration boiled over, his emotions too raw, too powerful to be contained. “What kingdom?” he demanded. “A kingdom that would rather see us dead than honor our blood? They will hunt us down, Rhaenyra. They will kill our children, our family, and they will claim what is ours. I will not let them.”

Still, Rhaenyra did not answer. Her silence was as heavy as the grief that filled the room. Instead, she called for the servants, instructing them to take their daughter’s body to the altar at the Dragonmont and to prepare the funeral pyre. Daemon’s heart twisted as he watched her, knowing there was nothing he could say that would ease her pain.

Once the servants had left, Daemon moved to her side. He helped her to the sunken tub connected to their chamber, the water warm and soothing. As he wiped the blood from her thighs and the sweat from her brow, he tried to wash away the tragedy that clung to her. The water darkened with sorrow as he cleansed her, each gentle stroke of the cloth an attempt to erase the pain, the loss, the memories that haunted them both.

Daemon’s hands moved through her hair, washing away the remnants of the nightmarish ordeal. The strands were heavy with the weight of grief, and as he rinsed them clean, he wished he could do the same for her heart. But some wounds were too deep, some stains too dark to be washed away by mere water.

When she was clean, he dressed her in a simple black gown, its thick overdress designed to resemble dragon scales, as if the armor might shield her from the world outside. He placed a heavy cloak over her shoulders, its weight meant to protect, to comfort, but he knew it was a poor substitute for the warmth that had been stolen from their lives.

Before they left the chamber, Rhaenyra paused, her hand reaching for a sconce on the wall beside their bed, the one they never used. With a soft creak, she pulled it, and to Daemon’s astonishment, the wall behind it began to shift, revealing a hidden passage. Daemon followed her into the tight space, the air growing cooler with each step, carrying the faint scent of stone and secrecy. The passage was narrow, the walls close enough to brush against his shoulders, and the sense of being ensnared in a long-forgotten secret weighed heavily on him.

At the end of the passage, they emerged into a small, circular room—so cramped it could barely contain more than the winding staircase that spiraled upward. The space felt almost like a well, its walls smooth and curving, with the stonework of Dragonstone itself forming the very fabric of the room. There was little here but the staircase, which wound upwards in a tight spiral, leading to a circular room.

Daemon's eyes traced the contours of the walls, noting two small, round windows set deep into the stone. They were narrow and nearly hidden, allowing only the faintest sliver of light to pierce through, casting dim, ethereal glows that played across the cold, dark stone. These windows, Daemon realized, were the eyes of the dragon—the very head of the stone dragon that formed the Sea Dragon Tower. The room itself was located at the crown of the beast, a place so secluded that even the air felt different, as if it were trapped in time.

Rhaenyra’s voice was soft, almost reverent. “This was Visenya’s room.” she whispered, and the words seemed to hang in the air, absorbed by the very stones around them.

The room was filled with curious things—stone tablets covered in Valyrian, glyphs, runes and other strange markings, scrolls made from unfamiliar materials, and objects that seemed to belong to another time, another world. 

In the center of the room stood a large, dark cauldron, its surface etched with intricate symbols that glimmered faintly in the low light. It rested upon a stone pedestal that had been smoothed by countless years of use, a silent witness to the arcane practices that had once occurred here. Surrounding the cauldron was a wooden workbench, cluttered with an assortment of curious items that spoke of ancient sorcery.

Glass jars, their surfaces thick with dust, were lined up on the shelves and strewn across the bench. Inside, dried herbs with vibrant hues mingled with crystalline powders and murky liquids. Despite their age, the contents of these jars seemed to retain a strange vitality, as if the magic they held had been preserved through time.

Scattered across the workbench and stacked in neat piles were ancient scrolls and tomes. The leather bindings were worn and cracked, their titles nearly illegible, but the symbols and diagrams visible on their pages hinted at powerful rituals and forgotten spells. Some scrolls were tightly rolled and bound with faded silk ribbons, while others were unfurled, revealing intricate illustrations and arcane notations.

Set into the walls and laid across the bench were small, rectangular stone tablets inscribed with cryptic runes and celestial charts. Their surfaces, worn smooth by frequent handling, spoke of deep knowledge and mystical practices.

In a corner of the room, a small, ancient cabinet held an assortment of peculiar instruments: tarnished brass astrolabes, a silver mortar and pestle, and a set of brass compasses. Their purpose remained unclear, but they radiated an air of forgotten magic.

Hanging from the walls were faded tapestries depicting dragons and celestial motifs. Several ritualistic items were displayed prominently: polished obsidian blades with intricately carved handles, a large scrying mirror with a tarnished frame, and delicately embroidered robes that spoke of ceremonial grandeur.

It was the chamber of a blood mage, a place steeped in the dark arts and ancient knowledge.

Rhaenyra’s fingers traced along the hidden seam in the stone wall, revealing a concealed storage alcove. The cool, dry air that escaped was tinged with the scent of ancient secrets. As the wall slid open, Daemon’s gaze fell upon an array of mystical relics that spoke of fire and blood—symbols of the Targaryen legacy.

Within the alcove lay an assortment of arcane items: dragon claws, scales, and bones, each meticulously preserved. Scattered among these were vials of dark, thick substances, their contents shifting with an unsettling vitality, as though they held the very essence of sorcery. A large, ceremonial brazier stood against one wall, its intricate patterns gleaming faintly in the dim light, promising the power of fire with but a spark.

Rhaenyra’s eyes lit with a grim determination as she reached for a particular item—a magnificent crown, cradled in a velvet-lined box. She placed it gently upon the stone table with a reverent touch.

“This was the Crown of Visenya.” She said, it was a regal artifact forged from the finest Valyrian steel and adorned with rubies that caught the flicker of light like fire itself. The crown was a masterpiece of craftsmanship: its dark hue spoke of ancient might, and its rubies were set with the precision of a master jeweler, glimmering like the fierce eyes of dragons.

Rhaenyra’s voice broke the heavy silence. “Rhaenys had commissioned three crowns for the Conquerors. Rhaenys’s crown was lost when she fell in Dorne, and the twin of this is now worn by the usurper.” Her fingers lingered over the crown, caressing its intricate design, but Daemon’s gaze fell upon the dark streaks of blood that marred its surface. The sight made his heart lurch as Rhaenyra had cut herself on the sharp edges. He rushed to her side, his concern etched into every line of his face.

She pulled her hand away, her eyes blazing with a fierce resolve. “The Targaryens ruled through fire and blood. We nurtured our fire, our dragons, but we forgot our bloody past. Blood magic is as much a part of us as our dragons. Aegon, in his quest for acceptance, ignored it. Even Maegor, who only survived because of blood magic, was undone by it. I never thought I would use this knowledge, it is too chaotic, it can barely be controlled. But the cruelty of our enemies has left me no choice.”

Daemon saw the fire rekindle in Rhaenyra’s eyes, a stark contrast to the weariness that had plagued her.

When she placed the blood-stained crown atop their daughter’s still form at the altar at the Dragonmont, her voice trembled with vengeance. “The Greens murdered my daughter. She will aid me in bringing them all to ruin.” As she bowed, pressing her forehead to the cold, lifeless brow of their child, Daemon could see her lips moving, whispering a prayer that seemed to seep from the depths of her soul.

“O Flames of the Fourteen, heed my call,
Witness the blood of my child’s fall,
And the fire of a mother’s vengeful might,
As I curse those who brought this blight.

Let ill-gotten crowns turn to leaden weight,
And stolen thrones pierce their fate,
May his sword falter, his dragon’s flame freeze,
And darkness claim his sight with ease.

Let ambition’s waves rise and engulf,
The traitors’ greed and false gods’ gulf,
Till they are drowned by the tidal surge,
Of their own making, from which none can emerge.

Strike them with lightning’s fierce might,
As storms rend their fortresses in the night,
Let the earth quake beneath their feet,
And treachery face its just defeat.

Let flames blaze through their false glory,
Turning their lands to ashes and story,
Till naught remains but echoes of pride,
And silence claims the pride they hide.

The atmosphere crackled with a palpable energy, so intense that it seemed to tingle at his fingertips like the kiss of lightning. The air was thick with a stinging, sulfurous odor, a heavy scent that clung to the throat and made every breath feel foul and acrid. It was as if the very essence of the storm was entwined with the flames, its dark energy seeping into the night. Daemon's senses were overwhelmed by the putrid stench, a grim reminder of the wrath being invoked. Each inhalation brought a taste of the tempest's fury, a grim prelude to the devastation that would soon befall those who had wronged them. The oppressive atmosphere seemed to vibrate with malevolent power, a dark promise of retribution that left Daemon feeling both exalted and unsettled.

Rhaenyra kissed their daughter’s forehead with a tender sadness, a gesture that broke what was left of Daemon’s heart, before retreating to where their remaining children awaited. With a command to Syrax, the pyre was set ablaze.

The flames leapt high into the air, and for a moment, it was as if the very heart of the mountain had erupted in fury. The fire danced with an otherworldly brilliance, shifting from a deep, angry red to a haunting black, then to a sickly green, and back again. It was a spectacle like no other—like an eruption of a dragon’s breath from Dragonmont itself. The flames roared and writhed, casting eerie shadows that seemed to take on forms of their own, painting the night sky with their unearthly glow.

As the inferno of the pyre reached its zenith, the dragons of Dragonstone erupted into the sky with an anguished roar, their presence an awe-inspiring testament to the ferocity of their grief. Syrax and Caraxes, two of the most formidable beasts, soared above with a wrathful intensity. Syrax’s scales glinted like molten gold in the firelight, her wings beating furiously against the darkening sky, while Caraxes, his eyes aflame with fury, followed suit with a discordant whistle that reverberated through the heavens. Their fiery breath arched across the sky, a brilliant, uncontrollable storm that clashed with the pyre’s flames, intertwining in a celestial display of rage.

Vermax, Arrax, Tyraxes, Moondancer, and Little Stormcloud, in stark contrast, wailed in heart-wrenching grief. Vermax’s powerful wings flapped weakly, his cry a mournful lament that echoed across the island. Arrax, his great form casting fleeting shadows in the fire’s glow, hovered with a somber sadness. Tyraxes, Moondancer, and Little Stormcloud joined in the sorrowful chorus, their roars blending into a symphony of desolation that tugged at the heartstrings of all who beheld it.

The ancient Vermithor and Silverwing, having long buried their sorrow beneath the stoic veneer of their ages, took to the skies with a solemn dignity. Vermithor’s roar was a deep, resonant rumble that spoke of centuries of wisdom and sorrow, while Silverwing’s cry was a mournful, piercing lament, her silvery scales shimmering like tears in the night.

Seamoke, ever the wild spirit, added his voice to the cacophony with a fierce, guttural roar that shook the air. His flame, though less controlled, roared with an elemental rage, a primal scream of defiance and sorrow.

The wild dragons, Sheepstealer, Grey Ghost, and the Cannibal, emerged from their lairs in a chaotic, wild frenzy. Sheepstealer’s breath was a volatile tempest of fire and smoke, his roars harsh and unrestrained. Grey Ghost, with his spectral presence, issued a ghostly wail that seemed to haunt the very air, while the Cannibal’s roar was a savage, brutal eruption, his flames lashing out with a fury that sent tremors through the earth.

The Councilors and nobles of Dragonstone gathered around, their expressions a mixture of sorrow, awe, and respect. Lords and Ladies, draped in their finery, stood in hushed reverence, their usual composure momentarily shattered by the raw display of power and grief. Their whispers mingled with the crackle of the flames, creating a symphony of mourning and determination.

The servants, their usual duties forgotten, they watched with a mixture of fear and awe as the flames painted the sky in strange, mesmerizing hues. At the base of Dragonmont, the smallfolk gathered, their faces upturned to witness the spectacle. The fire’s colors reflected in their eyes, and they whispered among themselves, their voices a blend of reverence and trepidation. To them, it was not merely a funeral pyre but a sign of the Targaryens’ indomitable will and the extraordinary events unfolding before them.

As the flames roared higher, the Queensguard knelt before the inferno, their armor gleaming in the firelight, their faces set in expressions of solemn reverence. It was a night that none would forget—a night when the wrath of dragons was unleashed, and the world trembled in response.

The commotion at the foot of Dragonmont drew Daemon’s attention. He turned to see Ser Erryk approaching, his white cloak soiled and his armor scratched. He knelt before the crowd, the weight of the Crown of the Conciliator clasped carefully in his hands. His voice, steady despite the exhaustion, rang clear over the murmurs of the gathered nobles, servants, and smallfolk.

“I am Ser Erryk, of the Queensguards,” he began, his tone solemn and respectful. “Before the fire and the ancestors of House Targaryen, I swear an oath. I swear to ward the Queen with all my strength and give my blood for hers. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall guard her secrets, obey her commands, ride at her side, and defend her name and honor."

The solemnity of his vow echoed through the still air, the weight of his words resonating with those who stood by. Daemon took the Crown from Erryk with a somber nod.

This was the Crown of the Conciliator, a symbol of the peace that King Viserys had strived to maintain, even as he turned a blind eye to the encroaching darkness. Viserys had hoped to be a unifier, but his reluctance had allowed poison to seep into the very land they cherished.

His brother had tried so desperately to be like their grandsire, to bridge the chasms that divided their realm. Yet, in his pursuit of harmony, he had closed his eyes to the insidious corruption seeping into the Iron Throne. Viserys's failure was not one of heart but of will. Daemon  hoped that by donning this very crown, Rhaenyra would embody all that Viserys had aspired but failed to be—strong, just, the bringer of peace.

Daemon harbored a quiet hope that, despite donning the Crown of the Counciliator—a symbol deeply tied to Viserys’ vision—Rhaenyra would carve a different path. He wished for her to transcend the pacifism of her father, to place the welfare of their family above all other concerns. Viserys, in his effort to be a conciliator, had often overlooked the pressing needs of their House, weakening them and allowing discontent to fester.

Daemon’s aspiration was for Rhaenyra to be a ruler who would not only uphold the legacy of their ancestors but also prioritize the Targaryen family’s stability and strength. He wanted her reign to reflect a balance between her father’s idealism and a more pragmatic approach to governance—one that would protect their family’s position and secure the realm from internal strife and external threats.

As he put the Crown on Rhaenyra’s brown and knelt in front of her, Daemon hoped that the crown, though once worn by Viserys, would symbolize a new era of strength and unwavering loyalty to their House, ensuring that the Targaryens remained the stalwart pillars of the Kingdom.

Alicent POV

Lords and Ladies of the Seven Kingdoms,

It is with heavy heart and unyielding resolve that I, Rhaenyra Targaryen, must declare with grave sorrow that the Crown of my ancestors has been seized by grasping mongrels. The Hightower faction, in their avarice and deceit, has unveiled their true colors, seeking to place their own blood upon the Iron Throne and erase the Targaryen lineage which  brought harmony to theses lands once plagued by endless war.

The murder of my beloved daughter, Visenya, stains the hands of Alicent Hightower, who has defied my father’s wishes even before his ashes were laid to rest upon Dragonstone. Just as Alicent desecrated the memory of Queen Aemma by climbing the bed of King Viserys the very night Queen Aemma was consigned to the pyre, so too has she trampled upon the honor of our House.

Let it be known that the Conqueror forged these Seven Kingdoms from the fires of war, and his legacy will not tolerate the filth of treacherous blood upon the Throne. Beware, for the wrath of Valyria shall rise in vengeance. The time of reckoning is nigh and no one shall escape it.

— Rhaenyra Targaryen, Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men. Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm

Alicent Hightower's delicate hands twisted anxiously in her lap as the Grand Maester’s voice gradually faded into the stillness of the room. His words had fallen like leaden weights, amplifying the oppressive silence from Dragonstone that had lingered for an unnerving month. It was as if the very air had been poisoned with their diplomatic defeat, and the very notion that Rhaenyra had chosen to remain mute only heightened the tension.

With a weary sigh, Alicent's thoughts churned with a deep-seated bitterness. Her father, Otto Hightower, had made a valiant effort to negotiate terms at Dragonstone, only to be turned away with a derisive flourish, their ship repelled by the ominous sweep of two dragons. The humiliation of that rejection stung sharply, a stark reminder of Rhaenyra’s disdainful arrogance.

In Alicent’s mind, Rhaenyra embodied an unearned entitlement, a princess accustomed to having everything served on a silver platter merely by virtue of her birthright. It was a sentiment that had festered since Rhaenyra’s childhood, her every whim indulged without the necessity of labor or struggle. This unearned privilege had shaped her into a figure of profound arrogance—an arrogance Alicent was certain would lead to her downfall. It was a dangerous flaw, one that promised to unravel her ambitions.

The Small Council room, now filled with a charged atmosphere, bore witness to a variety of reactions. Jasper Wylde’s gaze, barely concealed behind an insidious leer, betrayed his amusement at the Queen’s discomfort. Lord Tyland Lannister, ever the picture of detached contemplation, kept his eyes trained firmly on the floor, avoiding the volatile energy that hung in the air. Meanwhile, Ser Otto Hightower’s face had flushed a deep shade of red, reflecting the sting of failure and the mounting pressure.

Aegon, scratching his head in a distracted manner, looked annoyed, the Conqueror's crown, though forged from Valyrian steel, sat heavily on his brow, and Aegon had already begun to complain of its discomfort. She could see the red outline it left on his forehead, a stark reminder of the sacrifices made to place it there. Yet she had told him he must endure it, for so much had been sacrificed for him to wear that crown. In his characteristic lack of decorum, he broke the silence with a question that seemed to cut through the gravity of the moment.

“What did Rhaenyra mean when she insinuated that you climbed onto the King’s bed on the night of Queen Aemma’s funeral, Mother?”

Alicent’s pallor deepened, her gaze falling away as her fingers gripped the edges of her seat, her nails digging into her palms until they bled. Her demeanor was one of palpable distress, her composure fraying under the weight of the inquiry. Her father, the Lord Hand, sensing the growing discomfort, attempted to soothe the situation with assurances

"Such claims were nothing more than senseless rumors meant to divert attention from Rhaenyra’s own indiscretions." Otto said.

Yet Aegon, ever inquisitive, was not to be deterred. His eyes, gleaming with mischief, turned toward the Grand Maester with an unyielding persistence. “On what date did Mother marry Father?” he inquired, his tone a mix of curiosity and barely concealed amusement.

The Grand Maester hesitated before replying, “The fifth day of the twelfth month of the year 106 AC.”

Aegon’s lips quirked into a sardonic smile. “And I was born at the beginning of the seventh month of 107 AC,” he mused aloud, a note of derision threading his words. “How long does a pregnancy typically last, Grand Maester?”

The room fell silent, save for the rustle of fabric and the soft murmur of discontent. Aegon continued, “From my observations of Helaena’s pregnancies, I believe it’s approximately nine moons.” His voice carried a mocking lilt as he looked at his mother with feigned admiration. “I didn’t know you had it in you, Mother.” he said, his tone dripping with condescension that threatened to bring bile up her mouth.  “But really, does it matter?” he added, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “I am the King now.”

Alicent her head held high despite the heavy gaze of the assembly, tried to muster her remaining dignity. The discomfort and tension were palpable, but she remained steadfast, proud of the role she had played in her family’s ascent to power. Her son, Aegon, was now crowned King—a crowning glory she had tirelessly worked toward, and for which she felt justifiable pride.

Aegon’s voice cut through her reverie, his tone laced with curiosity and, perhaps, a hint of amusement. “What does the letter mean?” he inquired, breaking the silence. She can see long red scratches on his head and she wanted to snap at him to stop acting like a child and keep his dignity with him.

The Hand of the King took a moment to collect his thoughts before responding. “The letter,” he said with measured patience, “was simply a blunder. Rhaenyra does not possess a formidable army or allies. She is just being hysterical. Her current state—unfortunately exacerbated by a recent stillbirth—reflects the frailty that often accompanies women in such circumstances. It merely underscores the belief that women, when overwhelmed by their own vulnerabilities, cannot be relied upon to rule effectively and the Lords will notice that, her inaction will turn the Lords away from her.”

His words were followed by a snide comment from Lord Jasper Wylde, who snorted dismissively. “It happens every moon,” he said, a smirk playing on his lips. “My wives and daughters often find themselves incapacitated during their moonblood. It renders them incapable of fulfilling their duties.”

Lord Tyland Lannister, never one to miss an opportunity for humor, chuckled. “Imagine the Small Council having to adjust to the Queen’s monthly bleeding,” he said. “The Kingdom would run itself into the ground within the year.”

Laughter rippled through the room, punctuated by Alicent’s wan expression. Her gaze faltered, her cheeks flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and reluctant agreement. The notion of women being weaker and less fit to rule seemed, in their minds, an unfortunate but undeniable truth.

Alicent, grappling with her own conflicted beliefs, could not help but think that while men might have been ordained to rule by divine right, the gentler sex could at best guide the men who does towards more peaceful avenues. It was a notion ingrained in her, and one she held despite some more progressive ideas of her time. The notion that women were less suited to the throne was a sentiment she had wrestled with privately but had long accepted as a given.

Lord Tyland’s voice brought her back to the present. “My brother Jason has already begun his march from Lannisport.” he reported, his tone carrying a note of triumph. “And I understand that Your Grace’s Uncle, Lord Ormund’s, march is proceeding without conflict. The Westernland and the Reach stands firmly with the rightful King.”

Ser Otto, his composure remaining intact, turned his attention to the matter at hand. “Have there been any responses from Honeyholt, Hornhill, Goldengrove, Greyshield, Old Oak, Tumbleton, Bitterbridge, or the Three Towers?” he asked, his voice tinged with frustration.

The Grand Maester’s face darkened with worry momentarily before he replied, “No responses to our ravens as of yet. However, there has been no movement from those houses either.”

Lord Jasper’s tone grew more insistent. “Yet our spies report that the smiths in those regions are busily crafting armor and weapons. If they are not swearing fealty to the Iron Throne, they must have already bent the knee to Rhaenyra.”

Lord Tyland’s expression shifted to one of indifference as he addressed the gathering. “It is understandable that the Vale remains silent,” he remarked with a dismissive wave. “After all, Rhaenyra’s mother was an Arryn. The North, too, is distant and of little immediate consequence in the grand scheme of things.”

The Grand Maester’s brow furrowed with concern. “The situation is troubling,” he admitted, his voice steady but tinged with unease. “Thus far, only House Bracken and the Vances of Ataranta have responded to our summons from the Riverlands.”

Ser Jasper Wylde’s lips curled into a smirk as he leaned forward, his tone laden with disdain. “Lord Tully, that venerable old man, has a hold on the Riverlands as tenuous as his decrepit cock,” he said, his voice laced with a mixture of scorn and amusement. “His advanced age has rendered him as weak as the weathered flesh he so pathetically clings to.”

The assembly murmured with a mix of amusement and discomfort at Jasper’s crude remark. The Grand Maester cast a disapproving glance in his direction but chose to remain silent, while Alicent’s expression betrayed a flicker of embarrassment at the coarse language used. Before further discussion could ensue, a commotion at the door drew everyone's attention. Ser Criston, ever vigilant, opened the entrance to reveal a the guards with a disheveled figure. A man bearing the stag emblem of House Baratheon stood in the doorway, his appearance worn and filthy as if he had been on horseback for days. His clothes were caked with grime, his face shadowed by unkempt hair and a weariness that spoke of exhaustion and relentless travel.

The Hand narrowed his eyes at the disheveled figure before him. His voice was sharp as he demanded, “Who are you, and what news do you bring? Lord Borros has been silent, though he was already promised a royal match.”

The man, clad in muddied clothes and bearing the emblem of House Baratheon, took a faltering step forward. His face, lined with exhaustion, bore the marks of a harrowing journey. “My lord,” he began, his voice hoarse, “Lord Borros is dead, along with most of the people in Storm’s End.”

Gasps of shock rippled through the council chamber, the weight of the news settling like a heavy shroud over the assembled lords. Lord Tyland Lannister leaned forward, his voice filled with urgency. “Was this Prince Daemon’s doing?”

The Stormlander shook his head slowly, his eyes wide with the terror of the memory. “No, my lord. It was not man or dragon that brought this calamity upon us, but a storm—unnatural and relentless. For days, it battered Storm’s End without end. Lightnings struck the castle over and over, setting it aflame. Winds of such force that the very walls were torn apart. What remains now is but a ruin.”

The room fell deathly silent, the enormity of the disaster sinking in. The man continued, his voice trembling with desperation. “I sought help from nearby castles—Bronzegate, Haystack Hall, and Fellwood—but they turned me away, saying they wanted no part in what they called the gods’ wrath upon oath breakers. Without a leader, the people of Storm’s End are lost. The tower that housed Lord Borros and his children was struck by lightning three times before it collapsed into the sea. We are without food, without clothes—I came to King’s Landing, begging for aid.”

Ser Otto’s expression was one of deep perturbation as he processed the gravity of the situation. “We stand on the precipice of war our resources are needed here.” he muttered, the tension in the room thickening. “But Lord Jasper shall send a raven to Rainhouse,” he declared with a firm nod. “They are nearest and must render aid.”

The Ironrod nodded stiffly.

The Grand Maester inclined his head, his voice soothing as he addressed the messenger. “You shall be cared for. Guards, see that this man is given food, a change of clothes, and proper lodging. His service to his house shall not go unrewarded.”

As the door closed behind the weary messenger, a heavy silence descended upon the room. Eyes darted from one lord to another, the shock of the news lingering in the air.

Aegon, ever flippant, broke the silence with a careless remark. “Well, that was unfortunate. Who, then, shall rule the Stormlands now and marshal my army?”

Even the Hand of the King found himself without an immediate answer. It was the Grand Maester who finally spoke, his voice hesitant. “Perhaps House Dondarrion or House Swann, Your Grace. Both houses are historically tied to the Baratheons, and Lord Borros had distant cousins and uncles married into those houses.”

Ser Otto nodded decisively, regaining his composure. “Then we shall send ravens to both houses, demanding their presence in the capital. We must secure the Stormlands without delay.”

Aemond POV

Aemond leaned against the cold stone wall, his single eye narrowing as he observed the scene with a blend of envy and disdain. Before him, Queen Alicent hovered anxiously over Aegon, who sat with an annoyed expression while the Grand Maester meticulously tended to the festering wounds scattered across his head. What had begun as mere red scratches, born from the irritation where the crown pressed against his skin, had gradually inflamed, then festered into something far more grotesque. The wounds marred his forehead, the sides of his head, and the back where the crown usually sat. Aegon, in his childishness, couldn’t resist scratching at the tender areas, exacerbating the infection with his filthy nails.

Alicent’s voice wavered as she asked, “Will this new concoction prevent further festering?”

The Grand Maester, his hands moving with practiced care, replied gravely, “It should, Your Grace. But the King must refrain from agitating the wounds any further. It is the constant scratching that has hindered their healing.”

Aegon grimaced, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “I cannot help it, Mother. It itches unbearably. I can bear pain, but the itching… it drives me mad.”

Aemond’s lips curled into a faint, sardonic smile. “The maids are saying the crown is rejecting him.”

Alicent’s head snapped toward him, her eyes flashing with anger. “Do not speak such nonsense, Aemond.”

But Aegon, ever the petulant and self-indulgent one, let out a bitter laugh. “Actually, he might have a point. I heard the same in the brothels. The smallfolk whisper that the throne rejected Father too, cutting him until his body slowly festered. I had the whore who said it whipped bloody, but the rumors won’t die.”

Alicent’s face drained of color, her hands trembling as she turned to the Grand Maester. “Does Aegon have what my husband had? Will he suffer as King Viserys did, enduring endless pain?”

The Grand Maester shook his head, his voice firm. “No, Your Grace. This is not the same affliction that plagued King Viserys. The wounds on the King’s head are the result of irritation, worsened by his own actions. If the King refrains from scratching, the wounds will heal. To aid this, I shall bind the King’s hands to prevent him from causing further harm.”

Aemond observed the scene with an expression of studied neutrality, though beneath the surface, his thoughts churned with a bitter tempest. Here was Aegon, the pampered and unworthy King, receiving undue adulation and tender care despite his reckless behavior, while he, Aemond, shouldered the full weight of the family's legacy with nary a whisper of thanks. As their mother fawned over Aegon’s afflictions, Aemond felt the sting of his own neglect—a wound far deeper and more insidious than any on his brother’s head.

Aemond alone patrolled the skies above King’s Landing, his formidable Vhagar soaring unaccompanied in the skies of the capital ready to battle against the more numerous dragons of the Blacks. While the King and Queen remained ensconced behind the walls of the Red Keep, he ventured into the treacherous heavens, a solitary guardian of their cause. The thought of Vhagar’s power, unmatched by any of the Blacks’ dragons, was a small comfort. Indeed, Vhagar alone could bring victory to their cause, and Aemond harbored fantasies of flying to Dragonstone and incinerating it to quell the stalemate that plagued their war efforts. Yet, his mother and grandfather clung stubbornly to the notion that diplomacy would secure their triumph. Even after Rhaenyra had driven their grandfather from Dragonstone with her dragons, they refused to see the futility in their diplomatic overtures.

A page arrived, breathless and wide-eyed, delivering the summons for an immediate council meeting. The Grand Maester, with a furrowed brow, hastened to wrap Aegon’s head, his movements quick and precise, yet barely concealing the absurdity of the spectacle. Were it not for the proprieties of their station, Aemond might have laughed at how comically his brother appeared, bound and bandaged as if wrapped for a funeral.

Aegon, catching Aemond’s gaze, glared with a mixture of irritation and command. “Come with us to the council meeting.” he ordered, though his tone carried a hint of condescension.

Alicent began to protest, her voice trembling. “Aemond has no seat at the council table. He—”

Aegon cut her off with a dismissive snort. “He is my nearest kin. He will accompany us.”

Aemond stifled a derisive snort. It was a bitter truth that his presence was only valued for the might of Vhagar. Beyond that, his place in these discussions was tenuous at best. Still, he followed them, his mind a tempest of unspoken resentments and calculated schemes, ready to be a silent witness to the machinations of the court and the endless dance of power that seemed to ignore his own rightful place within it.

As they entered the council room, the atmosphere was charged with tension. Lord Jasper’s voice was a thunderclap in the otherwise subdued chamber, his words echoing with urgency and frustration.

“We must send aid to Rainhouse!” Lord Jasper demanded, his face flushed with anxiety. “The flooding has become unbearable! The perpetual storms batter our lands, making the weather there a constant tempest. Crops are failing, roads are washed away, and the house is isolated from the rest of the Stormlands. They are slowly being brought to ruin by the unrelenting winds and torrents.”

The room was a cacophony of clamor and worry. The Hand of the King, his expression strained and weary, replied with a heavy sigh. “We lack the manpower to address such widespread devastation. Our resources are already stretched thin.”

Lord Jasper’s frustration boiled over. “Perhaps Rhaenyra’s words were not entirely unfounded. It seems the wrath of the gods is indeed upon us!”

Lord Tyland, with a dismissive wave of his hand, scoffed at the notion. “Nonsense. The gods do not hold political allegiances.”

Jasper, indignant, shot back. “How can you say that when the coast of Westernland has been overcome by a monstrous surge, nearly engulfing the Rock itself? Lannisport was swept almost entirely under the waves! How can you dismiss such an event?”

Aegon, who had taken his place at the head of the table, looked bewildered. “What is this about the Westernland?” he asked, his brow furrowing in confusion.

Aemond, ever the observer, drifted toward the tapestry map hanging on the wall, seeking the location of Westernland. His fingers traced the contours of the realm as he listened intently.

The Hand of the King spoke again, his voice laced with fatigue. “A massive surge of water has struck the Westernland, affecting Lannisport, Crakehall, Castamere, and Tarbeck. Even the Arbor has been impacted. Our men have been drowned, fields rendered useless, and the mines in Castamere and Tarbeck flooded. It will take years to clear the water, and the gold is now worthless. Lord Jason’s army has been forced to retreat back to their homes to assist.”

Aegon’s gaze was one of sheer incomprehension. “What will we do now?” he asked, his voice carrying a hint of helplessness.

The room fell into a troubled silence. Lord Tyland, attempting to offer some glimmer of hope, finally spoke. “The Crag has been spared most of the effects. Their docks have only suffered minor damage, easily repaired.”

Aemond’s eyes narrowed as he turned his attention to the Crag on the map. “How is it that the Crag has suffered so little when Castamere and Tarbeck are so near, you said both were greatly affected?” His voice was laced with skepticism.

Lord Tyland hesitated, clearly uncomfortable under Aemond’s scrutiny.

Before he could respond, the Grand Maester’s voice cut through the tension, holding a raven scroll. “It appears the Westerlings have raised Rhaenyra’s banners. The word is that only those who have sided with Rhaenyra are being spared from this calamity.”

Aemond  reeled as his mother had descended into a near-hysterical frenzy, her voice quavering with the kind of panic that made Aemond’s heart race.

“Rhaenyra is using foul magic!” she declared, her words spilling out in a rush of fervent accusation. “The Targaryen's queer habits are being used against us. We must rouse the Faithful to combat the abomination that the Targaryens have unleashed upon us!”

He stared at her in disbelief, his gaze shifting to his brother Aegon, whose face mirrored his own astonishment. The Queen, so often the epitome of regal composure, had completely lost her self-control. Her once-dignified demeanor had given way to an unseemly display of distress, making her sound like a lunatic, clutching at the fringes of sanity.

Grand Maester Orwyle, ever the voice of reason, countered with an air of practiced calm. “There is no such thing as magic!” he intoned, his tone placid despite the uproar around them. “All that has occurred is mere coincidence. Our focus must be on aiding the needs of the Kingdoms, demonstrating that the King remains the rightful ruler.”

Lord Tyland Lannister, ever pragmatic, chimed in with his usual strategic efficiency. “We must work to regain the Lords' confidence. While Rhaenyra remains ensconced on her rocky stronghold for moons now, we need to show our leadership and rally support.”

Aemond attempted to follow the disjointed plans being proposed, but it soon became clear that they were more theoretical than actionable. The discussions meandered in circles, lacking the concrete solutions needed to address their precarious situation. His gaze frequently drifted to his brother, whose expression remained perpetually dumbfounded, reflecting the confusion that clouded the entire council.

With the night deepening, Aemond excused himself from the fruitless debates and took to the skies once more, on a solitary task of guarding the City. Upon his return, the Red Keep was engulfed in turmoil. Guards, bearing the sigil of Hightower, had corralled every noble residing in the castle into the courtyard. Even esteemed allies, such as Lord Redwyne, were being forcibly ushered into the open air, many in nothing but their nightgowns. The scene was one of pandemonium as the noble families, distressed and disoriented, demanded explanations. Their faces were a mixture of annoyance and apprehension.

The servants, in stark contrast, huddled in corners, their cries for mercy mingling with pleas of innocence. They trembled, their fear palpable as they were scrutinized under the harsh gaze of the guards.

Aemond made his way through the throng, pushing past the gathering chaos, and approached one of the guards stationed nearby. “What is happening?” he inquired, his voice laced with a mixture of authority and concern.

The guard, barely masking his own unease, directed Aemond toward the Throne Room. With a growing sense of foreboding, Aemond proceeded to the vast chamber, its cavernous darkness illuminated only by a few flickering torches. The atmosphere was heavy with an ominous weight, an unsettling prelude to the grim spectacle awaiting him. Dimly lit by a few sputtering torches, the shadows cast upon the walls danced like the flickering flames of a dying fire. The space felt immense but suffocating, the vast expanse of cold stone accentuating the gravity of the scene unfolding before Aemond’s wide eyes.

His mother, Queen Alicent, was at the foot of the Iron Throne, her composure shattered beyond recognition. Her usually serene countenance was now marred by tears and desperation, her weeping punctuated by frantic sobs. Ser Cole, the ever-loyal protector, hovered nearby, attempting to offer what comfort he could, though it seemed woefully inadequate against the storm of her grief. Helaena stood at the side, her head bowed deeply, her lips moving rapidly in silent prayer or perhaps madness, her murmurs swallowed by the cavernous darkness.

Aemond’s gaze was drawn inevitably to the Iron Throne, where his brother Aegon was ensconced in a nightmarish tableau of suffering. The sight was both horrifying and surreal. Aegon’s once-proud figure was now grotesquely skewered, the Iron Throne’s cruel blades piercing his flesh with an almost artistic malevolence. His face was streaked with blood, the crimson rivulets flowing from his wounds beneath his crown and staining his features in a macabre display. His eyes, wide open, held an expression of sheer terror, frozen in a moment of ultimate anguish.

One long, jagged blade protruded from his throat, its cruel edge visible as it drove into the delicate skin and muscle. His hands, still gripping the armrests of the throne, were impaled by three separate swords, each one a cruel instrument of torture driven through his palms and fingers, the metal glinting wickedly in the torchlight. Another blade had been thrust through his stomach, and a further sword had pierced his thighs, pinning him grotesquely to the throne. The sight of him, trapped in such a horrific tableau, was an image of raw, unmitigated horror.

Aemond faltered in his stride, his heart pounding with a sickening mixture of fear and disbelief. The gruesome tableau of his brother’s death was a sight that none could have imagined, let alone witnessed. The iron throne, now stained with the blood of its former occupant, seemed to gleam with a cold, malevolent satisfaction. The room felt colder still, the air heavy with a grim portent, as if the very essence of despair had taken root in its shadowy corners.