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.
Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey stood together, their faces a mix of awe and fear. Jace’s eyes were dark with resolve, his jaw clenched in silent rage. Luke, barely containing his tears, clutched at Jace’s arm, seeking comfort in the presence of his older brother. Little Joffrey, too young to fully grasp the depth of their loss, looked up at the sky, his eyes wide, the flames reflecting in his innocent gaze.
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.
Chapter Text
Daemon POV
Daemon unfurled the parchment and read the brief missive, his face hardened into a grim expression. With a deliberate nod, he folded the letter back and met the Grand Maester’s eyes. “We will convene the Council in the afternoon, a candle stick after the midday meal.” he declared, his voice carrying a weight that brooked no argument.
Gerardys bowed deeply, his robes rustling softly as he prepared to take his leave. “I shall inform the Council, my King.” he replied, his voice filled with the reverence that marked his service.
Daemon watched the Grand Maester’s retreating figure before turning back toward the pavilion. The cool afternoon breeze played with the edges of his dark cloak as he walked, a silent reminder of the natural world that contrasted with the political tempest brewing within the walls of Dragonstone.
Young Luke patrolled the waters around Dragonstone and Driftmark, ensuring that no enemy vessel could breach their defenses, despite the formidable fleet of Velaryon ships already patrolling the Gullet and the Narrow Sea. Princess Rhaenys took to the skies over the Gullet, her dragon a fierce guardian. By mid-afternoon, Baela would ascend until nightfall, followed by Jace until the hour of the wolf, and then Caraxes would rule the night. Rhaenyra had entrusted Daemon with the safety of the island, a responsibility he bore with utmost seriousness.
Daemon took in the serene scene unfolding within, the structure was circular glasshouse and constructed from the same black stone as the Dragonmont. Yet, its entire expanse was fitted with thick glass, allowing the family to remain ensconced in comfort while being surrounded by the lush greenery of Aegon’s garden. This ingenious creation provided both protection from the tempestuous weather of Dragonstone and a clear view of nature’s splendor.
He had already dealt with traitors that Rhaenyra had named specifically, feeding Ser Alfred Boome and ten of his men to the dragons, a grim but necessary act carried out in secrecy. There were also two dragonseeds, Ulf and Hugh, that she had him dispatched. Yet, Daemon was still unsettled by the notion of finding Addam of Hull and a girl called Nettles and granting them access to the dragons. Commoners being allowed to mount dragons—how utterly preposterous! For the first time, he wondered if his wife was losing her grip on reality. But everything she had foretold had come true so far, even the curses she cast upon their enemies seemed to be more effective than any army.
Despite his desire to take action, to unleash fire and blood upon their foes, he chose to trust Rhaenyra. She was the one who had seen the dream—or, as she insisted, lived another life. Rhaenyra had always been special, the first Targaryen in half a decade to hatch her dragon egg in the cradle. And then, all of her children’s eggs had hatched as well, saved for young Viserys. In the old ways of Valyria, the blood mages who were said to have once overseen the care and hatching of dragons. The dragons chose their riders, whether as hatchlings or later in life, but it was rare for cradle eggs to hatch at all—but recently most had done so in the presence of Rhaenyra. Even the Usurper’s children had their eggs hatch in the Dragonpit, not in the cradle. It was a sign that Rhaenyra was truly blessed by the gods, and one prayer to the Fourteen had turned even their own lands against their enemies.
The children’s laughter reached him before he even crossed the threshold. Jace, sitting on a table amidst the flurry of raven scrolls and dispatches, had paused to watch the delightful chaos that unfolded before him with a smile. Little Viserys’s giggles, a high, clear sound of pure joy, pierced through the ambient murmur of the garden. Rhaena, her face lit with playfulness, blew raspberries on Viserys’s stomach, eliciting peals of laughter from the tiny prince.
Egg, trying to join the fray, clambered onto Rhaena’s back, only to be met with her swift retaliation as she attacked his ticklish underarms with playful fingers. The sight was a delightful contrast to the weighty matters that Daemon had just received. The joyful noise of the children filled the space, their merriment a poignant reminder of the simple pleasures amid the complex machinations of their world.
Joffrey, ever the protector, attempted to rescue Egg from the ticklish onslaught, only to be intercepted by Baela. The playful tumble that followed saw all three children collapsing in a heap on the thick rug, their laughter mingling in a joyous cacophony. The twins, Rhaena and Baela, allowed their siblings a reprieve from the wrestling match, their faces alight with the same joyful mischief that had sparked the game.
As he entered the spacious pavilion, Daemon found Rhaenyra reclining on a daybed, her long, silver hair being oiled and brushed by Lady Elida. The pavilion was a grand, airy space filled with light streaming through the tall openings, lined with plush, padded chairs and two daybeds draped in rich fabrics. Toys were scattered across the floor, remnants of their children’s play. With a mischievous glint in his eye, Daemon snatched little Viserys by his feet, lifting him upside down, causing the boy to shriek with laughter and Rhaenyra to shout at him to put the child down. Meanwhile, Egg clung to his leg, trying to climb up, his tiny arms wrapped around Daemon’s knee as he dragged his leg towards the daybed.
“Daemon, put him down this instant!” Rhaenyra scolded, though there was a trace of a smile on her lips as she watched her husband’s playful antics.
Daemon chuckled, a rare moment of levity amidst the heavy burden of this silent war, and gently set Viserys down, the child giggling as he scampered off to retrieve one of his toys. With a sigh, Daemon joined Rhaenyra on the daybed, wrapping an arm around her as Lady Elida continued her work. Despite the looming threats and the weight of their responsibilities, in this moment, they were simply a family, bound by blood, fire, and love.
As Daemon settled beside Rhaenyra on the daybed, Egg clambered up onto his chest with the ease of a child who knew he was welcome. Daemon cradled his son gently, the small boy nestled against him, one hand resting protectively on Egg’s back. Little Viserys, not to be outdone, crawled into Rhaenyra's lap, curling up like a kitten as he lay his head down. Joffrey, quick and eager, nestled himself between his parents, placing his head on Daemon’s shoulder. Daemon pressed a tender kiss to Joffrey’s hair, his hand moving in soothing strokes over Egg’s hair.
The boys had been gentle with their mother, ever since Daemon had made it clear that the Queen was in a delicate condition. They were curious, asking what had happened to the baby in her belly, and Daemon had struggled to find the right words, feeling helpless as he attempted to explain. It was Rhaena who had stepped in, her voice soft and reassuring as she gently told her brothers what had occurred. Daemon had felt a pang of inadequacy then, unable to comfort his children in a way that mattered.
As the maids arrived with trays of food, the atmosphere lightened. The dishes were vibrant and tempting, each one thoughtfully prepared to suit the preferences of the family. Jace’s plate held burnt bacon, crisp and smoky, alongside tender, buttered chicken. For Baela, there was a thick seafood soup, its surface dotted with the rich colors of saffron and herbs, perfect for dipping her crusty bread. Rhaena's meal was a feast for the eyes, bright pink shrimp arranged elegantly on her plate, their shells glistening with a touch of butter.
Egg’s plate featured an assortment of vegetables, colorful and fresh, accompanied by a small portion of roasted chicken to complement his greens. Little Viserys, delighted, was served a mound of cheesy mashed potatoes, golden and creamy, alongside a sandwich made with soft, freshly baked bread.
Rhaena and Baela, ever the attentive elder sisters, took charge of their younger brothers’ meals. Rhaena carefully cut Egg’s vegetables into smaller pieces, helping him with his fork, while Baela gently spooned some of her seafood soup onto Viserys’s plate, the rich broth soaking into his bread.
Daemon took up a plate and began to serve Rhaenyra, mindful of the Grand Maester’s advice. He filled her dish with a hearty bone broth, simmered to perfection with herbs and root vegetables, the aroma comforting and rich. Alongside it, he placed a slice of spinach and egg tart, the flaky pastry golden and delicate.
Conversation flowed easily, a welcome distraction from the weight of their burdens. Rhaena, ever diligent, commented, “I’ve personally chosen the servants who attend us now, making sure only the most loyal remain. We cannot afford any slips in our defenses.”
Jace nodded approvingly as he took a bite of his bacon. “I’ll go down to the fishing village later to check on the patrols,” he said. “We need to ensure that no one approaches Dragonstone unnoticed.”
Baela added, “The smaller islands near Dragonstone have already been checked. We’ve made sure there are no unwanted visitors lurking about.”
Joffrey sighed, his tone carrying a hint of longing. “I wish I could join the patrols. I’d help keep Muña safe too.”
Jace ruffled his brother’s hair with a smile. “You’re doing your part, Joff. Muña, Egg, and Vis are protected with you here.”
Aegon, with the fierce determination of a five-year-old, puffed out his chest. “I protect Muña. I’m a big boy!” he declared, his voice filled with pride.
Viserys, not one to be left behind, piped up, “Egg cried ‘cause he broke his wooden carriage!” The younger boy’s childish lisp only added to the endearing nature of the statement, and his eyes twinkled with mischief as the table erupted in laughter.
Luke arrived fresh from his patrol, his face flushed from the wind and exertion. He wasted no time diving into the clam chowder, spoonfuls disappearing into his mouth with impressive speed. The hearty soup, rich with briny clams and creamy broth, seemed to vanish as quickly as he could scoop it. He tore into a chicken leg with gusto, his enthusiasm evident as he chewed, the savory meat dripping from his fingers.
“Slow down, you bloody savage.” Rhaenyra admonished with a playful smile, her fingers gently brushing strands of hair from his face. Her eyes sparkled with affection as she observed her son’s hearty appetite.
Luke, eyes bright, managed to reply after swallowing his food, “Patrolling is hard work, especially since Arrax seems to think we’re just playing!” His tone was light-hearted, and his cheeks flushed with the satisfaction of a job well done.
Daemon, seated beside Rhaenyra, gave his son an approving nod. “You’ve done exceptionally well, Luke. Your control over Arrax is impressive.” he praised, his gaze full of pride.
The young boy beamed at his father’s words. “I can feel Arrax better now,” he said excitedly. “Sometimes, I can even sense his mood.” His voice was filled with the thrill of his growing bond with his dragon.
Daemon’s thoughts drifted back to the time when Rhaenyra had informed him of their sweetest boy’s tragic death. He had been resistant to sending Luke to Storm’s End, fearing for his safety. Yet, Rhaenyra had insisted that they need to try to secure the Storms land but she commanded him to wait in the skies over the Stormlands. Daemon had readied himself for a confrontation with the one-eyed freak at Shipbreaker’s Bay. However, a playful whistle from Caraxes had turned Vhagar’s mood to one of mischief. The mighty dragon had responded with a burst of fire before playfully flying beneath Caraxes, spinning about in a display of draconic gamesmanship, much to the frustration of his rider. Daemon had laughed like a lunatic, savoring the moment as the one-eyed man glared at him, powerless to control his mount.
Vhagar and Caraxes had been companions long before Daemon’s birth, their bond forged in the fires of youth. Prince Baelon and Prince Aemond had often performed their playful spectacles with the dragons before the people of King’s Landing. A decade of marriage to Laena had only strengthened that bond. Caraxes, with his long whistle, would initiate their games, prompting Vhagar to respond with fiery displays that the Bloodwyrm had always embraced.
The sight of the one-eyed man’s inability to control his dragon was both amusing and satisfying. Daemon’s laughter had echoed across the skies, a stark contrast to the one-eyed man’s frustration. He later caught up with Luke and Arrax, who were visibly shaken but otherwise unharmed. The sight of Rhaenyra’s gratitude was a balm to his heart. When they landed, she had wrapped Luke in a tight embrace, holding him close as he drifted to sleep, her love and relief evident in the gentle way she cradled him through the night.
The children were ushered away by Rhaenyra’s Ladies-in-Waiting after the meal, their nursemaids struggling to keep up with them as they run through the Aegon’s Garden back to the Castle. Luke was firmly instructed to bathe and rest, while Baela ascended into the skies to commence her patrol. Jace and Rhaena, ever dutiful, escorted the remaining company to the Chamber of the Painted Table.
The grand chamber, adorned with the intricate map of Westeros, was a hive of activity as the councilors gathered. Princess Rhaenys, an esteemed advisor, Lord Corlys as Hand, Lord Bartimus as Master of Coin, Lord Rowan, appointed Master of Law, and Lord Manderly as Master of Ships, were already present. Lord Stauton, Lord Gormon Massey, Lord Bar Emmon, Lord Gunthor Darklyn, and Grand Maester Gerardys completed the assembly. Rhaenyra took her place at the head of the table, while Daemon sat beside her on the left, his seat facing Jace as he sat on his mother’s right. Rhaena, in her role as head scribe, was accompanied by three others, all poised and attentive.
Rhaenyra’s eyes swept over the faces of her advisors, each adorned with an eager smile. “I have been informed of the death of the usurper.” she began, her voice calm yet filled with an undercurrent of satisfaction.
Lord Corlys’s face lit up with unrestrained delight. “Indeed, Aegon met his end pierced by the Iron Throne itself. It is said that the Conqueror’s Crown was almost melded to his head by the scabs from his wounds. When they attempted to remove his body from the throne, a clumsy servant dropped a torch, and half of his body was consumed by flames.” he recounted with a mixture of grim satisfaction and theatrical flair.
Lord Bar Emmon chuckled heartily. “The Iron Throne has rejected him, it seems. How very fitting.” he said with a trace of mirth.
Lord Stauton, his eyes gleaming with enthusiasm, eagerly joined in. “It aligns with the old myth that Visenya cursed the Iron Throne to reject unworthy rulers. It was so effective even her own son met a similar fate.” he said with a touch of dark humor.
Lord Bartimus interjected with a somber tone, “It is the Fourteen Flames that have stirred, indeed. Did you not witness how high Princess Visenya’s funeral pyre burned? It was a sign, unnatural and portentous. The gods, angered by her early departure, are clearly seeking retribution.”
Lord Stauton’s voice took on a sharp edge. “Not only the Fourteen Flames, but the Sea Gods and the Goddesses of the Winds have had their say. Storm’s End has finally fallen to their rage! It is the fate of oath breakers to be undone. The Baratheon line has met its end.”
Princess Rhaenys, though visibly pained by the news given her kinship with Borros Baratheon, conceded the point with a nod. “Oath breakers do often face their reckoning.” she agreed, her voice laced with reluctant acceptance.
“Who now reigns over the Greens?” Rhaenyra inquired, her tone reflecting both curiosity and concern.
Grand Maester Gerardys answered, “The Usurper’s son has been crowned king a day after Aegon’s interment.”
Daemon raised an eyebrow, his expression one of mild disdain. “The boy is simple, is he not?” he queried, the words tinged with an undertone of skepticism.
Rhaenyra corrected him with a gentle tone, “It is not the boy who is simple, my love, but rather his twin sister. The boy was born with six fingers on his left hand and six toes on each foot.”
Lord Corlys added, “The Greens will not care even if the boy slubber on the throne, as long as they have a figurehead to rally to. The Usurper was naught but a puppet for Otto Hightower.”
Grand Maester Gerardys, his face etched with concern, began to address the room. “Your Grace, my lords,” he started, his voice heavy with the weight of the news he bore, “I have received a distressing report from the Maester at The Crag. The Westerlands are in dire straits. A sickness, swift and deadly, is spreading among the survivors of a catastrophic wave.”
Rhaenyra leaned forward, her brow furrowed. “What manner of sickness, Grand Maester?”
Gerardys sighed deeply, glancing down at the parchment in his hand. “They are calling it the Ironrot Plague. The wave that swept through the coastal regions flooded the mines, bringing forth a toxic brew of minerals and metals. As the waters receded, they left behind a poisoned land. The sickness begins with a deep, burning pain in the stomach, then progresses to a rust-colored rash that spreads across the skin. The afflicted grow weak, struggle to breathe, and it is as if their lungs corrode from within. The Maester writes that it seems to rot the body from the inside out, much like iron left to rust.”
A murmur of concern rippled through the council. Princess Rhaenys, always quick to action, spoke up. “This is grave news indeed. We must send aid to the Westerlands. Healers—perhaps from Pentos or even Volantis—should be dispatched immediately to treat the afflicted. The people must know that it is Rhaenyra, their true queen, who sends them.”
Rhaenyra nodded in agreement. “Yes, let it be known that their Queen cares for her people, even in these distant lands. But,” she paused, her tone sharpening, “these healers must be Essosi. I do not trust the Citadel; they have been under the sway of the Hightowers for far too long. We need healers untainted by Westerosi politics. If the people of the Westerlands refuse treatment from foreigners, then they can die clinging to their misguided beliefs.”
Lord Corlys inclined his head in acknowledgment. “Very well, Your Grace. I shall send word to one of our ships currently docked in Volantis. We will secure the services of the best healers they have to offer.”
Lord Manderly interjected, his voice filled with a certain pride. “The ships we dispatched to retrieve the Vale’s army have already set sail from Gulltown. They are expected to reach Rook’s Rest soon.”
Rhaenyra allowed a small smile to play upon her lips. “Well done, Lord Manderly. Your swift action is commendable.”
Lord Darklyn, ever vigilant, brought up a new concern. “Rosby has raised the Usurper’s banner. My son fears that an army will soon march on Duskendale, and after that, they might set their sights on Rook’s Rest.”
Lord Rowan, his face a mask of curiosity, leaned in. “Why would the Usurper bother with a small, insignificant castle like Duskendale?”
Before anyone could respond, Daemon stood from his seat, a predatory gleam in his eye. With deliberate precision, he picked up one of the carved markers from the map—a representation of the Hightower—and placed it over Rosby and Duskendale. “It’s not Duskendale just they want,” he said, his voice dark and dangerous, “it’s Rook’s Rest too. If the Greens take all three castles, we’ll be cut off from the mainland. The Hightower snakes are looking to sever our supply lines, to isolate us.”
He then turned to Rhaenyra, his expression resolute. “Send me, and I will burn their army to the ground. Let them come to Duskendale—I’ll see to it that they never leave.”
“No.” Rhaenyra's response was swift, her eyes not meeting Daemon’s. He could hardly keep from rolling his eyes; her insistence on keeping him by her side, despite the dire situation, was becoming increasingly exasperating. Even Luke and Jace had been granted permission to gather allies on her behalf, yet Daemon was to remain, a prisoner of her cautious affection. The dream she had mentioned—of which she had not revealed any details—lingered unsaid between them, an unspoken tension hanging in the air.
Jace, ever perceptive, broke the silence, his gaze fixed intently upon the map before them. “It’s a trap,” he declared, his voice carrying the weight of his realization. “They may aim to cut us off from the mainland, but they know that as long as we command more dragons than they do, our chances are better. I would wager that Vhagar will be there in ambush, perhaps accompanied by Dreamfyre and Tessarion.”
Daemon’s frustration was palpable, his expression darkening as he struggled to conceal his ire. “And I can face them,” he said tersely. “No other dragonrider possesses more battle experience than Caraxes and I.”
Seeing Daemon's frustration, Jace stepped forward with resolve. “I will accompany you,” he said. “Vermax may be young but he is formidable and I have complete control over him. Meleys is the swiftest dragon alive. With the three of us, we stand a far greater chance against Vhagar.”
Rhaenyra, moved by Jace’s offer and Daemon’s evident vexation, reached out to take Daemon’s hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. Instantly, Daemon’s frustration seemed to wane, the touch of her hand easing his tension. Her voice, though firm, carried an undertone of tenderness. “I will not unleash the dragons,” she said, her gaze sweeping over the council. “When dragons dance, it leaves naught but ash in its wake—castles, fields, and the very lives we swore to protect. We ignite the sky, but it is our hearts that burn, leaving only shadows of what once was. I do not seek to inherit a charred and desolate realm; I will not be a Queen of Ashes.”
Lord Bartimus, clearly frustrated, could no longer contain his vexation. “Are we to do nothing but wait to be slaughtered?” he demanded, his voice tinged with urgency.
Rhaenyra’s gaze was steely as she addressed him. “You have already trusted my decisions. Trust me again.” she said resolutely. “But I advise Lord Darklyn to instruct your son to raise our banners. Let all our allies display their banners in their castles. Those who stand with us will be spared from the coming Calamities.”
The chamber fell into a contemplative silence as the gravity of her words sank in. The path ahead was fraught with peril, but Rhaenyra’s resolve remained unshaken.
Lord Bartimus, though visibly troubled, took in Rhaenyra's words with a grudging respect. Her determination and the commanding presence she exuded seemed almost otherworldly, as if she herself held sway over the very hands of destiny. The weight of her resolve was palpable, and though he might question the strategy, he could not deny the fierce conviction that guided her.
“Very well, Your Grace.” Daemon conceded, his voice a mixture of reluctant acceptance and reluctant admiration. “I shall trust in your guidance once more. It appears that you command not only the loyalty of your people but, indeed, the favor of the gods themselves. We shall see how the tides turn, but rest assured, I will be ready to fight at your side whenever you deem it necessary.”
His words, though tinged with frustration, carried a note of deference. The room, once fraught with tension, seemed to settle into a quiet anticipation of what was to come. The resolve of their Queen was unwavering, and though the path ahead was fraught with uncertainty, her strength inspired a shared readiness to face whatever lay before them.
Alicent POV
The sun streamed through the windows of the Throne Room, casting shadows onto the polished stone floor as Alicent Hightower guided her grandson, the young King Jaehaerys II, through the Throne Room. The Iron Throne loomed at the far end, a monstrous structure of jagged swords and cruel edges, its presence dominating the room. A line of nobles and commoners stretched from the entrance to the foot of the Throne, awaiting their turn to petition the young King Jaehaerys II, who will seat atop the Iron Throne for the first time since his quick coronation.
The Throne had always unsettled Alicent. She had heard the stories whispered in the dark corners of the castle—tales of those who had been cut, maimed, or even killed by the cursed seat of power. It was said that the Iron Throne had a will of its own, forged from the swords of a thousand vanquished enemies, and that it could sense the worthiness—or lack thereof—of those who dared sit upon it. Maegor the Cruel had died upon it, his life snuffed out as if by the throne’s own will. King Viserys had been pricked and cut throughout his reign, his wounds never fully healing, until they, too, took his life. Her heart clenched as she recalled how, not even a week ago, that very throne had claimed her son, Aegon. The memory of his twisted body, marred by the cruel blades of the seat, haunted her still. But no, she refused to believe such superstitions. The Iron Throne was nothing more than a pile of swords, a symbol of authority, not of doom.
The realm needed to see their King, young as he was, seated upon the Iron Throne.
She leaned down to whisper to her grandson, who stared at the throne with wide, terrified eyes. "You must be brave, Jaehaerys. This is your duty as King."
Jaehaerys, trembling slightly, turned his pale face up to her and whispered, “Grandmother, I don’t want to sit on it. It hurts.”
“Shush, my sweet boy,” she replied, her voice a mixture of soothing and steel. “You must. Only this once, and then the Hand will take your place, just as he did for your grandsire.”
With a final, lingering look, she gently urged him forward and stepped back. Her heart ached as she watched her small, fragile grandson climb onto the towering throne, the ancient swords dwarfing his slight figure. He looked like a child trying to wear a giant's armor, lost and overwhelmed by the sheer weight of the task before him.
The Hand of the King stood at the foot of the Iron Throne, ready to hear the petitions in the King’s stead. Alicent reminded herself that this was only temporary. The Hand would sit the throne going forward, just as he had for Viserys. She tried to steady her nerves, repeating in her mind that this was only a formality, a show of strength in these turbulent times.
Up in the gallery, Helaena stood with her ladies-in-waiting, her distant gaze locked on her son below. The throne room was alive with the murmurs of the gathered crowd, the tension thick in the air. A commoner stepped forward, his voice carrying over the assembly. “Your Grace, the prices of goods are too high. We cannot afford the grain to feed our families. The blockade on the Blackwater starves us. We need help.”
Otto Hightower addressed the man, his tone composed but firm. “The Hightowers are sending grains and wheat from the Reach. We ask that you hold on a little longer, good man. We are doing all we can to alleviate the suffering caused by Rhaenyra’s selfish blockade.”
A murmur of discontent rippled through the crowd, but it was drowned out by a sudden, sharp cry. “Ouch!” Jaehaerys’ voice rang out, high and plaintive. All eyes turned to the throne where the young King sat, his small frame tense with pain. Tears welled in his eyes as he whimpered, “Mother, it hurts!”
Alicent’s heart stopped. The Hand swiftly ordered the guards, “Get the King back! He’s tired.”
The Kingsguard moved to obey, but as they approached the Iron Throne, a strange, eerie sight greeted them. The throne seemed to shift and move as if the twisted swords were alive, subtly bending inward, encircling Jaehaerys. It was almost imperceptible—a trick of the eye, surely—but to those who looked closely, it seemed as though the throne itself sought to swallow the boy whole.
Jaehaerys’ cries grew more frantic, echoing through the throne room, a chilling sound that sent shivers down the spines of all who heard. Lady Redwyne, her normally composed demeanor now fraught with anxiety, fell to her knees beside the throne. She clasped her hands tightly in prayer, her voice trembling as she addressed the Seven. “Great Mother, shield us from this turmoil. Great Father, guide us through this darkness. Let not this suffering be a sign of our doom.”
Nearby, Lord Rosby stood with a stern expression, his gaze fixed on the ground. He murmured a silent plea, “Mercy from the Seven, we implore you. Deliver us from this curse that seems to hang over us like a shroud.”
A man wearing bloodied butcher’s apron shouted, ““This calamity is the Queen Alicent’s fault! The gods are punishing us for her usurpation!”
Another commoner, clutching a worn hat in his hands, yelled, “Rhaenyra warned them! She said this would happen! The city is cursed because of their greed and betrayal!”
The guards hesitated, their eyes wide with fear as they watched the throne’s subtle movements. Blood began to pool beneath Jaehaerys, dark and glistening against the cold steel. He screamed in pain, and Alicent’s world shattered.
“Get him down! Someone, please, get the King!” Alicent’s voice cracked with desperation, her eyes fixed on her grandson, so small and helpless against the monstrous throne.
But the throne seemed to tighten its grip, the blades biting deeper, tearing through his flesh with cruel precision. Blood poured from his wounds, staining the iron red. The throne room descended into chaos as Jaehaerys’ cries grew weaker, fading into agonized whimpers.
Ser Fell, in a final, desperate act of loyalty, ascended the treacherous steps of the Iron Throne to save his king. Yet the throne, as merciless as it was majestic, twisted beneath his feet. With a sickening lurch, he lost his balance, his body slipping as if the very seat of power conspired against him. His head met a cruel, protruding sword, the sharp steel thrusting upwards through his skull. For a moment, his body hung suspended, his face frozen in an expression of shock and agony. Slowly, inexorably, his lifeless form sank to the floor, the blade still embedded, slick with the gruesome coating of blood and brains, painting the very throne he had sought to defend with his last breath.
Up in the gallery, Helaena suddenly broke from her stupor, a scream tearing from her throat as she bolted down the stairs, her skirts billowing behind her. But before she could reach the throne, Aemond stepped in her path, his single eye burning with an intensity taking her in the waist preventing the Queen Mother from hurting herself on the blades. “No, sister,” he said softly, but with a firmness that brooked no argument. “It is too late.”
Alicent fell to her knees, her hands clutching her chest as if to hold her breaking heart together. Tears streamed down her face as she watched her little Jaehaerys’ life slip away, consumed by the very symbol of the power she had fought so hard to secure.
And then, as if released from a dreadful spell, the throne room erupted into utter chaos.
Nobles and commoners alike surged towards the exits, a panicked mass of bodies jostling and pushing in their desperate bid to escape. Shouts and cries filled the air, a cacophony of terror that drowned out any semblance of order. Some fell, trampled beneath the frenzied crowd, while others clawed their way forward, driven by sheer survival instinct.
The guards, caught off guard by the sudden uproar, struggled to restore order. They barked commands, their voices barely heard over the din, as they tried to form a barrier against the panicked tide. Swords were drawn, shields raised, but it was like trying to hold back a flood with bare hands.
In the midst of the chaos, Alicent’s cries of grief and despair were lost, swallowed by the sheer magnitude of the panic. Her eyes, wide with horror, darted across the room as she watched her world unravel before her. The Iron Throne, dark and monstrous, loomed over it all, indifferent to the destruction it had wrought.
Helaena screamed as she struggled against Aemond’s hold, her hands reaching out towards her fallen son. But even Aemond, with his iron will, could barely maintain his grip on her in the face of such devastation. He pulled her back, his voice a low, urgent murmur in her ear, trying to protect her from the madness below.
The throne room had become a scene of pure bedlam. The once-magnificent chamber, a symbol of power and order, had been transformed into a nightmare, where fear reigned supreme, and the legacy of the Iron Throne continued to spill blood, heedless of the cost.
Aemond POV
Aemond watched from the gallery, his gaze fixed on the spectacle unfolding below. The Iron Throne, that wretched heap of swords, stood at the center of the chamber, now surrounded by the High Septon and his retinue of septons and septas, all dressed in their sacred robes. They chanted in unison, their voices rising in a haunting melody that echoed through the vastness of the throne room. Incense wafted through the air, thick and pungent, as the High Septon raised his hands in blessing, a ritual meant to cleanse the throne of its bloodstained past. The Iron Throne, however, remained as dark and unforgiving as ever, indifferent to their holy words and pious intentions.
Beside him, Aemond’s grandfather, Otto Hightower, stood with his arms crossed, his sharp eyes taking in every detail with a weariness born of too many years in the game of thrones. Aemond turned to him, his voice low, though laced with an edge of concern. “How is Helaena?”
Otto’s expression tightened. “Hysterical. The Grand Maester was forced to administer sweet sleep to calm her. She’s finally resting, but only just.”
“It’s understandable,” Alicent interjected, her voice strained and brittle. She stood a little behind them, her once-bright eyes now red and swollen from days of relentless mourning. “Helaena has lost everything—her husband, her son, and now her daughter.”
Aemond grimaced, his mind drifting back to the horrid memory of Jaehaerys’s funeral procession. The city had erupted into chaos, the crowd seething with fury. Vile words had been hurled at them, blaming his family for the starvation gripping the city, instead of laying the blame where it rightfully belonged—with that wretched cunt, Rhaenyra, who ordered the blockade.
But the memory that gnawed at him the most was the horrific moment when the mob tore Jaehaera from her mother’s arms, dismembering her in a frenzy of violence. All they had managed to recover were a single arm and leg. Rumors circulated that the smallfolk had fed her remains to the dogs or even cooked her flesh in their desperation for sustenance.
Now, over a hundred heads adorned the pikes around the Red Keep, a brutal reminder that no commoner should ever dare misbehave in his city again. Aemond had made sure of that. He had been crowned this morning, yet the thought of sitting on that cursed throne filled him with dread. The monstrosity that their ancestors had built, once a symbol of pride for him, now made him loathe the very blood running through his veins.
“Do you think… it is really the gods punishing us?” Alicent’s voice was a whisper, laced with fear and doubt. She looked at him with wide, tear-filled eyes, her face pale and gaunt.
“Nonsense,” Otto hissed, stepping closer. “Stop this foolishness. The gods are on our side, the High Septon said so. Aegon, Jaehaerys, and now, Aemond, were all anointed with holy oil. We are divinely favored.”
“But you saw what happened!” Alicent’s voice rose in desperation, her composure cracking. “Our allies’ lands have been battered, and the maids are saying that the storm god and the goddesses of the wind have reclaimed Storm’s End because they broke faith with Rhaenyra!”
Otto rolled his eyes, impatience coloring his tone. “And what next? Will you claim the wave that struck the Westernlands was summoned by the Drowned God?”
“Yes!” Alicent hissed, her fingers twisting the fabric of her mourning gown, her voice trembling. “What else could it be?”
Aemond turned to look at his mother. The once formidable Queen Alicent was now but a shadow of herself, drawn and haggard, the weight of her grief and the burdens of their accursed house etched into every line of her face. Her spirit, once unbreakable, now seemed fragile, teetering on the brink of despair.
As he gazed down at the Iron Throne, with the High Septon’s prayers echoing in the background, Aemond felt a cold, bitter anger coil within him. The throne had taken too much from them, demanded too great a price for its cursed power. And yet, despite the horrors it had wrought, he knew that they could not—would not—turn away. This was their legacy, their burden to bear, no matter the cost.
Aemond left his grandfather and mother to their madness, his mind clear on what must be done. He had erred by following their counsel before, but that was when he was not yet king, bound by the whims of his brother Aegon, who in turn danced to the tune of Otto Hightower. But now, Aemond wore the crown, and no one could question his decisions.
He mounted his horse, spurring the beast into a gallop so swift that the usual hour's ride to the Kingswood was halved. The wind whipped through his hair as he rode with purpose, his destination clear—Vhagar, his ancient and mighty dragon.
The Kingswood loomed before him, and within them, Vhagar rested, her immense body blending seamlessly with the shadows of the trees. She was a creature of legend, the oldest and largest dragon in existence, the last of the Conquerors' beasts. Aemond’s heart swelled with pride as he beheld her. Vhagar had once burned castles and armies into ash, and he knew she would gladly do it again at his command. He had underestimated the bond between dragons when he faced Caraxes above Shipbreaker’s Bay, but he would not make that mistake again. He needed to exert his will over Vhagar, to ensure she obeyed him without hesitation.
As Aemond approached, Vhagar roused, her colossal form shifting, the ground trembling beneath her. She was so vast that she seemed a mountain come to life, her skin weathered and ancient, with patches of growth that made her all the more formidable. Her eyes gleamed as she recognized him, a low rumble of approval echoing in her chest. She was always eager to fly.
Aemond grasped the rope ladder hanging from her side and climbed swiftly, Vhagar’s roar filling the air as she sensed the battle ahead. As he settled upon her back, he glanced up at the horizon, where dark clouds were gathering. A storm was brewing—perfect. The storm would conceal Vhagar’s scent and the thunder of her wings. By the time anyone noticed their approach, Dragonstone would already be reduced to smoldering ruins.
Though it pained him to think of destroying their ancestral seat, Aemond knew it was a necessary evil. His family’s survival depended on it.
He leaned forward, his voice firm as he commanded, “Soves!” and with a powerful beat of her wings, Vhagar ascended into the stormy skies, a force of nature ready to unleash destruction upon their enemies.
Aemond rode atop Vhagar, the mighty dragon’s enormous wings slicing through the thick clouds that hung over Blackwater Bay and the Gullet. The sky, once clear as they departed King’s Landing, had given way to a heavy mist, obscuring the Velaryon fleet far below. Aemond squinted into the haze, but there was no point in straining his eyes—the mist was too dense. He couldn’t make out the glimmer of sails or the faintest sign of movement. But no matter. Better to burn Dragonstone first, then set fire to the fleet after. If he attacked the ships now, they might raise an alarm, giving his treacherous sister time to prepare.
His confidence in Vhagar’s might was unshaken. Let them send their dragons, all of them if they wished. The young ones—Vermax, Moondancer, Tyraxes, and Stormcloud—were barely worth his attention. Vhagar would swallow them whole, their tiny, pitiful forms no more than a snack for the great beast. Syrax, bloated and lazy from years of indulgence, would be dispatched swiftly. Meleys, though quick and ridden by an experienced rider, was no true threat. Vhagar was thrice her size; she would crush the Red Queen like a hawk takes a sparrow. Only his uncle Daemon and his deformed dragon, Caraxes, presented any real challenge. But even then, the Blood Wyrm was no match for Vhagar’s raw power. Aemond could already picture the battle—tearing Caraxes’ wings from his body, rending his throat with a single bite.
Still, Aemond reminded himself, he wasn’t here merely for dragons. No, his purpose was far grander, far more satisfying. He was here to burn Dragonstone to the ground, to incinerate his half-sister, her traitorous bastards, and her entire court. The fire would consume them all, and perhaps one or two of their pathetic dragons might muster the courage to face him. But it wouldn’t matter. By then, the island would be aflame, the stones of Dragonstone itself blackened by Vhagar’s fire.
As he soared higher, the horizon began to shift, and at last, Aemond saw it—Dragonstone. A silhouette against the darkening sky, its jagged dragon shaped towers rising from the volcanic rock, shaped by the hands of the ancient Valyrians. It was a sight to behold, terrifying in its scale and grandeur to some, but to Aemond, it was majestic. This was the seat of his ancestors, carved in the image of their fiery might. It was a shame he had to destroy it, but duty demanded no less.
He shifted in his saddle, grimacing as his legs cramped from hours of crouching over Vhagar’s broad back. They should have reached the island by now. Dragonstone was but a three-hour flight from King’s Landing—perhaps four for Vhagar, given her immense size and weight—but it felt as though they’d been flying for half a day. The castle’s shadow loomed before him, close enough to touch, and yet, no matter how much ground they covered, it remained distant, just beyond his reach.
A growl of frustration escaped him, mirrored by Vhagar’s deep, rumbling roar. She, too, was becoming agitated, her massive body straining against the worsening weather. Aemond flexed his fingers, trying to bring warmth back into his hands. The wind had turned bitter and sharp, the cold gnawing at him through his leathers. His fingers, stiff and frozen, clung to the saddle as the wind howled around him.
Suddenly, a flash of lightning tore across the sky, searing the air so close that Aemond could feel the heat of it against his skin. Vhagar let out another roar, this time one of fury, her great body twisting in the air as she tried to evade the storm’s rage. The wind lashed at them, violent and relentless, driving them off course. Aemond shouted into the storm, his voice lost in the gale, as the rain battered his body, soaking him to the bone.
The sea below had grown treacherous, the waves rising impossibly high, as though they were hands reaching up to snatch Vhagar from the sky. The dragon’s immense wings fought against the gusts, her flight no longer graceful but a desperate battle against the elements. Aemond cursed under his breath, gripping the reins tighter as another bolt of lightning cracked through the heavens, so close that he was blinded for a moment. He felt the force of the strike shudder through Vhagar’s massive frame, and for a terrifying instant, he thought she might fall.
But Vhagar was not so easily brought down. She roared again, defying the storm with every beat of her wings, but the winds grew stronger, howling with a fury that seemed intent on bringing them both to their knees. Another violent gust hit them, and Aemond gasped as he was nearly thrown from his saddle, clinging desperately to the reins as Vhagar was forced off course. He shouted in frustration, his voice lost to the storm, his body chilled and aching from the relentless onslaught of rain and wind.
Why couldn’t they reach the island? Why did Dragonstone remain so maddeningly distant, as though it were taunting him with its unreachable towers? Aemond’s rage simmered beneath the surface, his frustration mounting with every moment the storm kept him at bay. He had come to burn, to conquer, to destroy—and now it seemed as though the very skies themselves sought to thwart his mission.
Rhaenys POV
The atmosphere in the Small Council chamber was tense, the air thick with the weight of recent calamities. Princess Rhaenys sat with her back straight, her gaze sweeping over the familiar faces around the table. The devastation in the Westerlands and at Storm’s End loomed heavily over them all, and her heart ached for the innocents caught in the crossfire. As the room buzzed with quiet murmurings, Rhaenys could not help but feel that their priorities were askew.
Rhaenys took a breath, her voice steady but laced with urgency as she addressed the council. “We must not neglect our responsibilities on providing relief to those affected by these disasters. The suffering of the smallfolk and the devastation wrought upon these lands cannot be ignored. Compassion and aid could be the key to winning the support of undecided or wavering houses. If we turn our backs on their plight, we risk pushing them into the arms of the Greens.”
As she spoke, her gaze was drawn to the Queen, who had been silent for most of the meeting. Rhaenyra’s fingers delicately toyed with a small emerald scale, scarcely the size of a fingernail. The scale glinted under the flickering candlelight, its color a deep, mysterious green that seemed far too dark to belong to Vermax or Moondancer. Rhaenys frowned slightly, distracted by the sight.
Across the table, Lord Rowan, ever the diplomat, nodded in agreement with Rhaenys. “This moment of crisis could indeed be an opportunity,” he said, his tone measured. “By extending aid and protection to those in the West and the Storm's Land, particularly the neutral or undecided houses, we can solidify alliances and perhaps turn the tide in our favor. A gesture of goodwill could achieve more than a dozen swords.”
But Prince Daemon Targaryen, his restlessness palpable, was quick to counter. “We cannot afford to delay,” he insisted, his voice a low growl. “With Aemond now crowned as King, the Greens are in a better position to move. We must strike quickly and decisively before they can recover. These strange events,” he gestured vaguely as if encompassing all the recent chaos, “might be a sign—a chance to press our advantage.”
“My Prince, the Greens had ben exercising caution as well.” Lord Bar Emmon said “Do you really think they will start to act aggressively now after months of trying to negotiate with us?”
“The One-eyed is the rider of the largest dragon in the world, he’s young and eager to prove himself.” Daemon said firmly. “Mark my words, my Lords, he will attack.”
Rhaenys’ attention wavered again as the emerald scale caught the light once more. It was a peculiar thing, dark and polished, almost too perfect. What dragon could it belong to? The thought nagged at her, pulling her away from the conversation at hand.
Lord Corlys, ever the strategist, shifted the topic to the naval blockade. “Why has the Queen pulled back our ships from the Gullet?” he asked, his voice tinged with frustration. “They are now in a tight formation surrounding Driftmark and Dragonstone. Ships are still being turned away, but with the fleet no longer visible from King’s Landing, we lose a significant psychological advantage. The sight of our ships would have dealt a heavy blow to their confidence.”
Lord Celtigar leaned forward, his eyes alight with curiosity. “And what of the little usurper king, Jaehaerys? How exactly did he die?” The Valyrian lord’s fascination with the arcane was well-known, and he seemed almost eager to delve into the mystery.
Grand Maester Gerardys cleared his throat, the lines on his face deepening as he recounted the tale. “It is said that the Iron Throne itself rejected the boy,” he began, his voice grave. “Both nobles and commoners alike in the throne room claim they saw it with their own eyes—the Throne swallowed the little king, impaling him with its many swords, just as it did his father.”
A murmur of astonishment swept through the council, and Rhaenys’ patience wore thin. Their chatter sounded no better than the gossip of washerwomen, yet she knew better than to show her frustration. She affected an air of indifference, though her mind raced with thoughts of the suffering in the Westerlands and the Storms land and the pressing need for action.
The conversation continued, but Rhaenys found herself startled out of her reverie when the Queen suddenly rose to her feet. All eyes turned to Rhaenyra as she moved with purposeful grace, her expression unreadable. Without a word, she strode to the double doors at the far end of the chamber and pushed them open. The cool air swept in, carrying with it the scent of the sea as she stepped out onto the large balcony overlooking Blackwater Bay.
Rhaenys watched the Queen’s figure framed by the muted afternoon light. Dragonstone was rarely bathed in the warmth of a bright sun, its skies more often cloaked in clouds and shadows. Yet today, a soft light filtered through the gloom, casting a faint, silvery glow over the island. It was not the radiant brightness of King's Landing, where sunlight spilled across the Red Keep and the city below, but a more subdued kind of brightness, one that seemed to whisper of fleeting hope amid the ever-present storm.
The wind tugged at Rhaenyra’s cloak as she stood just outside the door, her gaze far-reaching, searching for something—or perhaps someone—that wasn’t there. Though the afternoon sky held a pale blue hue, streaked with wisps of grey clouds, there was an undeniable heaviness in the air, as if the sun’s rays had to fight to break through the island’s innate darkness.
For a moment, silence hung heavy as the Councilmen exchanged uncertain glances, unsure whether to speak or wait for the Queen to return from her quiet contemplation. Princess Rhaenys kept her gaze on Rhaenyra, framed by the open doors to the balcony, her silhouette sharp against the pale sky. The princess’s thoughts swirled, a tangled web of strategy, compassion, and the ever-present shadow of war.
With a faint frown, Rhaenyra turned back toward the room, her expression unreadable as her eyes found Lord Corlys. “My lord,” she said, her voice soft but commanding, “have the ships been made aware they are to drop anchor?”
Corlys, his frustration barely concealed, nodded once. “Aye, my queen. Lord Manderly has ensured the fleet remains anchored until further notice.”
Rhaenyra’s gaze shifted, her frown easing ever so slightly as she turned to her daughters, Rhaena and Baela, seated at a table near the back of her chair. They had been diligently helping the scribes, writing down the details of the meeting, but both looked up as their mother addressed them.
“My dears,” Rhaenyra said, her tone gentle, “can you make sure all the children are in one place? No one is to leave the nursery until I give word.”
Rhaena rose from her seat, her eyes warm with understanding. “I’ll see to it, Muña. I’ll make sure Joff, Egg, and Vis are entertained.” Her voice held a quiet strength, and the Queen’s smile was one of gratitude, fleeting but sincere.
Rhaena gave Baela’s hand a small, reassuring squeeze before excusing herself from their shared task, her footsteps soft as she left the room. Baela remained, her eyeon the Queen as if anticipating more task.
Rhaenyra turned next to her sons, Jace and Luke, who had been watching their mother in silence. With a gesture, she beckoned them forward, her hands outstretched. The young men came at once, each taking one of their mother’s hands. There was a brief, tender moment as she leaned down to kiss their foreheads, her lips brushing their brows with a mother’s unspoken devotion.
She whispered something—words too quiet for the rest of the room to hear—but both Jace and Luke nodded solemnly, understanding their mother’s unspoken command.
Then, Rhaenyra’s gaze drifted to her husband. Daemon, who had been watching from the edge of the room, stepped forward with a curious expression, his eyes alight with that ever-present spark of intrigue. He said nothing as he approached, but Rhaenyra held his gaze for a moment longer than necessary before turning toward the balcony once more. With an elegant gesture, she took his arm, and together they stepped out into the afternoon light, the soft breeze stirring the hem of her dark gown.
The sudden roar from the horizon shattered the tense stillness in the chamber, sending a ripple of fear through those gathered. A collective gasp arose as all eyes turned toward the large balcony. The Councilmen moved as one, crowding toward the door, some choosing to stand near the floor-to-ceiling windows, their faces pale with apprehension. The distant, ominous shadow of a dragon appeared on the horizon, unmistakable in its sheer size—Vhagar.
Lord Bartimos Celtigar was the first to break the silence, cursing under his breath in Valyrian, his words sharp and harsh: " Vezof ābra!" His face was flushed, his hands trembling as he muttered darkly, the tension palpable.
Lord Corlys clenched his jaw, his voice low but furious. “This is why I urged the acquisition of scorpions. We cannot be at the mercy of that beast.” He gestured to the looming figure in the sky, his frustration clear as others in the room nodded in agreement.
Murmurs of discontent spread like wildfire among the council.
“Vhagar will burn us all!” Lord bar Emmon cursed, gripping the edge of the table.
"We must move the Queen and the children to the Dragonmont at once!" Lord Manderly urged, his eyes wide with fear. "The deeper levels of the castle will be safer for the servants. We cannot risk them here."
The room buzzed with worry and fear, the council in disarray as their minds raced toward possible escape plans. Amid the clamor, Rhaenys walked towards the Queen, her gaze steady despite the rising panic. “Send me out,” she said firmly, her voice cutting through the chaos. “Daemon and I can intercept Vhagar before she reaches the island.”
Daemon, who had been standing beside Rhaenyra, gripping her hand tightly, nodded with fervor. His expression was one of almost pleading urgency. “She’s right,” he said, his voice rough. “Meleys is the fastest dragon alive, and Caraxes… he’s the most experienced in battle. We can hold her off.”
His knuckles whitened as he clung to Rhaenyra’s hand, as if begging her to release him, to let him fly into the skies and meet the threat head-on. But the Queen, her expression inscrutable, simply shook her head.
“No.” Rhaenyra said softly, her voice calm despite the terror looming on the horizon. “Vhagar will not harm us.”
Rhaenys’ breath caught in her throat, her frustration nearly boiling over. She longed to curse out the Queen, to demand why she would not act, but she held her tongue, forcing calm.
A shift began then, almost imperceptible at first. The sunlight that had graced Dragonstone only moments before dimmed, the air growing heavy with moisture. The Councilmen murmured in confusion, some exclaiming as mist seemed to rise from the very stones beneath the Queen’s feet, creeping toward the wide balcony and slowly enveloping the entire castle.
“What… what sorcery is this?” Lord Bartimos whispered, his voice tinged with awe and fear as the mist thickened, wrapping around the balcony like a living thing.
“It’s the Queen…” someone muttered darkly, his tone a mixture of wonder and dread.
All eyes were on Rhaenyra now, who stood motionless with Daemon by her side. The mist curled around her feet, crawling up toward the sky as if drawn to her. The Councilmen stood frozen, caught between awe and terror, unsure whether to flee or stay. Even the most hardened among them could not deny the majesty and mystery of the scene unfolding before them.
Rhaenys, trying to steady her breath turned towards the Queen. Her heart beat faltered when she met Rhaenyra’s gaze. She almost gasped, for the Queen’s lilac eyes, normally so fierce and determined, now glowed with an unmistakable silver ring around the irises, an ethereal light that made her beauty even more otherworldly.
At that moment, the sky answered. One bright flash of lightning split the heavens, followed by a second, then a third, and more, as if the very storm was being summoned by Rhaenyra herself. The Councilmen muttered amongst themselves, backing away from the balcony as the storm gathered strength.
“Seven save us.” Lord Manderly breathed, his voice trembling as the sky darkened.
Rhaenys tore her eyes from the Queen and looked out toward the horizon, where Vhagar’s enormous shadow continued to approach, a hulking figure in the gathering clouds. She could feel the storm building, the air crackling with energy. The first drops of rain began to fall—a soft shower at first, but within moments, it became a torrent. Heavy winds whipped through the castle, howling like the cry of a dragon, and the rain fell in sheets, lashing against the stone walls.
“Back inside!” Rhaenys ordered, pulling Baela close as the storm grew in intensity. The Coucilmen hurried to retreat, their faces pale with fear. Inside the Chamber of the Painted Table, Rhaenys held her granddaughter close, her heart racing.
Together, they stood in silence, watching the King and Queen, who remained out on the balcony, seemingly unaffected by the storm that raged around them. Rhaenyra and Daemon held hands, their eyes fixed on the massive dragon approaching, as if they were detached from the danger, immune to the threat that loomed over them all.
The Councilmen watched in fearful awe, whispering among themselves, but no one dared interrupt the two monarchs.
A flash of lightning tore through the sky, striking dangerously close to Vhagar’s massive form. The great dragon let out a thunderous roar, the sound reverberating across the stormy sea as though she were challenging the heavens themselves. Her colossal wings flared as the wind buffeted her, and for a brief moment, the behemoth seemed to falter, her body dipping toward the churning waters below.
But Vhagar, ancient and indomitable, was not so easily conquered. With a powerful sweep of her wings, she regained altitude, only to be met with another strike of lightning, this time closer, illuminating her with a blinding flash. The winds howled around her, swirling in angry gusts that seemed determined to pull the beast from the sky. She roared again, her voice filled with fury, as if she were locked in battle with the very storm, the tempest refusing to let her pass.
At the very mouth of the balcony, the Black Council stood transfixed, watching in awe and terror as Vhagar fought against the elements. The storm seemed to toy with the dragon, another strike of lightning arcing dangerously close to her hulking form, followed by violent winds that sent her spiraling once more. The Councilmen gasped as Vhagar dipped toward the sea again, her wings struggling against the force of the storm.
“She’s being brought low.” Lord Darklyn whispered, his voice trembling.
But once more, Vhagar roared her defiance, rising from the depths of the storm with an almost enraged grace. The winds continued to batter her, the rain lashing against her scales, but the ancient dragon was relentless, her massive body shaking with fury. With a final roar—this time aimed directly at the stormy sky, as if she were cursing the gods themselves—Vhagar turned back. The storm had won this battle, and with a powerful sweep of her wings, she veered away from Dragonstone, heading back toward King’s Landing.
For a moment, the storm’s wrath seemed to abate, the skies quieting as Vhagar retreated. Rhaenyra and Daemon remained where they stood on the balcony, unmoved by the council’s stunned murmurs behind them. Rhaenyra’s expression was unreadable, her eyes still glowing faintly in the dim light, while Daemon stood beside her, his grip on her hand unyielding.
Only when the silhouette of Vhagar disappeared into the distant clouds did Rhaenyra turn, stepping back into the chamber. Jace was at her side immediately, removing his cloak and draping it over his mother’s shoulders with quiet efficiency. “Muña you might catch a cold.” he murmured, his voice soft, though filled with concern.
Daemon, however, waved away the cloak Luke offered him with a casual flick of his hand. “No need.” he said, his voice holding a certain roughness as the rain dripped from his hair. “The Queen and I need a hot bath,” he continued, his tone dismissive as he turned his attention to the rest of the council. “That will be all. You are dismissed.”
The council stood in stunned silence, still reeling from what they had witnessed, but none dared question the King’s words. Daemon’s authority hung heavy in the air, and with a final glance at Rhaenyra, they bowed their heads. Rhaenyra’s gaze softened as she turned to Baela, who had quietly stepped forward.
“I will have supper prepared in the dining room for when you are ready,” Baela said gently. “It will be waiting after your bath.”
Rhaenyra’s lips curved into a soft smile, the first sign of warmth since the storm had begun. “Thank you, my dear,” she said, her voice tender as she reached out to touch Rhaeny's granddaughter’s cheek. “But let us not prepare too many sweets tonight. It was difficult enough getting Egg and Vis to sleep last night.”
Baela smiled at the memory, nodding as Rhaenyra and Daemon turned to leave. Once the monarchs had exited, silence reigned over the room once more. The Black Council stood frozen, still processing the sight of Vhagar battling the storm and the strange, unearthly beauty of the Queen. Their gazes lingered on the Painted Table, as though the ancient map could offer answers to the mysteries they had just witnessed.
Finally, Jace broke the silence, his voice calm yet commanding. “My lords,” he said, his eyes sweeping the room. “Lady Grandmother, I bid you all a good evening. I suspect this storm will last through the night.”
With that, he turned on his heel, Luke following close behind. Baela was the last to leave, casting one last glance at the Painted Table before slipping out, whispering to her brothers as they disappeared into the shadowed corridors of Dragonstone. The chamber felt heavier, as though the very walls had absorbed the weight of what had just transpired.
Notes:
I just know Vhagar stank! Balerion was able to fit in the dragonpit during his later years and he's much bigger than Vhagar. But if they put Vhagar there all 100k or whatever population in KL would probably die that's why she needed to be parked outside the City lol
Do you think there are living creatures on Vhagars hide? She really looks like she has parasites, entire colony of living things hiding in her saggy skins.
Meanwhile Silverwing looks like she has 10 steps skin care routine, her leathery wings glows!!! Her dragonkeepers are fr spoiling herPs
I dont have beef with Vhagar hahahahahaha
Chapter Text
Daemon POV
Daemon stood back, watching as Rhaenyra knelt gracefully before the altar of the Fourteen Flames. The cavern around them was far from the grandiose temples of the Seven or the gilded halls dedicated to the Lord of Light. No, the Fourteen Flames had no such need for houses of worship. In ancient times, Valyria itself was their temple, nestled amidst the fiery embrace of the fourteen volcanoes. Here on Dragonstone, the sacred space was far more primal, a cavern of rough-hewn stone, veins of molten lava weaving through the ground like the arteries of the world itself.
Above them, the ceiling of the cavern opened to the sky, allowing the moonlight to pour in and bathe the space in an ethereal glow. The light mingled with the eerie flickers of the lava below, casting long shadows that seemed to move and shift with a life of their own. At the center of it all knelt Rhaenyra, their eldest son Jace beside her, the firelight playing off their silver-gold hair, making them seem like creatures born of flame and shadow.
The Valyrian priest hovered nearby, his robes adorned with intricate patterns and vivid colors, and in his hand, an obsidian dagger wrapped in a colorful cloth of Valyrian silk. He winced as Rhaenyra calmly requested the blade, her voice steady and resolute. Daemon’s chest tightened as he watched her take the dagger without hesitation, slicing her hand open with a swift, practiced motion. Her blood, dark and rich, dripped from her palm into the glass candle they had discovered in Visenya’s room, her lips moving in a soft chant—ancient words of Valyria that rolled off her tongue so fluidly it seems like she’s singing.
The priest joined in the chant, their voices intertwining as if they were calling something from deep within the earth itself. And then, as if answering their call, the glass candle blazed to life, its pale green flame flickering and brightening the cavern. But it wasn’t just the glass candle. All around them, the Valyrian glyphs carved into the stone—carvings Daemon had not even noticed before—began to glow. The carvings looked as though they had been filled with molten lava, lighting up with an otherworldly brilliance that danced across the walls.
The air itself felt charged, thick with something Daemon could not name. His vision blurred for a moment, the edges of the room seeming to shimmer and twist, as though the very fabric of the world was bending in response to the ritual. Luke, who stood just beside him, leaned into his side, wide-eyed with awe and a trace of fear.
"Lord Bartimos said Muña is blessed by the Fourteen Flames." Luke whispered, his voice reverent yet uncertain.
Daemon wrapped a protective arm around the boy's shoulder, pulling him closer. "Your mother has always been blessed by the gods." he murmured, his voice carrying both pride and an almost wistful tenderness.
Luke’s face was full of thought, his young brow furrowing as he tried to make sense of all that was unfolding before him. "Grandsire said it was the Merling King who raised the sea waves so high... and the Storm God who attacked Vhagar."
Daemon chuckled softly, a smirk playing on his lips. "Old men and their tales." he jested, though his eyes twinkled with affection for his father-in-law’s superstitions.
A tentative smile crept onto Luke’s face, though his gaze remained fixed on his mother. "It is a good thing, right? Mother is obviously favored by the gods... and the lords will see that. They will bend the knee." His voice was hopeful, almost pleading, as though he needed Daemon’s assurance more than anything in that moment.
Daemon’s heart swelled with a bittersweet fondness for Luke, the gentlest of their children, whose heart always warred with the very thought of bloodshed and suffering. He pulled the boy closer, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.
"Your mother’s light shines brighter than any flame." he said softly. "The lords will see it, and when they do, they’ll know there’s no other choice but to kneel before her."
Luke’s smile grew a little wider, but the weight of what lay ahead still flickered in his eyes.
He turned back to his wife and admired her beauty. Rhaenyra had always been beautiful, a vision of the fabled elegance and grace that came from their Valyrian blood. She had the best of Old Valyria’s otherworldly splendor—the silver-gold hair that flowed like silk, the lilac eyes that shimmered like rare jewels, and skin that seemed to catch every flicker of light. But now, since she had communed with the gods, that beauty had become something else entirely. It was as though the gods themselves had woven their essence into her very being.
In the dark, she seemed to glow. There was a mist-like aura that clung to her skin, a glistening sheen that made her appear less flesh and bone and more like a creature of myth, a goddess who had stepped out of the ancient stories. Her hair, already radiant, now shimmered with a luster that was beyond anything Daemon had ever seen. It was like holding liquid silk in his hands, slipping through his fingers in a cascade of silver-gold light. And her eyes—her eyes had always been her most striking feature, but now they held a depth, a gleam, that made him feel as if she were looking straight into his soul. For someone like him, who had lived his life facing dangers and fears head-on, it was a disconcerting sensation.
He could only imagine what a lesser man would feel under such a gaze, what it would be like for someone weaker to meet those lilac eyes and find themselves unraveling under their weight.
Rhaenyra’s heightened allure was undeniable, almost magnetic. It drew him to her in ways he hadn’t anticipated, igniting a fire within him that had never dimmed. Yet there was something else there, something that made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle with unease. For all the beauty and power she now seemed to command, there was an unspoken truth that gnawed at him in the dark hours of the night.
Daemon respected the Fourteen Flames, as any Valyrian would. He honored their legacy, their place in the world, but his true faith had always been in what he could see, what he could touch. And in their world, that was the dragons. Their dragons were real, tangible manifestations of Valyria’s power, and that was enough for him. But now, now it seemed that the gods themselves were making their presence known through his wife. Rhaenyra was not just a queen; she was becoming something more, something… divine. And that unnerved him.
For the first time, Daemon found himself grappling with a crisis of belief. The gods were real. He could not deny it any longer, not with what he had seen, what he had felt in the presence of Rhaenyra’s transformation. But the question that lingered like a specter in his mind was this: Was the gods being real a good thing?
If the gods were real, if they had chosen to champion their cause, then what price would they demand in return? Was it truly a blessing to know that such beings existed, to feel their power seep into the mortal realm? Or was it a curse?
Daemon’s thoughts drifted to the sacrifices they had already made—the death of their daughter, Visenya, her life snuffed out before it had truly begun. Was that enough? Was her loss a price paid to the gods? And what of the lives lost at Storm’s End, at the devastation in the Westernlands? Were those people sacrifices too, offered up to the different deities for the sake of their victory?
His chest tightened at the thought of Rhaenyra being in danger, not from mortal men, but from the very gods who now seemed to favor her. What would happen if she ever displeased them? If their whims changed, or their favor waned? Daemon would fight armies, battle dragons, face any threat that dared challenge his wife. But the gods? He did not know if even he was enough to stand against the will of the gods.
A deep sigh escaped his lips as he ran a hand through his silver hair, his gaze unfocused as his mind wrestled with the enormity of it all. He had always been the protector, the warrior at her side. But how could he protect her from forces that were beyond mortal comprehension?
His jaw clenched, a bitter resolve forming within him. If the gods required sacrifices, then he would give them all they wanted. But he would stand between them and Rhaenyra, no matter the cost. But a gnawing doubt remained, a cold fear that chilled even him—what if the gods’ demands could not be denied?
Daemon was left with a truth that gnawed at his soul: the gods were beyond his control. And that, more than any foe, terrified him.
Daemon stood still, a silent sentinel as Rhaenyra fastened the dark, gleaming vambraces around his arms with careful, deliberate hands. The armor—Valyrian steel, ancient and resplendent—had been found in Visenya’s room. It bore no insignia, no claim to ownership, yet it shimmered with an unmistakable power.
The curves of the breastplate were a deep, dark silver, gleaming faintly in the dim light of the chamber. It was said to be Valyrian steel, though there was no mention of such armor in the histories. He had heard rumors, but nothing so substantial, so tangible, until now. The weight of it was surprising, light in his hands, and yet he knew instinctively that it was stronger than anything forged in Westeros.
The priest was standing quietly on the side having said his blessings for the armor.
"This armor..." Daemon began, his voice low, "there are no records of it being made in the histories. None that I've seen."
The priest inclined his head, a faint smile curling at the corner of his lips. "There are many things not written in the histories, my prince. The old ways of Valyria were not all shared with those outside the Freehold. The dragonlords kept many secrets, even from each other."
"Valyrian steel can withstand much," the priest continued, his voice a whisper now, almost reverent. "It is said that no common fire can melt it, no blade can break it. But there is more. Dragonflame itself, the heat of the flames from the beasts of old Valyria, could not burn through this steel. The dragonlords, when they went to war against one another, crafted armor like this. To protect themselves from the very creatures they commanded."
"Dragonflame?" Jace asked, his voice curious. "You’re telling me this armor could withstand the flames of Vhagar?"
The priest’s smile deepened. "Yes, my Prince. In Valyria, dragons often warred against one another. This armor—this steel—was made to protect those riders from the searing heat of such battles."
Daemon's pulse quickened, and a shadow of a smile curled his own lips. He liked the thought of it—of armor that could hold against dragonflame, of protection that might keep him invincible in battle. "Aegon and his sisters had no need of such measures. They had three dragons, united. No such division."
The priest's smile remained, but there was a shadow in his eyes now, something darker. "Perhaps, my King. But Valyria was never united, not as Aegon’s Conquest was. There, even dragons fought dragons. And in such times, measures were taken to ensure survival."
Luke and Joffrey busied themselves at his legs, fastening the greaves, while Viserys darted around with boyish exuberance, the winged helmet clutched in his small hands. "Dracarys! Sovogen!" the little boy shouted into the depths of the helmet, his voice echoing back at him with thrilling delight. Egg, ever the diligent helper, eagerly fetched pieces of the armor, though he was nearly trembling with excitement as he passed them to his brothers.
Jace stood to the side, his arms crossed and a pout on his lips, flanked by Baela and Rhaena, both watching the proceedings with the kind of solemn awe that only young ladies could muster in moments of high importance. Jace, despite his clear longing to join in their mission, had been denied, and it rankled him deeply.
Rhaenyra had made a decision that was both bold and dangerous: dragons were now to be unleashed upon the battlefield. Meleys and Caraxes were to soar to Duskendale, answering the plea from Lord Darklyn’s son, who had reported the march of nearly two thousand men toward his gates. In his loyalty to Rhaenyra, he had raised their banner and seen to the safety of his people, relocating his smallfolk within the castle walls. He had even permitted them to build makeshift homes against the stone in exchange for their assistance in fortifying and maintaining the castle grounds. It was a clever arrangement, one born of necessity and compassion.
As Rhaenyra finished fastening the last clasp, her eyes glimmered with an emotion Daemon could not quite place. From within her robes, she withdrew a small, smooth object, turning it in her hands as if weighing its significance before offering it to him. It was a dragon scale, though not as hard or fully formed as those of an adult dragon. It had the distinct softness of something newly shed, almost translucent in places, but its color—a vibrant emerald green—drew Daemon’s sharp gaze. It was unlike the scales of any dragon they had raised.
“Where did this come from?” he asked, curiosity giving way to disbelief.
Rhaenyra’s voice was low, almost reverent. “This is the first scale Vhagar shed when she was just a hatchling.”
Rhaena gasped in delight, "Really? it does not look like her scales though, the color is wrong."
"Vhagar’s scales was once vibrant, though now, they appear dull and cracked due to age and battle." Rhaenyra explained and then back to him. She met his gaze, her lips curving into a faint, bittersweet smile. “My father once told me that controlling dragons is an illusion, that dragons are not slaves, that no one truly controls them.”
Daemon’s lips curled into a knowing smirk as he adjusted his armor. "He’s right, of course, one of the few times Viserys was." he said, his voice low but certain. "Dragons have minds of their own. They don’t just obey their riders—they choose to. And it's a choice they don't make lightly."
Rhaenyra, fastening the last of the clasps, looked up at him with a small, enigmatic smile. "Not at first." she replied softly, turning her gaze toward the children who had gathered around, their curiosity palpable. Luke and Joffrey, seated on the floor, were watching with wide eyes, while Jace, Baela, and Rhaena had drawn closer, leaning on the table as if waiting for a grand tale to unfold. Their anticipation filled the room like a charge in the air.
“There are many legends about the dragons.” Rhaenyra continued, her voice taking on a storyteller’s lilt, captivating even the young Valyrians in the room. “Some say they came from one of the moon’s sisters. That one night, a moon fell from the sky, shattered, and from its broken pieces, dragons crawled out—born of the heavens. Others say they rose from the very fires of Valyria’s famed Fourteen Flames.” She sat down on a chair and lifted Viserys up who leaned against his mother’s chest while Egg hugged Luke’s back, putting his chin on his head.
She paused, her lilac eyes sparkling as she glanced at each of her children in turn. "But the truth is far more… cold-blooded."
The children leaned in, mesmerized, and even Daemon, as battle-hardened as he was, found himself caught in the moment. It was then that the Valyrian priest, ever attentive, bent to retrieve a crumpled piece of parchment the children had discarded earlier. With a quiet grace, he unrolled it, smoothing the edges, and with a broken quill went to write what would be one of the most kept secret in the known world.
"The dragons were not born of falling moons or flames alone. No, their origins are far darker. They were made—crafted in Asshai, a twisted creation born of crossbreeding the wyverns of Sothoryos and the firewyrms of Valyria."
Jace’s mouth fell open, his astonishment clear. “How is that even possible?” he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.
"In Asshai, my love," Rhaenyra answered, her tone taking on an almost reverent hush, "where the boundaries between life and death blur, dark arts have flourished for centuries. There, in the shadowed depths, the warlocks of Asshai practiced crossbreeding unlike any seen in the known world. They have birthed creatures beyond imagination, twisting beast and man into forms so grotesque that they seem to defy the very laws of nature."
Her words hung in the air like mist, weaving a tapestry of dread and fascination. The children, too enraptured to speak, could only stare wide-eyed as Rhaenyra went on.
“One of the most fearsome of these abominations,” she said, her voice like silk trailing across the room, “are the Cinderlions—creatures forged from mountain lions and molten firewyrms. Their fur is blackened, charred by the embers that smolder at the tips. Their breath ignites the very air around them in a cloud of burning ash, and their claws—sharp as molten steel—cut through their prey, leaving behind only charred bones.”
Even Daemon, who had seen many horrors in his lifetime, found himself momentarily chilled by the vividness of her description. The children, once gleeful and bright-eyed, now stood in silent awe, their imaginations conjuring creatures of fire and fury.
“But it didn’t stop there,” Rhaenyra continued, her voice growing softer yet darker. “The warlocks of Asshai didn’t confine their dark experiments to beasts alone. They turned their wicked arts on humans as well, melding man and beast into hybrid monstrosities. Among the most feared are the Kyntraur—half-man, half-wild horse from the Great Grass Sea. But unlike the noble centaurs of legend, these creatures are twisted—half-mad, with sinewy limbs and the eyes of wild beasts, driven by both human cunning and animalistic ferocity.”
Jace looked on in horrified wonder, his brow furrowing. "But how... how could they even..."
Rhaenyra sighed, a soft sadness touching her voice as she shook her head slightly. “In Asshai, nothing is impossible, not even the grotesque. They created these things, these Kyntraur, to serve them. But in time, they became more dangerous than their creators ever intended."
Rhaena shivered but leaned closer, enthralled. “What else did they create?” she asked, almost in a whisper.
Rhaenyra’s eyes darkened, her expression becoming more somber. "There are creatures even darker, my sweetling. The Vissach, for instance—a grotesque fusion of man and carrion birds. Standing nearly eight feet tall, its body is a grotesque fusion of human and avian features. Its face, though retaining the semblance of a once-human form, is pale and featureless, with hollow, black eyes that seem to absorb all light, leaving only darkness. Where its mouth should be, there is a thin, jagged line that, when opened, reveals no tongue or teeth—only an abyss that draws in the breath of the dying. Its skin is taut, stretched over bones that seem too long and too sharp, casting an unnatural silhouette in the moonlight.
"From its back sprout enormous wings, feathered not with soft down, but with barbed quills, each dark and gleaming like polished obsidian. These wings do not flutter or flap in the wind; instead, they seem to glide through the air with an eerie stillness, making the creature’s approach nearly soundless. The feathers are said to be razor-sharp, able to slice through flesh and bone with a single sweep. When the creature unfolds them, they cast a shadow that swallows the light, plunging the area into an unnatural twilight.
“The Vissach’s limbs are unnaturally long, with talon-like fingers tipped with gleaming, silver claws. These claws are as sharp as Valyrian steel and said to deliver a death blow with one touch. Its legs, reminiscent of a great hunting bird, end in talons strong enough to crush a skull or drag a victim into the skies.
“But it is its eyes—those hollow, pitiless orbs—that inspire the most dread. Those who have seen them up close claim that they show not just the present, but the moment of one’s death, replaying it endlessly within their depths. It is said that these creatures does not merely take life, but claims the souls of those it slays, trapping them forever in the dark void that fills its being. They glide silently on the wind, watching, waiting… scavenging for the dead and the dying
“They say the Vissach possess a cruel intelligence,” Rhaenyra added, her voice low. “Whispering dark secrets into the ears of those who dare approach them, some believe they are messengers of death itself. Some say it answers to no one, while others claim it is the ultimate assassin, summoned by the highest lords of shadow to eliminate those who dare defy the ancient powers. Regardless, none can escape its silent approach, for once its black wings spread, and its talons extend, the Angel of Death leaves only stillness in its wake.”
The silence that followed was heavy, only broken by the soft rustling of the parchment. Even Daemon, who had fought in battles and seen more than most, was left wondering about the powers at play in Asshai.
“These crossbreeding practices birthed horrors,” Rhaenyra concluded, her tone both grave and serene. “Beasts with no names… lurking in the shadows of the world. The dark art of combining flesh continues to this day, hidden, shrouded in mystery.”
Rhaenyra’s expression softened into a contemplative smile as she gazed at the eager faces of her children, their curiosity as palpable as the warmth of the fire that crackled nearby. Her voice, when she spoke, was both tender and filled with the weight of ancient knowledge. "The greatest creation to come from Asshai," she said “was the dragons. A creature so fierce, so mighty, that it could blot out the very sun with its wings. Their fire scorched the earth, and their presence alone made the world tremble on its knees.”
Her words hung in the air like a spell, capturing every ear in the room. The children, seated or standing, were riveted. Even Daemon leaned in slightly, his interest piqued.
“They say,” Rhaenyra continued, her voice lowering to a hushed reverence, “that in their pursuit of power, the shadowbinders of Asshai sacrificed scores of people—innocents stolen from all corners of the world—to create these magnificent beasts. But they failed time and time again. It wasn’t until they used the blood of a priest of the Fourteen Flames that they finally succeeded in creating something that could rival the gods themselves.”
Jace's brow furrowed as he exchanged a glance with Luke, who was wide-eyed with wonder. Baela and Rhaena leaned in closer, their curiosity sparking to life.
“But that success,” Rhaenyra added with a small, enigmatic smile, “was also one of their greatest mistakes.”
Jace’s eyes gleamed with intrigue. "How could that be?" he asked, his voice a soft echo in the room.
Rhaenyra’s smile widened. "The Valyrians, although humble shepherds at the time, were naturally attuned to the Fourteen Flames. Magic ran in their blood. The shadowbinders may have created dragons, but they could not bind them to anyone who wasn’t of Valyrian descent. And when the priest—the one whose blood birthed the dragons—realized this, he escaped atop a dragon barely grown into adulthood. He took with him clutch of eggs and destroyed the very tower where they were created before fleeing to Old Valyria."
“The priest returned to Valyria with those eggs and gifted them to his children—all forty of them, from thirty different women.” she said with a glint of amusement in her voice, which was met with an appreciative chuckle from Daemon.
Baela gasped, her wide eyes shining with mischief. “Now that’s greedy!” she exclaimed, making Luke and Jace burst into laughter.
Rhaena nudged her sister. "Shhh, Baela!" she whispered with a smile, though even she was clearly amused.
Little Joffrey, with his head tilted in confusion, blinked up at them innocently. “What’s so funny?” he asked, his young voice making Luke nearly choke with laughter.
Rhaenyra watched her children, her eyes softening with affection. Their laughter filled the room with warmth, a brief break from the gravity of her tale. She smiled at them, a mother’s smile, before continuing.
“Each of those children,” Rhaenyra explained, “being direct descendants of the first dragonrider, possessed the same blood that created the dragons. Their control over the creatures was total, enhanced further by their blood magic. It was this, and this alone, that allowed Valyria to rise to such unimaginable heights. Without that bond, Valyria would never have survived.”
Daemon leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “And what of the shadowbinders?” he asked, a hint of skepticism in his tone. “Why didn’t they come to reclaim what they believed was theirs?”
Rhaenyra’s gaze shifted toward him, her expression turning more serious. “Because they couldn’t,” she answered simply. “Shadowbinders are bound to the very earth of the Shadowlands. To open themselves to the dark arts, they sacrifice their freedom, their connection to the wider world. The gods may have allowed them to defy nature, but they ensured the shadowbinders could never leave their cursed lands.The ones who are able to leave are not really powerful warlocks. Just apprentices who only learn the basics of the dark arts. BUt even still, outside in the known world, their powers were most coveted."
The room seemed to grow colder as Rhaenyra spoke, the shadows on the walls lengthening as if drawn to the dark truths she revealed. The children were silent now, their playful mood replaced by an almost reverent awe.
"Some of their creations managed to escape," she continued, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “There were beasts that wreaked havoc across the known world. But few survived for long. The dragons, though… they were different. They not only survived—they thrived. And after the Doom of Valyria, when much of the knowledge and rituals of the blood mages were lost, the dragons evolved.”
Her eyes flickered with a quiet intensity as she met each of her children’s gazes. “They are no longer just creatures of experiment,” she said softly. “They have become something more—beings with their own will, their own souls. They are no longer bound by blood magic alone, made to obey, and their bond with us, their riders, has deepened in ways even the old Valyrians could never have imagined.”
Luke, his eyes wide with wonder, asked, “What do you mean, Muña?”
Rhaenyra smiled, her voice growing gentle as she explained. "Before the Doom, the Valyrians treated their dragons as property, creatures to be controlled with magic and commands. But over time, the bond between dragon and rider evolved into something far deeper. We don’t just command them; we feel them, we sense their moods, their desires. Your Kepa,” she said, glancing at Daemon with a fond smile, “always says he can feel Caraxes’ mood, even when they are apart."
Baela, ever mischievous, grinned. “That’s why Kepa is so temperamental!” she teased, making the room erupt in laughter once more.
Rhaenyra’s laughter joined that of her children, but as the mirth faded, she spoke again, her tone more serious. "It is true, though. The blood we share with the dragons gives us an advantage, yes, but it also makes our bond with them more complex. They are no longer simple creatures to command. They are our partners, our equals, in many ways. And that makes controlling them all the more difficult."
Her gaze grew distant, thoughtful. "But it is also what makes them so magnificent. They are not just beasts; they are part of us, and we are part of them. That connection, born of blood and fire, is what will always make us stronger than those who would seek to tame them through force or fear.”
Joffrey, his voice small but curious, looked up at his mother, his eyes wide with wonder. "How do you know all this, Muña?"
Rhaenyra smiled, a mysterious, almost knowing smile that seemed to hold centuries of secrets. She leaned forward ever so slightly, her voice lowering to a gentle whisper. "The Fourteen Flames whispered it to me." she said, her tone rich with the weight of an ancient connection but also playful and teasing.
Without another word, she rose gracefully, cradling little Viserys, who had already drifted into a peaceful sleep in her arms. She crossed the room with a mother’s tenderness, gently transferring him into Rhaena’s waiting embrace. The young girl cradled her brother with a protective love, as she had done so countless times before.
Rhaenyra stood for a moment, gazing at her children, then turned toward Daemon, her eyes glimmering with a quiet intensity. “The Fourteen Flames have bathed our dragons in their embrace for generations," she began softly. "And now, they are angry. They will not allow another dragon to be harmed through our careless handling. Not one more.”
Her words hung in the air, the weight of her plea unmistakable as she turned to face Daemon fully. “Husband, I beseech you,” she said, her voice steady yet pleading, “bring Vhagar back to us. She is lonely, alone… she deserves to rest in the place where she was born.”
Daemon, ever the rogue, furrowed his brow in confusion, a soft frown forming on his lips. "Rhaenyra," he began with a sigh, his tone edged with reluctance, "that is nearly impossible."
But Rhaenyra, resolute and unyielding, merely smiled. “Vhagar followed Caraxes from Pentos to Driftmark when Laena died." she reminded him, her voice laced with gentle insistence.
Daemon, shaking his head, replied, “That’s because she had no rider then.”
Rhaenyra’s eyes sparkled, her smile deepening into one of quiet confidence. “I will work on the bond with Vhagar,” she promised, stepping closer to him. “All you need to do is remove the One-Eyed Prince from her saddle.”
Daemon looked up in exasperation, running a hand through his silver hair. With his signature sarcasm, he muttered, “Well, now that you mention it, seems a simple enough task, doesn’t it?”
But before he could say more, Rhaenyra leaned in, her lips brushing his in a lingering kiss. Her touch was warm, soothing, a reminder of the trust that bound them together. When she pulled back, she gazed into his eyes with unwavering faith. “I have the utmost faith in you.” she said softly, her words a gentle caress.
From the back of Caraxes, Daemon could see the world laid out beneath them like a map, every detail coming into sharp focus as they soared high above Duskendale. The town below was aflame with chaos, the Greens’ Crownlands army pressing ever closer to the castle walls. Men in armor clustered like ants, hammering at the gates, their weapons ringing against the stone as they shouted in a wild cacophony. It was clear—the castle was on the verge of being breached.
But then, from the clouds, like a crimson storm descending from the heavens, came Meleys.
The Queen Who Never Was and her great red dragon swooped down with lethal grace, her wings spread wide as flames erupted from her jaws. A river of fire poured over the soldiers closest to the walls, engulfing them in a deadly inferno. Daemon watched from above as their armor, once gleaming in the midday sun, blackened and melted, the men beneath shrieking in agony. The air filled with their cries, echoing faintly through the skies, blending with the sound of crackling flames. From such a height, their shouts seemed muted, distant, but the terror in their voices was unmistakable.
The stench of burning flesh reached Daemon, carried on the wind. It was thick and choking, mingled with the acrid tang of molten metal and charred wood. Ash swirled upwards like ghostly smoke, filling the air with the bitter scent of destruction. Below, the ground was littered with the remnants of men—some no more than twisted, blackened husks, others writhing as fire devoured them alive.
From the battlements, Daemon could hear the victorious cheers of their own men, a triumphant roar rising from the castle as the tide of battle shifted. But as he scanned the horizon, his gaze steeled, for he had been expecting this.
A sound tore through the air, louder and deeper than any before it. A roar, unmistakable and terrifying, split the sky as Vhagar emerged from the forest beyond. The ancient dragon, her enormous form rising sluggishly, beat her wings heavily—four massive flaps to ascend when it should have taken only two.
Daemon frowned as he looked at the hoary old bitch, a knot of concern tightening in his chest. Even from this distance, he could smell her, an earthy, fetid scent that reminded him of a forest trampled by too many men—overused and unclean. It was a scent of sweat and decay, of undergrowth long neglected, thick with the odor of dirt, mold, and rot. Vhagar looked worse than he had imagined. Her scales, once gleaming green even in her old age, were now dull, coated with clumps of moss and weeds that had taken root between them. There were even traces of undergrowth that had grown into her hide, a sight that made Daemon’s jaw clench with anger.
He remembered Laena’s devotion to Vhagar, how she would spend hours tending to the dragon’s massive form, carefully removing dirt, debris, and molted scales. She had brought countless tools to keep the old beast in good health—giant brushes, scrapers, and even Dark Sister on one occasion to dislodge some undergrowth from Vhagar’s teeth. Laena had paid handsomely for people to clean the dragon’s nest weekly, for she refused to let Vhagar lie atop her kills. And every week, vats of animal fats were fetched to oil the dragon’s great scales, keeping them supple and strong.
But now? Now, Vhagar was neglected, untended. Her scales were rough, dulled by time and grime, her great body burdened by the weight of careless disregard. The dragonkeepers dared not go near her, and her rider—Daemon ground his teeth—was evidently too unbothered to care for her himself.
Meleys shot upward, climbing through the sky with ease, just as they had planned. Caraxes rumbled beneath him, and Daemon leaned forward, patting the dragon’s thick, scarlet hide. "Go on then, greet the old girl, my friend,” Daemon murmured with a smirk. “It’s been too long since we’ve had a bit of fun.”
Caraxes let out a long trill, a melodic sound that shifted into a high, teasing whistle. The response from Vhagar was expected—a thunderous, almost playful roar, one that Daemon might dare describe as happy. It was as if the ancient dragon remembered their past, their shared history above Shipbreaker’s Bay when Caraxes had not attacked her but instead engaged in a playful dance. Dragons, after all, do not recognize friend from foe unless guided by their riders, but they possess long memories. Vhagar and Caraxes had once been companions in battle, when the brothers Aemon and Baelon rode them into war, and later, they spent ten more years together when Daemon was married to Laena.
Aemond, on the other hand, had not ridden Vhagar for long. Daemon observed the old dragon’s state with a mixture of disgust and pity. Based on her appearance, Aemond clearly neglected her—likely only spending time with her when he needed to ride. No man could endure the stench she carried; the smell was overwhelming, thick with the odor of damp earth and decay, as if she had lain in the filth of a thousand rotting flesh.
Vhagar greeted them with a burst of flame, a fiery challenge Daemon nonchalantly flew into, as if it were nothing more than a gust of wind. Caraxes responded with a searing breath of his own, aiming straight for her snout, the flames dancing between them like old friends rekindling a forgotten bond. And then as expected, Vhagar rolled onto her back, exposing her belly to them in a mocking display, as if daring them to try something. She was not afraid, that much was clear.
Daemon’s sharp eyes caught sight of the leather straps that held Aemond’s saddle in place, tightly fastened around Vhagar’s massive form. With a flick of his wrist, he guided Caraxes closer, their sleek red form paralleling Vhagar’s bulk, and trailed his claws along the straps. With a swift, deliberate motion, four of them snapped free just as Vhagar turned herself upright again.
Caraxes, in turn, flipped upside down, gliding above Vhagar in a perfect mirrored dance. Daemon felt a wave of nostalgia—a wicked smile curling on his lips—as he recalled flying in just this manner, before he'd playfully kiss Laena this way before she raced ahead. She had always been carefree, flying ahead with a laugh, her joy infectious. Now, as he glanced across the great beast’s back, he saw nothing but terror on the face of her rider.
Aemond’s expression was a mask of desperation, pulling at the reins with all his might, trying to steer the massive dragon beneath him. The effort was futile, and Daemon could only laugh. Vhagar had long outgrown her rider’s weak attempts to control her. In one hand, Daemon held the crossbow—Baela would surely be cross to discover missing. It was her finest weapon, perfectly balanced, the most well-cared-for of all her treasures. He would have to make amends for borrowing it, perhaps with a custom-forged dagger or a whip made of bull hide for his daughter once this war was over.
Aemond’s shouts grew more frantic, his voice rising in desperation, but Daemon barely paid him mind. The prince tugged and yanked at Vhagar’s reins, but Daemon knew it was pointless, Vhagar does not feel any threats, only playful exuberance. He could kill him now if he wished—one bolt this close, fired with precision, would be fatal. But Daemon was not yet ready to be a kinslayer. The price of such an act weighed heavily on his mind. And once Vhagar realized her rider was dead, she would unleash a fury that no one, not even Caraxes, could hope to tame.
No, Vhagar must be left somewhat docile, friendly and riderless, just like his dear wife demanded.
Daemon aimed carefully, his eyes narrowing as he targeted the remaining straps that fastened Aemond’s saddle. With practiced precision, he fired a bolt, snapping three more straps at once. Now, only two remained on the right side and three on the left.
Caraxes righted himself with a graceful twist of his long, serpentine body, his crimson wings cutting through the air as they veered toward the open sea. It wasn’t long before Vhagar, with her massive bulk and deep, labored flaps, raced after them. Daemon pulled on the reins, turning Caraxes sharply, and they began their dance anew, a wicked duet that only dragons and their riders could perform.
Vhagar, ever ancient, lumbered in the air with a roll of her immense form, exposing her belly once again. But this time, the remaining saddle straps, worn and neglected, and too few to hold the One-eyed Princes' weighht snapped in a resounding crack. The One-Eyed Prince, his grasp now futile, plummeted towards the waiting waters below. Daemon watched his fall, a wicked gleam of satisfaction glinting in his eyes, and then, unable to contain himself, he laughed in wild, unrestrained glee.
Caraxes soared upward in a sharp ascent, the wind whistling in Daemon’s ears, while Vhagar righted herself with a furious roar, circling the sea where her rider had vanished. Daemon watched with calculated indifference. 'The height is not so great," he thought, the corners of his mouth still curled in a dark smile. "The boy will be fine. I only hope he felt a fraction of the fear Luke endured when the beast in a prince’s form hunted him with his war dragon.'
In an instant, Rhaenys was beside him, Meleys keeping pace with ease. Her violet eyes, sharp and questioning, sought his face for confirmation. Had he done it? Daemon, still laughing, let the answer be known in the joyous sound that erupted from him, echoing through the skies. Rhaenys, ever the seasoned warrior, merely rolled her eyes at his mirth, but her lips twitched in amusement. She urged Meleys to swoop down toward Vhagar, the scarlet queen playfully circling the ancient dragon below, but the old bitch gave her no heed. Vhagar was too focused on the spot where her rider had vanished beneath the waves.
From their lofty vantage, Daemon could make out a group of riders hastening down to the shore. But they would be too late. Already, a Velaryon ship was sailing towards the fallen prince, its sleek hull cutting through the waters with purpose. Daemon’s eyes narrowed as he recognized the ship’s crest. One of Corlys’ bastards was among the crew, no doubt. It would be a shame if the boy met his end before Rhaenys had the chance to learn the truth. Daemon had long desired to witness the revelation for himself, to see the look on his cousin’s face when the inevitable confrontation unfolded.
Daemon descended with a sharp command, guiding Caraxes toward Vhagar to draw her attention away from the boat. It would not do for her fiery breath to torch the ship before it could complete its task. Vhagar, followed Caraxes and Meleys reluctantly, or rather followed the ship that rescued her rider, her massive form lumbering in the sky as she trailed behind. They headed toward Dragonstone, the wind carrying the distant scent of the sea and salt.
They have the Green's third King. He wonders what they will do next.
Notes:
Dragons fascinate me so much, they each have their own personality. George wrote that Caraxes was formidable, fearsome, and experienced in battle. Syrax were said to had not hunted for years in the books by the time of the Dance of Dragons, truly a spoiled Princess. I thought it would only be normal that dragons who nests together be familiar with each other. Imagine Aemon and Baelon playing like that in the skies of King's Landing? they were said to be very close practicing in the yard so I just thought they must have flown frequently together as well. And we all saw the way Laena and Daemon flew playfully when they were in Pentos or was it Bravos? So I just thought Vhagr and Caraxes might have known each other quiet well, they do not seem antagonistic, they even seemed friendly lol.
And the lore about asshai was based on a radio show that my mother used to listen to when I was a child, it was about an island where they conduct experiments, crossbreeding animals and then eventually humans and beasts. Gosh I was so scared then but my mom will not turn it off, it aired at midnight and I will just wake up with the sound of a wolf howling, my mom is so cute, bless her.
Chapter Text
Criston Cole POV
Criston Cole stood resolutely by the door, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword as the Green Council descended into yet another cacophony of raised voices and clashing wills. He had been trained to endure battle, not the ceaseless bickering of lords and ladies—but this, it seemed, was the war of words he must endure now.
At the center of it all was Alicent, her once-immaculate beauty now faded into a shadow of its former glory. Her eyes, red-rimmed and swollen, betrayed sleepless nights and unshed tears. Her face had grown gaunt, hollowed by worry and grief, and her once-lustrous hair now hung limp and dull against her pale cheeks. Cole’s heart ached at the sight of her, the woman he had sworn his life to protect, unraveling before his eyes. There was a fierce urge within him to step forward, to take her into his arms and offer her some semblance of comfort, but he held himself back. It would be highly improper. Treasonous, even.
"My son could still be alive," Alicent’s voice, cracked and brittle, cut through the din. She clasped her hands before her, wringing them as though praying for a miracle. "You said you saw a Velaryon ship sailing away, Ser Criston. Aemond may be a prisoner, but... he could still be alive."
Cole swallowed thickly, unable to meet her pleading gaze. "Yes, Your Grace. I saw it, but..." He hesitated, knowing the slim chances. Yet, how could he dash what little hope she clung to?
Gwayne Hightower, his youthful face flushed with indignation, stood and slammed his fist on the table. "Then we must negotiate with Dragonstone! We have to get Aemond back, no matter the cost."
Lord Jasper, older and wearier from the endless debates, shook his head gravely. "That would mean bending the knee, lad. You know what that entails. We cannot afford such weakness."
"Bend the knee!" Gwayne retorted, his voice rising with desperation. "We will bend the knee! What good is pride when we’ve lost so much already?"
At this, Otto Hightower, ever the strategist, dismissed his son with a cold wave of his hand. "Daemon Targaryen will not let Aemond live. He's as good as dead already, if not worse. We must accept that."
A soft sniffle escaped Alicent as she bowed her head, her shoulders trembling under the weight of her father’s words. The once fierce queen had been reduced to a grieving mother before them all, her grief too heavy to bear.
Gwayne, however, was far from silenced. "How can you say that? You don’t know—you weren’t there!" His voice cracked with emotion. "Aemond could still be alive, and you speak as though he's already lost! You all knew him. He would fight—he would survive."
Otto’s cold gaze turned to his son. "I know Daemon Targaryen better than anyone. He would never have spared Aemond, not with the hatred that runs in his veins. Dead or nearly dead—it makes no difference. What matters now is that Daeron must be crowned at the Starry Sept, just as Aegon the Conqueror was. The realm needs a king."
Gwayne slammed his hand on the table once more, startling even Ser Criston. "Father, you must know when to give up! The Iron Throne has seen three kings in five moons—all lost! Will you now send Daeron to join them? You must sue for peace, for the sake of the realm!" His voice cracked with emotion as he turned to his sister, imploring her. "Alicent... he’s just a boy. He’s not a leader of men, much less the Seven Kingdoms."
Alicent refused to meet her brother’s gaze, her bloodied nails digging into her palms as her lips trembled. She had lost too much, sacrificed too much for this throne.
“How can you think that this fight still has meaning?" Gwayne's voice trembled with frustration. "Our allies have been struck by disaster, they're dying, and they won’t be helping us anytime soon. Daeron only has a dragon the size of a horse! Is your pride more important than Daeron’s life? Than Helaena’s? Than Aemond’s?”
“We all know from the start that this fight will be until the end.” the Lord hand said stubbornly.
Gwayne looked between his sister and his father, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. "Neither of you have ever loved anything more than you love that accursed Throne." he said, his voice laced with mocking disdain. With a final huff, he stormed from the chamber, leaving behind an uneasy silence.
Criston’s hand tightened on his sword, his heart heavy with the weight of it all. How had it come to this? To see the Queen Dowager, a woman he had once admired for her strength, so utterly shattered, while the Hightower family, once united, now stood on the brink of collapse. His sense of honor had carried him through many battles, but this one—a battle of loyalty, of duty—was proving to be the most dangerous of all.
Criston Cole stood at the edge of the council chamber, his face a stoic mask as talk of another coronation swirled around him like a foul wind. This time, it was Oldtown that would bear witness to yet another anointing. Daeron would be crowned swiftly in the Starry Sept, then flown to the capital to assume the mantle of rule. The council’s voices droned on, but Criston’s mind had already drifted elsewhere. He could hardly bring himself to care about another boy king.
With all that had happened—all the blood that had been spilled—he found himself questioning, for the first time, if they had ever been in the right. The gods themselves seemed to punish their every move. Aegon was gone. Aemond was gone. And what had they been fighting for, truly? For a realm that felt as though it was already slipping through their fingers like sand?
His thoughts turned, unbidden, to that fateful hunt. Rhaenyra. The White Hart. He had been there, seen it with his own eyes—the beast bowing before her, as though the gods themselves had favored her. That image haunted him, no matter how much he tried to rid himself of it. But how could someone so steeped in sin ever be blessed by the gods?
Rhaenyra was a lustful creature, a temptress who sought to ensnare honorable men and twist them to her will. First, it had been him—his honor, his very soul, that she had tarnished with her wicked allure. She had toyed with his feelings, seduced him, then cast him aside as though he meant nothing. His vows, his oaths—broken, shattered, like they were no more than fragile, unimportant glass on the floor. And after him, it had been Harwin Strong, another victim of her insatiable appetite. Who knew how many more men she had spread her legs for? How many more had fallen under her spell? With Daemon Targaryen, a creature sent from the deepest of the Seven Hells, emboldening her, he’s sure she is ten time worse now. He would not be surprised if she had already turned Dragonstone into a house of sin.
She was corrupted—by desire, by ambition, by that wretched uncle of hers, Daemon Targaryen. Her very presence was poison. The Lords of Westeros had sworn oaths, yes—but how could they honor them to a woman so debased? A woman who would bring the realm to ruin with her every breath?
And ruin it she had. The moment King Viserys had died, the realm had begun to crumble beneath her grasp. First, she birthed that monstrous child—a sure sign of the gods’ disfavor. Then, Storm’s End was lost, the disaster in the Westerlands and the tragedy in the very heart of the Red Keep. Everywhere she went, chaos followed. Death. Destruction. Three kings were already gone, and a princess too, all because of her cursed ambition.
Should she ever sit the Iron Throne, Criston feared, the Seven themselves might strike the kingdom from the face of the known world. Her reign would be an abomination in the eyes of gods and men.
It had always been the same. Rhaenyra coveted, and she took, with no regard for morality, no regard for those left broken in her wake. She had done it to Queen Alicent, leaving her trapped in a loveless marriage, nightly violated by an aging king who had long since ceased to care for her. She had done it to him, tearing away the only thing he had—his honor—and laughing as she crushed his heart beneath her pretty feet.
No. He would not—could not—allow her to sit the Iron Throne. The realm would suffer for her sins. The very gods themselves were already making their displeasure known. Every calamity, every death, every misfortune—they were signs, divine warnings of the horror that awaited should she claim the crown.
Rhaenyra was a curse upon this world, a harbinger of doom. And Criston would see to it that she never sat the Iron Throne. He owed that much to the realm. He owed that much to his honor, the one thing she could not take from him again.
Lord Hobert Hightower POV
Lord Hobert Hightower rode at the middle of the grand procession, mounted atop a magnificent horse befitting his station. The beast was large and sturdy, its coat gleaming in the sunlight, adorned with rich green and gold trappings that matched the rider’s finery. Hobert himself was a man of considerable girth, his stomach spilling slightly over his ornate saddle, but he carried the weight of his station with the dignity and poise of one accustomed to privilege. His robes, too, were green and gold, shimmering beneath the Beacon of the Hightower, blazing bright green behind him as they paraded through the streets of Oldtown.
Ahead, the boy—his ward, his future king—rode with an almost regal naiveté, the flower crown upon his head as he waved to the adoring crowds. Daeron, the boy, was a decent lad—kind enough, if a touch slow in wit. Hobert could not help but lament the missed opportunities in the boy’s upbringing. Had he known that this third son, this princely title with no inheritance to his name, would one day be crowned King of the Seven Kingdoms, Hobert would have taken more care with the boy’s education. As it was, Daeron had spent more time fussing over his dragon than attending to the lessons that might one day have served him as a king.
But no matter. His brother, Otto, would take Daeron in hand soon enough and rule in his stead, just as he had done for Aegon, though that boy had brought nothing but headaches. Aegon’s laziness, Aemond’s recklessness—both had led to ruin. Daeron’s simplicity, however, might prove a blessing. A simple boy was far easier to mold, to control.
How Aemond had lost to Daemon Targaryen, despite riding the greatest dragon in the world, was still beyond Hobert’s understanding. Foolishness, he thought with a shake of his head. But there was no time for dwelling on the past—today was for celebration.
Turning his attention back to the parade, Hobert watched as Daeron basked in the love of the people. Maidens wept as they called out his name, throwing blossoms at his feet in tribute. Mothers hoisted their children into the air, desperate for a blessing from their new king. The High Septon and his Septas laid down flowers upon the road, carpeting the path in a sea of petals for Daeron to ride through. Everywhere they went, the crowds swelled with devotion, voices rising in jubilation.
Oldtown adored the Hightowers, and for good reason. They provided the city with protection, with food, with guidance—and now they had delivered unto them a king. Not just any king, but one who carried Hightower blood in his veins and had been raised within these very walls. There was no greater symbol of unity, of triumph, than this moment.
The procession wound its way slowly through the city, taking care to travel every main road so that none would be denied the sight of their king. It took nearly half the day to reach the Starry Sept, the path winding through Oldtown’s labyrinthine streets, each one filled with cheering townsfolk. Hobert allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. Oldtown was theirs, and with Daeron on the throne, they would secure their place in the realm’s future.
Daeron, with his princely title, his simplicity, and his charm, would do nicely. He was adored, yes—but more importantly, he could be shaped. And with Otto guiding his hand, the Seven Kingdoms would remain under the careful watch of the Hightower, just as it should be.
Lord Hobert Hightower sighed as he heaved himself from his horse, the groom scurrying to place the wooden steps before him. Hobert’s heavy boots thudded against the ground as he descended with a groan, his considerable frame settling once more onto solid earth. His richly embroidered green and gold robes swayed around him as he turned to offer his arm to his wife, ever the image of lordly decorum. They made their way toward the grand sept, the groom leading the horses away as the Lord of the Hightower cast a glance back at his nephew, the boy who would be king.
Daeron stood on the steps of the Starry Sept, smiling and waving to the people, looking every bit the part of a beloved monarch. Hobert allowed himself a small smile of approval. At least the boy understood the importance of pageantry. The lad might have been slow in his lessons, but he had the good sense to win the hearts of the people with charm and warmth, an ability his older brothers had sorely lacked.
As Hobert turned his gaze, it landed on his grandson Lyonel, who was blatantly staring at Samantha Tarly, his stepmother, as she walked arm-in-arm with her husband, Lord Ormund. Hobert’s brows knitted in frustration. The boy thought he did not notice, but Hobert saw everything that happened within the walls of the Hightower. Without a word, he raised his hand and gave Lyonel a sharp slap to the back of the head. The lad flinched, startled, but Hobert said nothing. He merely sent him a warning look, one that made it clear his unholy fascination with his father’s wife would not be tolerated. Hobert had half a mind to send him to King’s Landing—to remove the temptation entirely.
Satisfied that Lyonel had returned his attention to where it ought to be, Hobert straightened and positioned himself at the front of the crowd, awaiting the coronation. The High Septon appeared, moving toward the elevated altar as the sweet, harmonious voices of the Septas echoed throughout the Starry Sept. Their singing was as delicate as a butterfly taken to wing, reverberating against the grand stone walls and beneath the vaulted dome, which loomed high above them. Sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows, casting vibrant, jewel-toned rays of light onto the floor. The shifting colors danced across the sept, illuminating the noble guests seated below in their resplendent gowns of velvet and silk, while the merchants and officers, seated in the elevated galleries, observed with their own measure of reverence.
As Daeron began his solemn walk down the aisle, cloaked in a thick mantle embroidered with the Seven, Hobert felt a swell of pride. The lad’s wide eyes met his, and Hobert gave him a nod of encouragement, silently willing him to remember his place, his duty. The cloak, hastily commissioned upon the raven’s arrival from King’s Landing, had been completed in a mere three days by a group of tireless Septas, and now Daeron wore it like the mantle of kingship itself.
When Daeron knelt before the High Septon, Hobert watched intently as the holy oils were applied to his nephew’s brow, blessing him in the sight of the Seven. The flower crown that had once rested upon his head was removed with care, and in its place, the High Septon set a crown of cold steel. In that moment, a thunderous applause erupted within the Sept, the sound reverberating like the roar of the sea. Nobles and merchants alike clapped, cheered, and shouted their adoration, their joy filling the vast space.
But as the applause rose to a deafening crescendo, Hobert felt it—a low, deep groan, like the earth itself was protesting. At first, no one noticed, lost in the rapture of the moment, but then the ground beneath them shifted. The stone floor trembled, and Hobert’s eyes widened as a sudden lurch sent him stumbling to the ground. Gasps and cries of alarm filled the air, but before anyone could react, the earth heaved again—this time with greater force.
Above them, the dome of the Starry Sept groaned, and with a heart-stopping crack, the stone split. Hobert’s breath caught in his throat as he watched, helpless, as the great statue of the Father swayed, then fell. Time seemed to slow as it plummeted downward, crashing into the very spot where Daeron knelt. The new king was struck before he could even register what had happened, the force of the impact crushing him beneath the stone.
Hobert scrambled to his feet, horror-stricken, as the dust and debris settled. Daeron lay still, his body crumpled, his face frozen in a peaceful, oblivious smile—his life extinguished in the very moment of his crowning. The applause that had once filled the Sept was replaced by stunned silence, the weight of the tragedy pressing down upon them all.
The moment of stunned silence that followed Daeron's tragic death dissolved into chaos as the ground beneath the Starry Sept rumbled once more. This time, the quaking did not relent, the tremors growing more violent with each passing second. Shouts of fear and panic filled the air, the serene solemnity of the coronation replaced by a cacophony of screams and the stampede of feet. The nobles, once seated in splendor, now scrambled for any means of escape, their resplendent gowns and brocaded doublets trampled in the frenzy.
Hobert Hightower's heart thundered in his chest as he watched in horror, helpless to stop the madness around him. People shoved and clawed their way toward the narrow doors, crushing one another in their desperation. Several men threw themselves against the stained-glass windows, smashing through the vibrant depictions of the Seven, desperate to flee. Shards of glass rained down like sharp rain, catching the light even as they became tools of escape and destruction.
Above, the grand chandelier—an enormous fixture of wrought iron and crystal—shuddered and swayed, the chains that held it groaning under the stress of the quakes. With a resounding crash, it tore free from its moorings, plummeting into the center of the Sept. Nobles screamed as they were buried beneath the wreckage, their silk and velvet cloaks crushed under iron and glass. Candle stands toppled, torch holders were cast aside, the flames they once bore scattering like fireflies, lost in the tumult.
Hobert felt rough hands under his arms as his faithful guards hefted him up from the stone floor, his legs too weak to support his own weight. His breath came in ragged gasps, dust and debris choking the air. “This way, my lord!” one of them shouted over the din, steering him toward a small door at the back of the Sept. He looked back only to see his own wife lifeless on the floor being stepped on by people desperate to escape. He cried as the crush of bodies pressed in from every side, people shoving and stumbling in their frantic bid for freedom, some stepping on Hobert as he was carried forward. His guards had to physically push people aside, their arms straining to clear a path as chunks of stone and plaster rained down from above.
Above them, the great dome of the Sept cracked further, jagged fissures spreading like the web of some monstrous spider. One side of the sacred building had already crumbled entirely, the collapse burying hundreds beneath the rubble. Statues of the Seven that once stood tall and proud had fallen, reduced to broken stone—except for one. The Stranger. Hobert's eyes widened in terror as he beheld the statue still standing, unscathed amid the ruin. Its hooded visage seemed to turn toward him, dark, empty eyes watching. A chill crept over him, colder than the dust that now clung to his skin, as if death itself was lingering in the shadows.
His guards all but carried him through the chaos, and Hobert coughed as dust choked the air around them, each breath filled with the acrid taste of destruction. With a final heave, they made it to a side door and burst into the open air, only to be met with a sight far more horrifying than anything within the Sept.
The Hightower—pride of Oldtown, tallest structure in all of Westeros—was no more. Less than half of the grand tower remained standing, the upper reaches utterly destroyed, leaving a jagged ruin where the great beacon had once blazed. The bridge connecting the Citadel to each other had collapsed into the river below, its stone shattered, and the water was choked with debris.
Hobert’s knees buckled at the sight. The military square and merchant district were consumed by a cloud of dust and smoke, flames licking at the remnants of the Guildhalls that lined the riverbank. The fire spread rapidly, devouring everything in its path as people screamed for help, their cries echoing through the city. Men, women, and children wept openly, their faces streaked with dust and ash as they wandered through the streets, disoriented and broken.
Above it all, a great shadow circled the ruins. The unmistakable form of a dragon—blue and magnificent—soared through the sky, its roars mournful and echoing as it flew above the shattered Starry Sept. Daeron’s dragon, seemingly aware of the loss of its rider, circled endlessly, its wails filling the air with a terrible, grieving sound. Below, the city lay in ruins, its people shattered, and its heart—the Hightower—obliterated.
Hobert stared at the devastation, his chest heaving. The world he had known, the power and prestige of the Hightowers, all of it lay broken and smoldering before him. His city,his legacy, reduced to ash in a matter of moments.
Notes:
This chapter was short but the original one was already 11k and i'm still not done lol. i had to make it two parts. or three. I'm not sure yet. I'll be back shortly
Chapter Text
Gwayne POV
Gwayne Hightower watched, a bemused smirk playing on his lips, as his sister revealed herself to the guards at the Dragon Gate. The structure lived up to its name in the grandest, most intimidating fashion. Towering fifty meters high, two colossal dragons held the hinges of the gate, their obsidian scales gleaming ominously. But what truly captivated him was that the gate wasn’t wrought from iron or wood—no, this was something far more curious, made entirely of that same blackened stone that seemed to blanket the entire island of Dragonstone.
He’d heard the tales: that this island was forged by magic, its structures too grand, too menacing for the hands of mere men. Seeing it now, Gwayne conceded that no artisan in Westeros could have possibly carved such shapes. The gate was a dragon incarnate, and when the guards manipulated some unseen mechanism, the stone itself sank into the ground as though it had never been there at all. The gate was now an opened jaw of the dragon, menacing in it’s grandeur.
“Where’s the blasted gate gone?” Gwayne muttered, leaning over as they passed through, his eyes searching the ground for any trace of it. But there was nothing. It had vanished without a sound. Magic indeed.
His curiosity quickly shifted to frustration as his gaze followed the narrow, winding staircase stretching up toward the castle, snaking its way along a steep incline with jagged rocks and wild overgrowth below. It was the sort of climb meant for goats, not knights in fine boots. There were guard towers with horses tethered nearby, and even a small cart that could have fit the narrow way. Gwayne toyed with the idea of asking for a ride but thought better of it. The guards leading them—two in front, three behind—were as talkative as statues, as if a frail woman and an exhausted knight were a great threat.
He sidled up to his sister, who was pulling at her skirts to keep her blue dress from dragging on the ground. “Well,” he said cheekily, flashing her a grin, “at least they didn’t kill us on the spot. I’d call that a win.”
Alicent shot him a withering look, her face drawn and pale. “You were the one who insisted we needed to sue for peace.”
“Through messengers!” Gwayne grimaced at her, waving his arms dramatically. “Not by marching to the gate ourselves. You know this is suicide, right?”
Alicent turned her face forward, the wind pulling at her loose strands of auburn hair as she said, “I’ve already lost everything. Helaena is the only one left. I will do anything for her.”
Gwayne sighed deeply at that, the weight of his sister’s words settling uncomfortably on his shoulders. The devastation at Oldtown had been brutal, but hardly a surprise. Their once-great city, reduced to rubble. The smallfolk whisper that the Seven have abandoned Oldtown, casting their divine favor aside after the city’s oath-breaking ways. They say the crowning of Daeron in the hallowed Starry Sept was the final affront, a sacrilege that could not go unpunished. Once a majestic and holy place, the Starry Sept now lies in ruins, its walls reduced to rubble and dust. The Mother’s mercy, the Father’s justice, the Warrior’s strength—gone. Only the Stranger lingers in Oldtown now, a haunting reminder that death and darkness are all that remain for those forsaken by the gods. He did not know when their father would finally grasp the bitter truth that Hightower blood would never claim the throne. But no—Otto still planned for a coronation, still schemed, sending ridiculous betrothal requests for Helaena to anyone with a name, even proposing his widower niece to a boy of three-and-ten at Riverrun. The audacity.
And now here they were, Gwayne and Alicent, climbing the cursed stairs of Dragonstone to plead with the very people their family betrayed. Gwayne was many things—brash, cheeky, perhaps even foolish at times—but he wasn’t blind to the danger. “Next time,” he muttered under his breath, “we hire a messenger. Or perhaps a fleet of them.”
Alicent huffed, lifting her chin defiantly. “Rhaenyra would never hurt me.”
Gwayne, ever the cynic, rolled his eyes. “She won’t have to,” he muttered, his tone dripping with exasperation. “She’s got an entire fleet and scores of soldiers ready to protect her from the Green Queen who dared usurp her throne. And she’s married to a beast from the deepest pits of the Seven Hells if our father is to be believed. Some say the gods themselves are exacting their vengeance on her behalf.”
Alicent flinched at his words, the deep stab of guilt visible in her pale face. His sister had always clung fiercely to her faith, her every decision meticulously crafted to align with what she believed the teachings of the faith of the Seven. Even her darkest actions—things that would make any sane person tremble—were done in the name of the Seven Who Are One.
When Aegon died, she fasted for three days and three nights, pleading for forgiveness, begging for Jaehaerys’s protection. When Jaehaerys met his end, she knelt on the marble floors of the Great Sept for seven days straight, praying fervently for Aemond’s safety. And when Aemond was lost, she spent two entire weeks in the Sept, reading with the septas, lighting candles to each of the gods. But none of her prayers mattered—Daeron died too. She had returned from the Sept on the very day the Great Sept in King’s Landing collapsed.
Even the smaller sept in the Red Keep had crumbled into ruin. Whispers had reached them that all septs across the Seven Kingdoms—whether made of marble, stone, or wood—had suffered the same fate. The faithful were shaken, but none more so than Alicent. Her unwavering belief cracked like the very stones of the Sept, and she secluded herself, emerging only when word spread that their father planned to crown Helaena as Queen. She had neither protested nor wept. Instead, she boarded a small skiff alongside Gwayne, sailing to Dragonstone with the stoic resolution to sue for peace in person.
After what felt like half the night trudging up the perilous, winding path toward the castle, they reached yet another gate shaped like a dragon’s head—its eyes burning with an eerie, unnatural fire. The stone maw opened with the same strange magic, the great slabs sinking into the earth as if swallowed whole. Gwayne paused, his breath catching as the full majesty—and horror—of Dragonstone finally came into view.
From afar, the fortress had appeared formidable, with its towers shaped like roaring dragons clawing at the sky. But up close? It was the stuff of nightmares. Every inch of the towering structure seemed to pulse with malevolence. Dragons were not the only beasts etched into the stone. Gwayne’s eyes roamed over the grotesque carvings that adorned the walls, columns, and windows. Here, a lion with flames for fur. There, a man’s torso fused to the body of a horse, bowstring drawn taut, his arrow seemingly aimed at them.
Further down, an enormous beast with the body of a wolf but scales covering its back, its eyes glowing like molten gold. And to their right, a creature with the talons of an eagle and the tail of a serpent, wings flared menacingly as if ready to spring from the very wall.
“This place is madness. Gwayne whispered under his breath, feeling a chill that even his cheeky bravado couldn’t dispel. Yet, despite his terror, a spark of amusement still flickered in his eyes as he glanced at Alicent. “We really should’ve sent a raven.”
They were not led to the throne room but to the dungeons—as expected, Gwayne thought as the Castellan cast a wary eye over them. Alicent’s voice rang out, sharp and indignant, as she loudly proclaimed her title.
“I am still the Queen Dowager, and I demand to see Rhaenyra!” Her tone was imperious, but it fell on deaf ears. The guards were as stoic as stone, unfazed by her protestations. Two of them nearly had to carry her down the winding stairs, her steps faltering in her fine gown. It probably didn’t help that Alicent never once referred to Rhaenyra as Queen.
Gwayne, unlike his sister, did not fight. He had surrendered his weapons without a fuss and followed behind, watching as Alicent continued to make demands that would fall, predictably, on indifferent ears. When they reached the cell—a gloomy chamber with two planks of wood for beds and a single bucket tucked away in the corner—the guards unceremoniously deposited them inside. The cell was not barred by iron, nor did it have a wooden door; instead, it was enclosed by that same black stone, cold and ominous, which seemed to make up every cursed inch of Dragonstone.
“The Queen is resting,” one of the guards announced, his tone as flat as the walls surrounding them. “She will be informed of your presence come morning.” Without another word, the guards marched away, leaving Gwayne and Alicent alone in the cel in complete darkness.
Alicent, in her frustration, tried pounding on the stone as if it were iron bars, but only succeeded in bruising her hands. Gwayne, meanwhile, sat down on the wooden plank. It was lifted off the ground by chains as thick as his fist, swaying slightly under his weight. He stretched out, the bed too short for his frame, his feet dangling over the edge. With a heavy sigh, he lay back, wincing at the hardness of the wood beneath him.
Alicent glared at him, her lips drawn tight. “You could have helped me!” she snapped, sitting down gingerly on her own plank.
Gwayne turned his head lazily to look at where her silhouette is, then adjusted himself with a shrug. “They didn’t kill us on sight. That’s the best we could’ve hoped for.” he said, his voice as dry as parchment. “Queen Rhaenyra will meet with us when she’s ready.”
Silence settled between them, thick and tense. The only sounds were the occasional rattle of the chains holding up his bed and the distant echo of footsteps from the guards outside. Gwayne closed his eyes, letting the weariness of the journey overtake him.
Sometime later, he was jolted awake by the sharp rap of a sword against the stone wall. Gwayne groaned as he sat up, his back aching from the miserable excuse of a bed. His bleary eyes focused on the figure standing at the entrance of the cell—a boy, brown-haired with curls tumbling over his forehead, watching them with thinly veiled suspicion.
Ah, one of the Strong bastards, Gwayne thought as he rubbed his eyes. The boy—no, the prince, Gwayne corrected himself—was lean, with a full head of tight curls. His coloring was not Valyrian, but everything else about him screamed of Rhaenyra Targaryen. From the defiant tilt of his chin to the way he held himself, regal even in the depths of Dragonstone’s dungeons, there was no denying his parentage.
“I have to say,” Jacaerys began, his voice low and laced with bitterness, “it’s hard to believe that the woman standing before me now is the same one who always looked at me and my brothers with disdain in her eyes.”
Alicent, for once, looked at a loss for words. She gulped, composing herself with visible effort. “I have lost so much,” she finally managed, her voice quieter, more measured than before. “I am here… humbly asking for an audience with Rhaenyra.”
Jacaerys huffed, folding his arms across his chest. His eyes narrowed as he regarded Alicent, his lip curling ever so slightly. “Even as defeated as you claim to be,” he said with an edge to his voice, “you still refuse to call her Queen.”
Alicent winced, the sharp sting of his words striking her deeper than any sword could. Gwayne watched the exchange with a raised brow, biting back a smirk. The Strong bastard had more bite than they gave him credit for.
Gwayne stood up, his eyes narrowing as he studied the young prince more carefully. He had to admit, despite the boy’s unfortunate coloring—there was no mistaking the striking beauty that belonged only to those with blood of Old Valyria. His sister had, on occasion, written to him about the brown haired princes, but had always described them as a rather plain-faced boys. That was certainly not the case.
No, Prince Jacaerys possessed a beauty that clearly came from his mother. Gwayne could still remember the first time he laid eyes on Princess Rhaenyra—so young, so impossibly lovely, with her cascade of silver-gold curls and those rare lilac eyes. She had been the most beautiful child he had ever seen, and it had been impossible to look away from her. Even Prince Daemon, with his perpetual air of mockery, had possessed a kind of otherworldly majesty that seemed to transcend mere mortal charm.
That same majesty was evident in Prince Jacaerys now, perhaps even more so than in Gwayne’s own nephew, Aegon. Gwayne couldn’t help but compare the two, and the contrast was stark. Aegon, with his perpetually flushed cheeks from drink, and his limp, greasy hair—hardly the image of a king. But this young prince? He looked the part.
As the prince walked away, the guards unlocked the door to their cell, and Gwayne let them clasp iron manacles around his wrists and ankles without complaint. He merely shrugged when his sister voiced her protest. What did Alicent expect? That the Blacks would allow their enemies to stroll freely into their castle and present themselves before the queen without any form of restraint? Sometimes, Gwayne mused, his sister could be shockingly naive—almost foolish, even.
The harsh brightness of the morning sun hit him as they were led outside, making him wince. It was far gentler here than in King’s Landing or the Reach, but after being held in the complete darkness of their cell, it still stung. They were led past a garden, the vibrant sounds of children’s laughter filling the air. It was a beautiful scene—unexpected, given the grimness of their circumstances.
Beside him, Alicent stiffened. He glanced at her and saw the pinched expression on her face, the tremble in her lips as she tried, and failed, to hold back tears. Gwayne could hardly blame her. The sound of laughing children must have been a cruel reminder of all she had lost—her grandchildren, her sons, all taken from her in less than six moons.
He remembered the boat ride here, how she had asked him, in a broken voice, if he thought the gods were punishing her. Gwayne, ever blunt, had told her yes. How could such tragedy be anything but divine retribution? They had meddled where they shouldn’t have—in the affairs of the Iron Throne, of all things. It had been a grave mistake.
The fate of Queen Ceryse Hightower, he had told her, should have been warning enough. Maegor’s cruelty towards her and the bloody war with the Faith—funded by their very own House Hightower—had nearly destroyed them once. Their house had been on the brink of ruin, and it was only their father’s rise as Hand of the King that had allowed them to recover. Ser Otto had been shrewd, ensuring Hightower interests came first—lowering their taxes, securing lucrative trade deals—but in his ambition, he had grown greedy.
And now, in seeking more power, their father had sealed their downfall.
Gwayne’s eyes followed the sound of the children’s laughter, drifting upward to a higher level of the courtyard where stairs ascended in elegant spirals. Though he couldn’t see the source of the merriment, the playful voices echoed clearly.
“Prince Viserys! Do not eat that! It’s dirt!” a woman’s voice called out, exasperated but lighthearted, followed by a burst of high-pitched giggles. Another child’s voice chimed in, this time in a language unfamiliar to Gwayne, then the patter of small feet as they scampered away. More laughter and shouting filled the air, a lively symphony that brought an odd pang to his chest.
He startled when a loud, rumbling roar filled the sky above, his gaze snapping upward just in time to see a bronze dragon sweep across the horizon, its wings casting a shadow over them. A second dragon, silver and graceful, followed swiftly after, the air around them rippling with the force of their wings. His sister gripped his arm tightly, both of them nearly unsteady as the wind from the great beasts' wings threatened to knock them off balance.
Gwayne had seen dragons before—Daeron with his Tessarion, and the towering Vhagar alongside Aemond. He had even witnessed the carnage at Duskendale. But to see so many dragons flying freely, without the burden of war, was something altogether different. It was awe-inspiring, yet unsettling.
They were led, still shackled, into what he quickly realized was the throne room. The entrance, unsurprisingly, took the form of another dragon’s maw—open wide, as if ready to devour them whole. Gwayne heard Alicent gasp beside him, no doubt in awe of the sheer grandeur of the place. He, too, found himself momentarily stunned.
And then he saw her.
Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen sat upon the ancient throne of Dragonstone, a vision of beauty that took his breath away. She was dressed in a blood-red overdress draped over a black gown, the contrast making her pale skin glow with an almost ethereal radiance. Her silver-gold hair, a cascade of light, spilled down her back like the finest spun silk. Her eyes, bright as gemstones, gleamed with an intensity that was impossible to ignore.
Gwayne swallowed hard and looked down, heat rising in his cheeks. He couldn’t believe the way his thoughts had spiraled into the realm of poetry, as though he were some infatuated youth writing verses to a maiden. He needed to regain his composure.
As they continued their walk toward the throne, Gwayne became acutely aware of the many eyes upon them. The entire court of Dragonstone was present—nobles from Houses Celtigar, Bar Emmon, Sunglass, Massey, Darklyn, and Staunton, their sigils proudly displayed. The Velaryon banner flew high, as expected. Another brown-haired boy was standing besides Lord Corlys and this one is even prettier than Prince Jacaerys. Gwayne was surprised to see others as well—Manderly and Rowan among them. It was clear that Rhaenyra had gathered a formidable host of supporters.
He straightened his back when his eyes landed on Prince Daemon. The Rogue Prince leaned casually against the foot of the dragonglass throne, his expression one of thinly veiled contempt. His dark eyes swept over them with disdain, his lip curling ever so slightly.
“Welcome to Dragonstone, Alicent.” Queen Rhaenyra’s voice rang out, light and cordial, though the sharpness beneath the surface was unmistakable. A smile played on her lips as she regarded them, but her eyes were anything but warm. “Imagine my surprise,” she continued, “when our blockade reported a stowaway boat carrying the Dowager Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, arriving unannounced to treat with me.”
Her gaze turned cold, the smile fading from her lips. “Why are you here?” she asked, her voice no longer carrying the warmth of pleasantries. It was a command, an icy demand for answers.
Gwayne watched his sister closely, pity twisting in his chest as he saw her trembling hands, held tightly together in a futile attempt to conceal the tremor. She straightened herself, lifting her chin ever so slightly. “I would like to ask for a private audience, Queen Rhaenyra.” she said, her voice steady, though there was a crack at the edges.
“No.” Rhaenyra’s response was swift and final, her tone cutting like a blade through the air. “You crowned my half-brothers in public; you will say what you have to say in front of everyone here.”
Alicent took a deep breath, the rise and fall of her chest more pronounced as she steadied herself, preparing to speak. Gwayne saw the flicker of fear in her eyes, though she tried valiantly to mask it. She was always too earnest, too trusting in the sanctity of what she thought was right.
“I was raised to believe there was an order to things. That there was security in following the path laid out for you. When Viserys died, he named Aegon as heir with his last breath—”
“That’s a lie.” Daemon’s voice cut through her words like a whip, sharp and unyielding. Alicent visibly recoiled, as though she had been struck, her eyes wide as they fixed on the Rogue Prince. She faltered but tried to regain her composure, her voice shaking only slightly as she pressed on.
“You might think that,” she continued, “but he really did name Aegon his heir. He called him the promised prince—”
Laughter erupted, loud and mocking, as Prince Daemon doubled over in mirth, as if Alicent had just told the most absurd jest. His laughter echoed through the hall, and when he looked up, his eyes gleamed with disdain. The Queen’s face, once regal and composed, now betrayed her shock.
“This is why,” Daemon drawled, shaking his head, “those who don’t understand our history, our blood, should never marry into the Targaryen line.”
Rhaenyra closed her eyes, visibly restraining herself, a deep breath steadying her before she turned her gaze back to Alicent. Pity colored her expression, but it was not a gentle pity—it was the kind that stung, the kind that broke spirits.
“The Prince that was Promised is a tale that my father, King Viserys often told me.” Rhaenyra said softly, though her words held a weight that pressed down on the room. “It originated with Aegon the Conqueror.”
Gwayne turned to his sister, whose face had drained of color, her lips trembling as the realization sank in. “T-the Conqueror?” she whispered, barely audible. The murmurs in the court grew louder, a low hum of judgment swirling around her.
“It was only passed down from King to Heir. I discussed this with you, didn’t I, Jacaerys?” Rhaenyra asked, turning to her son, who stood calmly at the foot of the throne.
“Yes, Mother.” Prince Jacaerys replied, his voice steady and assured.
Alicent was already crying, silent tears rolling down her cheeks. The court was abuzz with whispers now, their disdain thinly veiled. Lord Bartimos’ voice rose above the rest, his tone dripping with scorn. “Criminals often justify their misdeeds by blinding themselves to the truth.” he remarked, shaking his head.
“It was a mistake…” Alicent whispered, her voice barely holding as she clutched her hands together, her fingers white from the pressure.
“It was not a mistake,” Daemon snapped, his voice sharp and unforgiving. “You tell yourself that to ease your guilt, to justify your treachery. For over twenty years, my brother upheld Rhaenyra’s claim. He rose from his deathbed—crawled, even—just the day before his death to affirm her position as his heir. And now you would have us believe he suddenly changed his mind in his final moments?”
Sarcasm dripped from Daemon’s words, each one landing with the force of a dagger. Alicent sobbed, her hand flying to her mouth to stifle the sound. Gwayne felt the ache in his chest grow stronger, his heart pulling toward his sister. She had been a pawn for so long, moved by their father’s ambitions, convinced that what she did was in service to King Viserys’ wishes.
But deep down, Gwayne knew the truth that Alicent feared to confront. Whether King Viserys had willed it or not, Otto Hightower would have crowned Aegon all the same. His sister had been swept up in a tide far beyond her control, and now, standing before the dragons of House Targaryen, she was drowning in it.
And Gwayne could do nothing but watch.
Alicent’s voice cracked as she sobbed, "Everything I did... I did for duty, for my family, for the realm." Her words, broken as they were, carried the weight of a woman who had lived in the shadow of duty for far too long, who had convinced herself her actions were for the greater good.
Rhaenyra stood above her, regal and unyielding. “Everything you did,” she responded coldly, her voice laced with scorn, “you did for the Hightowers. My father welcomed you into our family, honoring you with a Crown despite your marriage being seen as useless and an insult to the Realm. Yet for years you wore the treasonous green of your House. You’ve always disdained the customs of my blood, whispering behind closed doors that we Targaryens are queer—yet you clung to those same ‘queer’ habits to preserve your grasp on the throne."
Rhaenyra’s gaze grew harder, her voice cutting through the chamber like a blade. "If the gods had allowed you to rule, you would’ve bred out the blood of the dragon in two generations. That is why they intervened."
Alicent’s face twisted with anger, her tears vanishing in the heat of her rising temper. She looked up, her eyes blazing. "What do you know of the gods?" she spat, her voice trembling with fury. "I can count on one finger the number of times you’ve set foot in the sept, and that was only because I begged you to!"
Rhaenyra’s expression turned cold, her voice booming across the hall. “The Seven is not the only gods in the realm, Alicent. Despite your insistence otherwise. Further more your gods are false.”
The court gasped, the queen’s words reverberating off the stone walls. Rhaenyra stood, her presence dominating the room. “The Fourteen Flames gave the Targaryens dragons, and their power has never been stronger.” She lifted her hand, and with a single, graceful motion, a ring of red flames encircled Alicent, licking at the ground around her feet.
Alicent's eyes widened in terror, her lips parting in a silent scream as she tried to flee. But the fire only roared higher, crackling with a fierce, untamed energy. The courtiers shrieked, stepping back as the heat intensified, fear seizing the hearts of those who had once doubted the strength of the dragon queen.
"The Storm God has always been felt in this lands,” Queen Rhaenyra declared, her voice carrying over the panic. As if to answer her, the skies outside darkened, and thunder rumbled in the distance. Lightning flashed, casting eerie shadows across the hall, and Alicent whimpered, her hands trembling as she cowered beneath the power unfolding before her.
"The Storm God is a force of both destruction and renewal,” The Queen continued, her voice unwavering as she stepped forward. “His storms are feared, yes, but they are also revered for the life they bring. He cleanses, he purifies. He washes away the old to make way for the new."
As she spoke, the sound of waves crashing reached their ears. The court turned in unison toward the windows, gasping as a massive wave could be seen gathering on the horizon. It swelled, growing larger and larger, and then, just as it seemed poised to strike, it calmed, the waters settling with a strange serenity. The skies began to clear, the thunder fading as quickly as it had come.
"The Merling King,” Rhaenyra continued, her eyes gleaming as she held the court in thrall, “is a mediator between land and sea, ensuring that the waters remain a source of life rather than destruction.” She watched as the wave receded entirely, leaving the court breathless with awe.
Alicent’s breaths came in shallow gasps, her body trembling as she looked around, seeking any escape from the power encircling her. But Rhaenyra wasn’t finished.
“And the Old Gods,” the queen’s gaze swept across the room, pausing for a moment on Lord Manderly, who stood transfixed, his eyes wide with reverence, “are omnipresent forces, woven into the forests, the winds, and the waters. Their gifts—the powers of skinchanging, greensight—were bestowed upon the First Men to foster harmony with the land. They remind us that we are part of this world, not its masters.”
Alicent’s voice shook as she whispered, her words thick with horror, “You’re a witch...”
Rhaenyra chuckled softly, the sound sending a shiver down the spines of those present.
“You’ve communed with the devil,” Alicent continued, her voice rising in a near-shriek, “to kill my children!”
But Rhaenyra only smiled. With a gentle flick of her wrist, the flames that had surrounded Alicent vanished, leaving nothing but the smell of smoke in the air. Alicent swayed, her legs threatening to give out beneath her, but before she could fall, Gwayne rushed forward, catching her in his arms.
The court stood in stunned silence, the echoes of Rhaenyra’s power still lingering in the air. Gwayne looked down at his sister, her face pale and drawn, and then back at the queen, whose eyes shimmered with triumph. He felt pity for Alicent, but it was mixed with a deep, chilling awe of the woman who stood before him—a queen, a dragon, and something more.
Queen Rhaenyra descended the steps from her throne, the grace and resolve in her movements captivating the entire court. Prince Daemon was immediately by her side, taking her arm in his, a gesture of unwavering support that made her smile with genuine affection. The sight of their mutual adoration was almost palpable, a rare moment of tenderness amidst the charged atmosphere.
“For too long,” Rhaenyra began, her voice resonating with both authority and sorrow, “the gods of this realm have allowed the false gods of the Seven to rule, threatening the very survival of this world. It is now time for the truth to be laid bare.”
She paused, allowing her words to sink in, and then continued, “Let me explain why Aegon and his sisters set forth to conquer the Seven Kingdoms. In Valyria, there were forty families who tamed dragons. The Targaryens were but one among them, but we possess something unique—something that no other family has.” Her gaze swept the room, meeting the eyes of her listeners.
“Dragon Dreams.” Lord Corlys interjected, his tone one of intrigued curiosity.
“Indeed, my Lord Hand,” Rhaenyra affirmed with a nod. “Dragon Dreams. Daenys Targaryen foresaw the Doom of Valyria, and her father heeded her vision, relocating the family from the heart of the Freehold to a forgotten outpost in Westeros. Similarly, Aegon dreamt of a dire winter sweeping from the North, bringing with it cold and death.”
A whisper of horror ran through the court as Lord Manderly, his face pale, uttered, “The Long Night.”
“Yes,” Rhaenyra confirmed solemnly, “the second Long Night that threatens the very existence of mankind. To survive this great darkness, the Seven Kingdoms must be united, and a Targaryen must sit upon the Iron Throne. This is the secret passed down from king to heir, nearly lost amid the civil wars and the machinations of the Greens. But now, I share it with all of you.”
Her gaze turned fierce, her resolve palpable. “What Aegon dreamt was not merely a warning, but a prophecy of the darkness that looms ahead. We must prepare ourselves and our bloodline for the trials to come. The Prince that was Promised will be the one to lead us in the fight against it. The Prince That Was Promised will be born from my blood, and it is our duty to ready them for this destiny.”
The hall was silent, each noble and courtier absorbed in the weight of her words, their eyes fixed on the queen who stood as a beacon of both hope and daunting responsibility.
“You’re insane,” he declared, his voice resonating with a mix of disbelief and fear. His words hung heavily, startling those present. Alicent turned toward Gwayne, her eyes wide with a mixture of surprise and concern but he continued, “You intend to deceive these great men and women with a bedtime story?” His voice was tinged with incredulity.
Queen Rhaenyra, her composure unruffled, finally met Gwayne's gaze. “You saw me summon a storm and manipulate fire. Do you truly believe my allies follow me because of a story?” Her tone was calm but carried an undeniable edge. “For the first time in a millennium, the gods are allowing themselves to be felt. Do you think their influence is diminished by mere tales?”
Rhaenyra allowed herself a soft, almost pitying chuckle. “I cannot blame you, truly. You have been raised to worship false gods, beaten into adherence to the decrees of men who sought to elevate themselves to divine status. Many of my allies also follow the Faith of the Seven. Would you like to hear their true story?” She addressed the assembly with a commanding gesture.
The court was a tableau of shifting expressions, fear evident in the faces of many. Gwayne’s distress was palpable, his faith in the Seven shaken by Rhaenyra’s revelations. The lament of the Faithful confronting the unraveling of his lifelong beliefs, was etched deeply in his features.
With a graceful motion, Rhaenyra reached out to her son, Prince Lucerys, who moved quickly to her side. His grip on her hand was firm, a silent testament to his unwavering support. Behind them, Prince Jacaerys stood as a vigilant guardian, his presence a shield of protection.
Rhaenyra began her narration with a tone of solemn gravity. “The Seven Gods, as worshipped by the Andals, each emerged from tragic and dark origins, transformed into divine figures through their harsh histories.”
She began with The Mother. “The Mother was once a breeding slave, passed from one noble family to another. Revered for her ability to bear strong children, her life was one of unending pain and subjugation. Despite her suffering, she showed boundless kindness to all children. Her legacy of love and sacrifice eventually elevated her to the status of the Mother, symbolizing mercy, fertility, and compassion.”
The murmurs of shock and disbelief rippled through the assembled nobles as Rhaenyra continued. “The Maiden was once a humble healer who sold her body in brothels during the night to survive. Her purity lay not in her body but in her heart, as she never turned away those in need. Her selflessness and healing abilities earned her reverence, and upon her death from a plague she sought to cure, she became the Maiden—an emblem of purity and hope.”
A wave of discomfort swept through the assembly as Rhaenyra spoke of The Father. “The Father was a slave overseer who rose to power by betraying his fellow slaves. His role as a judge was marked by a blend of fairness and loyalty. In his later years, he sought redemption for his past actions. His legacy as a figure of judgment and authority transformed him into the Father.”
She moved on to The Warrior. “The Warrior was a man of the fighting pits enslaved from a young age, forced to fight in deadly arenas. His strength was unparalleled, but he found no joy in killing. After leading a rebellion and freeing other fighting men, he was killed in battle. His legend of bravery and sacrifice made him the Warrior, representing martial prowess and protection.”
With an air of reverence, Rhaenyra spoke of The Crone. “The Crone was once a wise woman, feared and respected by her village. She had no formal education, but her knowledge of herbs, stars, and human nature was unmatched. As she aged, people from all over sought her counsel. It was said she could see into the future, guiding those who were lost or seeking answers. When she died, her teachings and predictions lived on, passed from generation to generation. In the eyes of the Andals, she became the Crone, a figure of wisdom, prophecy, and guidance”
A murmur of disbelief rippled through the court. Lords and ladies exchanged incredulous glances, struggling to reconcile the image of a revered seer with the stark reality of her tragic end. Some shook their heads, unable to fathom such a life marred by rejection.
Rhaenyra continued, her tone imbued with solemnity. “The Smith was a slave who, through sheer skill and perseverance, rose to craft weapons for kings and nobles. Despite his success, his life was marked by personal loss and exploitation. His one true love was killed by the very weapon he crafted, and his final years were consumed by exhaustion and regret. Though he was celebrated posthumously for his masterful creations, the true cost of his genius was his own shattered heart. As The Smith, he embodies the enduring struggle between creation and the heavy price of mastery.”
The court's reaction was one of muted astonishment. Whispers of pity and disbelief spread as nobles considered the stark contrast between the Smith’s celebrated legacy and the personal grief he endured. Some looked troubled, their expressions reflecting the harsh reality behind the grandeur of his achievements.
Rhaenyra’s gaze swept over the assembly as she spoke of the final figure. “And then there was The Stranger, a wandering outcast whose life was shrouded in mystery and fear. He was believed to be cursed or a fugitive, and his presence was often seen as an omen of doom. His existence was one of profound isolation, and even in death, he was left alone, remembered not as a man but as the embodiment of death and the unknown. The Stranger remains a symbol of the fear that accompanies the outsider and the inexorable nature of mortality.”
A ripple of unease passed through the court. The lords and ladies exchanged uneasy looks, some of them visibly shuddering at the thought of such a figure—a personified representation of death and isolation. Their discomfort was palpable, reflecting the unsettling nature of the Stranger’s tale.
“That is how the Faith of the Seven had came to be. It began not with the gods themselves, but with a group of wandering men. These men were not devout; they were shrewd, opportunistic. In their travels, they encountered multiple remarkable individuals—each one with virtues that, when seen from the right angle, could be spun into something divine. But what these travelers saw was not just greatness—they saw power. They saw how belief could be molded, how people could be led not by chains but by faith."
The nobles in the hall exchanged uneasy glances, unsure of where Rhaenyra’s tale was leading. "A man will go to war for the Mother above before he would for a mere slave girl forced to bear children," she continued. "The Crone, the Smith, the Warrior—all had lived lives of hardship and endurance. But in the eyes of these travelers, they weren’t merely mortals. They became symbols—tools to manipulate the masses, to guide the Andals toward something larger than their own despair and disunity."
A murmur passed through the hall as Rhaenyra stepped forward. "The Andals, who despised the Valyrians and their dragonlords, longed for something greater than themselves. They were a people who craved direction, something to cling to in their hatred and struggle. And these travelers knew that. They crafted stories, raised the virtues of these mortals into something untouchable—something sacred."
She let her words hang in the air for a moment. "Statues were erected, septs built, stone carvings etched into history—all for the Seven. The people were whipped into devotion, praying to these gods who had never been gods at all, but once men and women like them. And they went to war in their names. Species were eradicated, lands seized, all in the name of the gods who had been crafted by men more cunning than faithful.”
The lords and ladies stared, stunned. Rhaenyra’s voice was calm, but the story she told was a brutal dismantling of everything they had been taught. "And thus, the Faith of the Seven was born—not from the heavens, but from the ambition of mortal men who saw how easily people could be led by faith. They built a legacy on that faith, one that endures to this day. These men, you now call them Septons."
“You’re lying…” his sister said shaking her head.
Queen Rhaenyra’s voice lowered as she leaned into the unsettling truths, the court growing more silent with each passing word. “You see,” she began, “the teachings of the Seven were not just about virtue. They were structured with a purpose—control, subjugation. These beliefs, crafted in the shadows by those who sought power, ensured that society would remain divided, its people easily governed.”
She looked at them with pity before continuing. “The first teaching proclaims that men are the natural leaders, ordained by the Father above to rule with wisdom and justice. But this decree was never about fairness. It was crafted to ensure that only men—particularly noblemen—would hold power. Women were expected to be submissive, their voices silenced, their rights dismissed. The poor, too, were taught that their place was at the bottom, ordained by the Father, and that rebellion against the ‘natural order’ was rebellion against the gods themselves.”
Gwayne winced at the truth of her words.
“Then there is the teaching of the Mother’s mercy. Women were told that their role was to serve—nurturers, caretakers, and obedient wives. Their salvation lay in humility and obedience, never in power or independence. The poor, especially the women, were told to endure suffering as the Mother endured childbirth, finding honor in their pain. This was no call to strength—it was a way to keep them docile, to make their suffering holy, so that they would not question their lot.”
Alicent was trembling in his arms her breathing coming in gasp. Because wasn’t that what was taught to her since she was a mere babe barely able to understand the teaching of the Seven Pointed Star.
“The Smith’s teachings were perhaps the most insidious. The poor were taught that hard labor was a sacred duty, that the Smith blessed those who toiled day and night in service to their betters. Their work was said to bring them closer to the divine, but in truth, it only ensured that they remained in invisible chains—broken, subservient, their labor enriching those above them. To question their station, to seek more than mere survival, was painted as blasphemy against the order of creation.”
Rhaenyra’s eyes swept over the gathered lords and ladies, many of whom seemed disturbed by the implication. “These teachings were never meant to lift anyone up—they were meant to keep the powerful in control, the poor in servitude, and women in submission. And yet, we worship, we obey. Not out of divine guidance, but out of a legacy built on control.”
A heavy silence filled the hall as the weight of her words settled in, shaking the very foundation of what so many had believed to be holy.
Queen Rhaenyra surveyed the room with an air of calm authority, though her eyes, sharp as ever, flickered with the faintest trace of pity. “Have you, even for a moment, questioned why the Faith of the Seven is so rigidly structured?” she asked, her voice a soft echo through the grand chamber. “They have rules for everything—men as the natural rulers, women to be submissive. It’s all so carefully woven, as if designed to control every aspect of life. No other religion in the Seven Kingdoms binds its followers so tightly.”
A pause, then Rhaenyra's voice grew colder, sharper. “The gods—true gods—care not if their followers starve themselves for appearances, nor if women shroud themselves head to toe to appear virtuous. The gods have always allowed their creations the freedom to carve out life for themselves, to enjoy the blessings bestowed upon them. But when you crowned my half-brother, splitting the blood of the dragon, you invited disaster. You threatened the very existence of the gods with your arrogance, and in doing so, you incited a civil war that has already claimed thousands of lives.”
A mocking smile curved upon her lips as she spoke, each word measured. “The gods themselves intervened. Cruel as they may be, they took fewer lives than would have been lost because of your ambition. Make no mistake, Alicent. The deaths of your children, of so many innocents, all of it is your doing. Aren't you satisfied?” Her voice was low, cruelly sweet. “Your greed, your ambition, were so vast that even the gods could not ignore you. You should feel proud.”
Queen Rhaenyra turned her back on Alicent, gliding toward her throne, her steps deliberate and unhurried. She ascended, seated now in the seat of power she had fought for, her gaze descending coolly upon the former Queen. “But you have yet to answer me, Alicent. Why are you here?”
Alicent stood trembling, her pale hands clutching her skirts as if to anchor herself. Her breath came in uneven gasps, but at last, she spoke. “You are right,” she whispered, her voice fragile yet resolute. “It was my greed and ambition that led me here. I had lost my way… or rather it was taken from me. All of those I put my faith in, my husband, my father, my lover, my son—”
At the mention of a lover, Prince Daemon let out a derisive snort, unable to contain himself.
“Our incorruptible Queen, sullied by an affair. How fitting.” Queen Rhaneyra muttered, her scorn cutting through the tense atmosphere. The lords nearby exchanged glances, some snickering under their breath.
Alicent’s face hardened, her voice rising with sudden ferocity. “Do not dare judge me for what you yourself have done! My husband was dead, and I sought comfort where I could find it. I have desires, as any woman does. Do not think yourself above me for pretending otherwise.”
Rhaenyra’s huff of laughter was short, almost dismissive. “How convenient for you to speak of desires now. You’ve paraded virtue as your banner for years, Alicent, wielding it like a sword.”
Alicent’s shoulders sagged slightly, weariness in every line of her face. “Virtue was all I had,” she replied bitterly. “I clung to it because it was the only thing left to me. So different from you, who defied the roles society would have had you play. I envied you, you know.” Her voice softened, distant now, as though lost in thought. “Lately, as I’ve walked outside the city walls. For the first time, I felt the weight lift. I felt free.”
“How lovely for you.” Rhaenyra replied with an exasperated smile, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “But what would you choose, now that you’ve tasted freedom? Would you cast down your father and rule alone?”
Alicent shook her head slowly. “No.” she murmured. “I do not wish to rule. I wish to live.” Her words, spoken with quiet finality, hung in the air. “I would take my daughter, and I would leave all this behind.”
Rhaenyra’s brows lifted, her expression one of incredulity. “How convenient it is that you seek this freedom now,” she said, her tone sharp. “Now that almost all your children are dead, now that your cause has crumbled into dust. Now, when there is no one left to rally behind your cause. You wish to wash your hands of the blood you spilled, to absolve yourself of the destruction you set in motion.” Her eyes narrowed, gleaming with suspicion. “Tell me, why are you truly here?”
Alicent swallowed hard, her throat tight with fear and determination. She raised her gaze to meet the Queen’s, her voice steadying. “Criston Cole marches to the Riverlands as we speak. He seeks allies… and a husband for Helaena. They wish to crown her as Queen, but I cannot let that happen.” Her voice trembled with emotion, but there was steel beneath it. “My daughter has suffered enough.”
A silence stretched between them, heavy and fraught with meaning.
“If you come to take King’s Landing,” Alicent continued, her voice firm, “I will see to it that my guards throw down their arms. We will open the gates. No blood will be shed. You will enter the city as a conqueror, but without battle.”
The silence in the room grew heavy, oppressive, stretching far too long as Queen Rhaenyra regarded her sister as though she were a stranger, a figure newly revealed in a harsh light. It was Prince Daemon who finally cut through the tension with a low, mocking chuckle.
“Even if Criston Cole stationed himself at the gates, King’s Landing would fall to us in a day, should we wish it.” Daemon said, his tone laced with derision. Gwayne understood the unspoken mockery. There were no dragons left to protect the Greens—not anymore. Helaena, fragile and broken, was hardly fit to be left alone, let alone command a dragon. The Greens were defenseless, their cause unraveling with each breath.
Gwayne turned back to his sister, waiting, hoping she might offer some new plea for peace—anything to salvage what little remained. But Alicent stood there, helpless, as if the weight of all her missteps had finally crushed her. His heart twisted painfully, his eyes fluttering closed in disbelief. Did she truly believe the Dragon Queen, who commanded more than five fully grown dragons, would agree to such meager terms?
Rhaenyra’s voice, cold and unforgiving, shattered the hope lingering in the air. “Your terms are useless.” she said softly, each word like a blade. “My army from the North, the Riverlands, the Crownlands, and the Reach are already marching to surround King’s Landing. My forces from the Vale are being ferried by Velaryon ships as we speak.” She paused, letting the words sink in before delivering the final, crushing blow. “And Helaena is dead.”
Gwayne’s breath caught, a horrified gasp escaping his lips. “No…” he whispered, disbelieving, his world teetering on the edge of collapse. He reached for Alicent, his arms catching her just as her legs gave way, her body trembling, her sobs muffled against his chest.
“She threw herself from her window into the dry moat below,” Rhaenyra continued, her voice deceptively calm, a faint pity flickering in her gaze. “It happened three days ago. I received the raven last night. Your father tried to keep it quiet, but secrets do not last long in King’s Landing. Tell me, Alicent… do you think Helaena died thinking you had abandoned her?”
“Enough,” Gwayne croaked, his voice breaking as he sank to the floor, his sister still weeping in his arms. “Please, Queen Rhaenyra, enough.”
He was not a formidable man, he is of little consequence in the grand scheme of things but he tried to be there for his sister. He tried to stand tall and unyielding for her but now he knelt , defeated, his strength drained by the overwhelming grief in his sister’s sobs. His heart ached for her, the sister who had only ever wanted to please their father, the sister who had been pushed into a life she had never chosen. Gwayne had always known that Alicent was ambitious, sometimes even cruel in her determination to secure her family’s legacy. But now, as she lay broken before him, all he saw was the woman who had been forced to outlive every one of her children, a mother whose ambition had led her to the most harrowing fate.
He should never have left her. He should have run away with her long ago, when their father had commanded her to seduce the king—twice her age, and thrice as calculating. The gods had been merciless, punishing them both for sins they had never intended to commit. The weight of it all crushed him, and resignation, cold and final, seeped into his bones.
A shuddering breath escaped Gwayne as they were led back to their cells, his arms wrapped protectively around his sister’s trembling form. He had failed her, failed to shield her from the cruelties of their father’s schemes. The gods were punishing them, that much was clear. But why? For wanting to survive? For wanting more than the hand they had been dealt?
In the dim light of the cell, Gwayne pressed his forehead to Alicent’s head, his voice soft and broken. “Forgive me,” he whispered, his heart heavy with regret. “I should have protected you.”
But it was too late. Far too late.
Notes:
How did Alicent managed to go to dragonstone? There was a blockade and the security was surely tight after what happened with ser arryk. Did she text nyra to let her guards know she was coming? Lol And who in their right mind would allow the queen to meet her usurper alone? Hotd makes me chuckle lol
Chapter Text
Luke POV
Luke watched as the servants busied themselves, scurrying in and out of his parents' chambers, carefully carrying trunks and chests piled high with belongings. It was a scene he had grown used to these past weeks, yet the sight still stirred something uneasy in his chest. Two weeks had passed since they received the raven—the news that King's Landing had fallen to their army. The Green Council had surrendered, and every last one of them now languished in the blackcells. Jace had told him it was Larys Strong who had lowered the gates of the Red Keep for Lord Stark.
When Luke asked why Lord Stark had ventured south instead of staying in the North for the harvest as he had intended, Jace had merely shaken his head, offering no more than a cryptic reply. "He wrote that his gods called him south, so he went." There had been no more explanation than that, though Grandfather had sent two ships full of grain in gratitude, and Dragonstone had added two more laden with salt for the North, to see them through the coming winter.
A week ago, Lord Oscar Tully, Lady Jeyne Arryn, Lady Tyrell, and Lord Dondarrion had all made the journey to Dragonstone themselves to escort their mother back to King's Landing. She was to take her rightful place, as the Queen who had been wronged, now restored. Their personal belongings would be sent ahead by ship, traveling with the Lords and Lady Paramount and their retinues. In three days’ time, they too would make their journey—flying on dragonback to the capital, returning triumphant.
He startled as Viserys suddenly let out a sharp cry, his small face scrunching up in distress. Luke crossed the room to his younger brother, whose cheeks were already flushed with frustration.
“The Prince does not wish to part with his toy, Your Highness.” Viserys' nursemaid, Valaena, explained with a wry smile as she folded away more of the prince’s things. “But the Queen said we must pack everything.”
Luke smiled in understanding, he bent down to scoop Viserys into his arms, cradling him against his chest. “It’s alright, Valaena. It’s just one toy. I’ll make sure we bring it with us when we leave.”
The nursemaid eyed him with faint skepticism, but Luke’s smile widened, disarming her as she sighed in resignation and continued packing. He turned his attention back to Viserys, whose little fingers clutched tightly at the wooden figure of Caraxes.
“Don’t cry,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to his brother’s hair. “You can keep Caraxes with you.”
Viserys only held the dragon toy tighter, his small body still trembling in Luke’s arms. He was growing bigger, Luke thought as he stood up with some difficulty, already nearly three name days old. Soon enough, he would be too large to carry like this. And Luke wondered if he would even be here to see him grow, with Grandsire already insisting that he spend more time at Hightide to learn what it meant to be Lord of the Tides and Master of Driftmark. The thought gnawed at him—being away from his family—but he tried to comfort himself. They had dragons. Hightide and King's Landing were only a two-hour flight apart.
Luke carried Viserys out of the sitting room, carefully navigating the long corridor, sidestepping servants carrying more trunks and chests. The castle was abuzz with preparations for the journey. He glanced down one hall and caught sight of Jace, speaking in low tones with Baela and Lord Stark. Their expressions were serious, though Luke pressed on, continuing until they reached Aegon’s garden.
The garden was peaceful, perched on an elevated part of Dragonstone overlooking the sea on one side and the winding steps that led to the Dragon's Tail on the other. Luke tried to set Viserys down among the fire daisies to play, but his brother only clung tighter, refusing to let go.
“Alright then.” Luke whispered, continuing his slow walk, the weight of his brother resting heavy on his shoulders. The guards followed them at a discreet distance, but Luke barely noticed, too preoccupied with his thoughts and the strange stillness of the day.
As they neared the edge of the garden, Luke stopped, his gaze drifting over the sea before it landed on something unexpected below—a sight that made his heart lurch. He could see Queen Alicent, standing apart, weeping as Aemond was led out in chains. The scene struck him, the sorrow etched deep into Alicent’s face, her tears falling like silent confessions.
Luke had overheard the guards whispering about how Aemond had raged at his mother, they said, cursing her for not negotiating his release, for crowning Daeron with such haste in Oldtown. The thought made Luke wince. His gaze fell upon the distant figures below, his eyes catching on Aemond, who was being dragged away, shackled and filled with venomous rage. Their eyes met for the briefest of moments, and the sheer anger that radiated from Aemond’s expression was enough to chill Luke’s blood.
He quickly turned his gaze back to the garden, heart heavy with conflicting emotions. How could this bitter, hate-filled man be the same boy with whom he had once shared laughter and play? The same boy who had once been his friend? After the incident at Hightide, Luke had written him letters, apologizing, hoping for some semblance of reconciliation. He had told Aemond he regretted the loss of his eye, but he would never regret defending his brother. Jace’s life had been in danger that night—Aemond had been ready to crush him with that stone. No, Luke could never regret protecting his family, even at such a cost. But Aemond had never replied. Eventually, Luke stopped writing.
Viserys, oblivious to the turmoil around them, was still in Luke's arms, making his toy dragon fly and land on the back of his older brother's head. Luke managed a small, fleeting smile at his brother’s innocent play, but the weight of what was happening below pressed too heavily on his heart. He glanced down again, just in time to see Aemond spit at Queen Alicent, who trailed after him, her face stricken with despair. Luke could not fathom being so enraged with his mother as to reject her so publicly. But then, he could not imagine his own mother standing idly by while he rotted in a cell, either.
The guards had spoken of how Queen Alicent believed Aemond had already perished. But she hadn’t even sought confirmation of his fate. It was only when Luke’s Kepa returned from the Crownlands with Aemond as his prisoner that the truth had been known. No raven had come from King’s Landing. No word at all. Luke shook his head, a mixture of sorrow and disbelief coursing through him. He looked away as the prisoners were led towards the waiting ship that would take them to King’s Landing.
Aemond would be given a chance to bend the knee, to swear his life to the Night’s Watch. It was a final act of mercy, the only one Queen Rhaenyra was willing to extend. But Luke doubted that Aemond, proud as he was, would ever submit. And if he did not, his mother would have no choice but to order his execution. The thought of it made Luke’s heart ache. He felt sorrow not only for Aemond, but for his own mother, who would carry the burden of that decision.
As he stood there, Viserys still clinging to him, Luke thought of how different his own life had been. He had grown up surrounded by his siblings, sharing lessons with Jace, Baela, and Rhaena, eating meals with all of his siblings and spending each night in the warmth of their parents’ solar, recounting the events of the day before being tucked into bed. It was a far cry from the stories he had heard of Queen Alicent and her children.
His mother had known such loneliness in her youth. From what the servants had whispered, it had only ever been her and Queen Alicent, two young girls trapped in the cold grandeur of the Red Keep. The King had been absent more often than not and then he married his mother's only friend. His mother was left utterly alone and when Rhaenyra’s younger siblings had arrived, she had not been allowed to form any true bond with them. They were too young, too distant, and it was said that her isolation had been profound. Luke’s heart ached for her, for the girl she had once been, left so alone in a world that should have been filled with family.
Now, here they all stood, at the edge of yet another tragedy. Luke turned his back to the prisoners being led away, knowing full well what fate awaited them. The final chapter of Aemond’s story was being written, and it was a bitter, sorrowful thing. A heaviness settled over him, as if he could feel the weight of all that had been lost, not just for Aemond, but for all of them.
Three days later, Luke found himself in the skies, soaring towards King's Landing, the city that had been his home during the first seven years of his life. As he looked back, the familiar silhouette of Dragonstone grew smaller, fading into the distance until it was no more than a shadow on the horizon. Only Seasmoke, with Ser Addam atop, remained behind to safeguard the castle until Jace returned to claim his seat as heir to the Iron Throne. Every other dragon and rider would soon converge upon the capital for his mother's second coronation.
Rhaena and Lady Jeyne had spoken of the great gathering of the realm's Lords Paramount already in attendance, including, to his disbelief, Lord Jason Lannister, the very first to turn his back on his mother, quicker even than Lord Hightower. But, as they had said, there was little choice left for any of them. The gods themselves had shown their displeasure with brutal clarity, sweeping away every other pretender to the throne. Luke shivered, recalling the calamities that had befallen Storm’s End, the Westerlands, and Oldtown.
He and Jace had spoken of it, and in hushed tones, they had both come to the same conclusion: Muña had to be behind it all. He had witnessed her power firsthand, on that fateful day when Vhagar attempted to attack Dragonstone, and again when Queen Alicent had dared to offer terms. Though Luke was unsure if his mother’s newfound powers could stretch across such distances, there was no doubt in his mind that they had been granted by the gods themselves.
He remembered the day his sister was brought into the world—if it could even be called that. The memory of it was still raw, still vivid. His mother’s anguished cries had echoed through the halls, more dreadful than any sound he had ever heard. Even when Joff, Egg, and Vis were born, she hadn’t screamed like that. But everything had changed on that day, when Visenya, his mother’s much-anticipated daughter, was cruelly torn from her womb, still and silent.
Muña had longed for a daughter of her own, despite the love she bore for Rhaena and Baela, who were as much her children as any. She had been so certain that Visenya would be her own baby girl, a daughter at last. But the gods had seen fit to take her. And in her overwhelming grief, Muña had called upon them, begging for their mercy, their intervention—and by the Fourteen, they had answered.
It had been awe-inspiring to witness his mother conjure fire from the very air, shaping it into playful figures to entertain Joff, Egg, and Vis, as much as it was terrifying see her summon a literal storm when her fury required it. The smallfolk of Dragonstone had taken to calling her God-Queen Rhaenyra, and Luke could not deny that the title suited her. She had become something far greater than a queen in their eyes, and in his too.
Yet as the Red Keep loomed closer, a knot of dread coiled tighter within him. King's Landing held no joy for his mother. He remembered too well how she had tried to laugh and smile for him and his siblings in their childhood, but her eyes had always been distant, her smile forced. The only time Luke had ever truly seen her happy was when they had left the capital behind and settled at Dragonstone after her marriage to Kepa.
He did not want to see her diminished by the weight of the Red Keep again, trapped and isolated as she had been before. Though Queen Alicent and her companions were now imprisoned, Luke knew all too well that new threats would soon rise to take their place. And in the heart of the Keep, behind the walls that had once imprisoned his mother’s joy, he feared she would not be the invincible figure she had become.
He circled the Dragonpit, his sharp gaze sweeping over the spots Lord Stark had pointed out, where the scorpions had once been mounted. Though every last one had been disassembled when the capital was taken, he could not shake the nagging fear that some lingering loyal Green soldier might still attempt an attack on his mother in a final, misguided show of blind loyalty.
As per their plan, Princess Rhaenys and Rhaena descended first, followed by him and Baela, and then Jace and Mother, while Caraxes, ever vigilant, would continue circling the Dragonpit until they had all landed safely. Caraxes would then escort them to the Red Keep.
The moment his feet touched the ground, having dismounted from Arrax, he barely had time to offer a quiet thanks to his faithful companion before the haggard-looking dragonkeepers were already guiding him back to her nest. Baela approached him, huffing as she pulled off her riding gloves.
“They cannot linger too long,” Luke placated. “The dragons need to be taken inside before the others can land. We only have one gate large enough to accommodate them.”
“I know.” Baela muttered, her voice laced with irritation.
Rhaena joined them soon after, her hand clasping Joffrey’s tightly. The young boy, who had flown with their grandmother Rhaenys, bounded forward with the exuberance only children seem to possess.
"Grandmother’s Meleys is the fastest dragon ever!" Joffrey declared with wide-eyed excitement, his enthusiasm contagious.
Behind him, Princess Rhaenys smiled indulgently, her pride palpable. Not far behind, Syrax and Vermax landed in tandem, the sight of their descent stirring Baela to huff once more.
“Of course they’re allowed to linger.” she muttered under her breath, watching as the dragonkeepers let Jace and their mother say their goodbyes to their mounts.
Rhaena merely rolled her eyes at her twin, sharing in the long-suffering look they exchanged. The dragonkeepers soon began leading both Syrax and Vermax through the grandiose Bronzegate and into the caverns of the Dragonpit.
As they approached, Luke noticed Jace helping their mother unfasten the sling where little Viserys had been securely strapped for the journey. Their mother turned to them, a warm smile gracing her face as she asked, “Did you have a good flight?”
Joffrey, brimming with enthusiasm, answered before anyone else could, “Meleys is the fastest dragon ever!”
Their grandmother smiled, clearly pleased, while their mother reached over to smooth down Joffrey’s unruly hair, trying her best to restore some semblance of order to it.
“I’m glad you enjoyed Meleys’ speed, my sweet.” The Queen said gently. “How about you, Rhaena?” she asked. “This is the first long flight for you on Sheepstealer. How did you fare?”
Rhaena, ever honest, shrugged slightly before offering a rueful smile. “I enjoyed the flight, Muña, but I think my thighs are going to make me regret it tomorrow.”
Their mother chuckled softly, her eyes alight with affection, “Then I will make sure that the healers give you a hot bath with those soothing oils that Maester Gerardys makes.” She said and gently hugged Luke to her side. He allowed himself to indulge in the warmth of her embrace for a few precious moments before, realizing he was no longer a child, straightened his back and stood taller. The Queen, ever understanding, smiled at him, her knowing gaze catching the brief flicker of boyish vulnerability he tried so hard to conceal.
He was three-and-ten now, after all, and could not afford to be seen as the child who clung to his mother’s side. Not here. Not in front of their men. And so, with that thought firmly in his mind, he stepped slightly out of her reach, his heart heavy with the weight of the mantle he now bore.
Luke felt a soft squeeze on his arm. He turned to find Rhaena smiling at him, her gentle expression stirring something warm in his chest. He returned the smile, comforted by her quiet strength.
The Queen’s voice, smooth and graceful, broke the moment. “It is quite frustrating, isn't it?” she mused, her gaze drifting toward the cumbersome process of leading the dragons inside. “To have to wait for each dragon to be led through the entrance before the others can land—it does seem rather inconvenient with only one grand entrance to the Pit.”
She turned her attention to Jace, who held Viserys in his arms, her tone both thoughtful and teasing. “Perhaps you might remove half the dome, Jace? That way, we could always have it open, and our dragons could land anytime they wish.”
Luke’s breath caught in his throat as he saw his brother's face pale, his hands tightening around Viserys as if seeking some grounding. Jace swallowed nervously, his eyes flickering toward Luke as if silently asking for reassurance. Luke knew the weight of what their mother was asking—this was no small feat. Before they left Dragonstone, she had been training Jace in manipulating the earth and stone around him, but such casual efforts as raising stone benches or crafting archways in Aegon’s Garden paled in comparison to what she was asking now.
Jace began to protest, but their mother, ever calm and unyielding, took Viserys from him with a gentle gesture, encouraging him to try. Luke took the small boy into his own arms, rocking him gently as he glanced between his brother and their mother. The air felt charged, as it always did when magic was about to take hold—he could almost sense the crackle of energy, his skin tingling with the sensation of a thousand tiny needles. The same feeling had enveloped him when his mother had first taught him how to command the waves at Dragonstone. The memory of that sharp, prickling magic echoed now, heightening his sense of anticipation.
Jace moved toward the center of the sandpit, his steps deliberate but heavy with the weight of expectation. Luke offered him a small, encouraging smile, but it did little to hide the tension that now gripped them all. For a long, drawn-out moment, nothing happened—just the stillness of the pit and the distant creak of the winds beyond the dome. Luke's heart raced as he waited, unsure of what to expect. He had thought perhaps great slabs of stone might come crashing down in a cascade of dust and debris, but no. Jace would never risk such recklessness with their sisters and younger brothers present.
Then it came—a low rumble, deep and resonant, as if some great, unseen boulder had begun to shift beneath the earth. The smooth stones of the dome groaned, the air around them growing thick with tension, until suddenly—without warning—the dome itself began to move. But not in the violent, chaotic manner Luke had imagined. No, instead, it folded. The stones shifted inward, layer upon layer, folding upon themselves with a grace that seemed almost unnatural.
Joffrey, wide-eyed with wonder, was the first to exclaim. “It moves!” he cried in pure, unabashed excitement, his voice filled with the delight of discovery. His small hands rose to the air as if he could touch the sky itself, watching in awe as the stones continued their elegant dance.
Viserys, ever the mimic, clapped his hands together in glee, his laughter ringing out like a bell as the dome folded itself into submission. Besides him, their grandmother Rhaenys watched, her expression betraying her unease with such sorcery. The proud Dragonrider was a woman of steel and fire, but even she looked uncomfortable at the sight of magic weaving its invisible threads before them.
The air crackled around them as if lightning had struck nearby, the charge so intense that Luke felt his hair stand on end. The very sands at Jace's feet began to swirl, small vortices twisting and spinning as if stirred by a phantom breeze. The feeling was electric, the atmosphere so thick with energy that every breath felt alive with magic.
The dome groaned, shifting and creaking as it continued its slow, deliberate movement. Each fold was precise, calculated, until more than half the roof had disappeared, leaving the pit bathed in bright sunlight where darkness had reigned only moments before. The shift was stunning—the sky, previously hidden, now stretched above them in an endless blue expanse.
Suddenly, with a triumphant trill, Caraxes descended into the half-opened dome, his great form landing gracefully amidst the newly crafted entrance. Even from high above, Luke could hear Egg’s delighted shout from where he was strapped securely to their Kepa’s chest.
“Hello!” Egg’s voice rang out, his small fists waving excitedly in the air. Viserys raised his own hand in response, mimicking Joffrey, who stretched his arms up as though trying to reach their brother.
The sudden applause startled Luke from his thoughts, and he turned to see the dragonkeepers clapping their hands in awe. It was a rare sight, their weathered faces usually stoic, now alight with admiration. Luke quickly transferred Viserys into Rhaena’s waiting arms, his eyes darting to Jace, who looked on the verge of collapse.
He hurried to his brother’s side, steadying him with a firm grip. Memories flashed through his mind—of his own struggles with magic, how the first time he tried to command the waves, he’d fainted, much to his embarrassment. He had slept for an entire day afterward. The second attempt had been only slightly better; exhaustion had overwhelmed him, leaving Kepa no choice but to carry him back to the castle on his back. He knew well how draining this magic could be, and Jace had just performed something extraordinary. Only their Muña seemed to wield her power with effortless grace. Even Kepa, who delighted in making things explode, sometimes paid for it with a nosebleed until Muña forced him to stop.
Jace slung a weary arm over Luke’s shoulder as he helped guide him back toward their mother. She was smiling with a kind of pride that made Luke's heart swell.
“That was marvelous, Jace!” she praised, her voice rich with admiration. “And you did it with such elegance.” She cupped Jace’s face in her hands, pressing a kiss to each of his cheeks.
“Muña!” Jace protested, a flush creeping up his neck, but there was a smile on his lips nonetheless.
“Your ability will be crucial for the rebuilding effort, my sweet.” The Queen continued, her tone both proud and hopeful. Jace nodded, still catching his breath, but Luke saw the weight of responsibility settle more firmly on his shoulders.
Just then, Ser Harrold approached, bowing deeply. “Your Grace, my Princes, we must depart. The people await your arrival.”
Luke helped Jace onto his horse while the Queensguard assisted their mother into her saddle. The Queen and Jace were to lead a procession through the streets of King’s Landing, with four Queensguard and a retinue of their own Household guards flanking them. The Lords and Lady Paramount had each sent twenty soldiers to add to the escort—a show of unity and strength. It was vital, after all, that the people see their Queen and her heir.
As their grandmother, Rhaenys, ushered them toward the wheelhouse, Viserys began to fuss. He wriggled in Rhaena’s arms, his small hands reaching out toward the street. “I want Muña!” he whined, but quieted somewhat when Rhaena opened one of the small windows, allowing him to peer outside. His eyes grew wide as he took in the sight of the crowd lining the streets.
Luke watched as the people waved banners bearing the Targaryen sigil—red dragons on black fields, billowing in the breeze. They were no ordinary flags; they had been repurposed from the sails of the ships that had brought food and supplies during the blockade. It was a quiet reminder from the Queen that she had not forgotten her people in their time of need.
Joffrey and Viserys, now kneeling on the seats inside the wheelhouse, tried to peer out of the narrow windows, their eyes bright with excitement. Outside, the crowds surged, cheering and calling out to them. Even though the wheelhouse was modest in design, the three white cloaks surrounding it gave away its royal occupants. The people knew well who traveled through their midst.
Women in simple but clean gowns waved handkerchiefs, calling out blessings for the Queen’s health. "Long live the Queen!" one cried, her voice trembling with emotion. She held a small child on her hip, the boy waving a miniature Targaryen flag.
Children ran alongside the wheelhouse, their bare feet kicking up dust as they cheered. One small girl, no older than seven, held a bundle of wildflowers aloft, as if hoping one of the royal children might reach out and take it.
An elderly man, his back bent with age but his spirit unbowed, raised a hand toward the passing carriage. “Blessings on you, my Queen!” he shouted, his voice cracking with age. “You’ve brought us through the storm!”
Inside the wheelhouse, Joffrey pressed his face closer to the glass, his little hands smudging the panes as he tried to take in every detail. “Look, Luke!” he whispered excitedly. “They’re all waving at us!”
The joy in the streets was palpable, a celebration not just of the royal family’s return, but of hope. As the wheelhouse moved onward, Luke felt a surge of pride, his heart swelling at the sight of the people who had once suffered under the tenuous rule of the Greens now cheering for their one true Queen.
Luke exhaled, his shoulders easing from the tension he hadn’t even realized he was carrying. For weeks, perhaps even months, his muscles had remained taut with the weight of worry, of responsibility. But now, as the wheelhouse rolled through the streets and the cheers of the crowd rose around them, he allowed himself to feel hopeful. They were stronger now—strong enough to weather whatever storms awaited them in the Red Keep. His mother wasn’t alone anymore, left vulnerable with only small children who couldn’t protect her. Now, she had Kepa, Baela, Rhaena, Jace, and him. They were grown, and they would protect her.
A flicker of determination passed through him. One thing was certain: whatever influence or power he had, however meager, he would use it to keep his mother and siblings safe. The Greens had torn House Targaryen apart because King Viserys had valued his lords more than his own blood. That mistake would not be repeated. His mother, his brothers, his sisters—they were his priority. His mother often spoke of their purpose, that they were destined to pave the way for the Prince That Was Promised—a prophecy that seemed to captivate both her and Jace. And who wouldn’t be enchanted by such an idea? The thought that a great hero would emerge from their bloodline, a savior who would cement their family’s legacy for a thousand years, was heady, intoxicating even. To have their name sung in every corner of the realm for eternity was a notion difficult to ignore.
But Luke couldn’t bring himself to care for such things. Why would he? What did it matter if the world ended in a hundred years or two? He would be dead by then, and what legacy remained would hardly matter to him from the grave. What he cared about now was simple: his mother, his siblings, their safety. He would make sure Joffrey, Egg, and Vis had a better life at the Red Keep than he or Jace had ever known. No matter how hard their mother had tried to shield them, the viciousness of court had found them, leaving scars that still lingered. He would not allow that for his brothers. The court might be a nest of vipers, but he would stand between them and his family, no matter the cost.
The wheelhouse didn’t stop at the outer yard as he had expected, but instead rolled through the middle bailey and onward to Maegor’s Holdfast. There, the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting and a small army of nursemaids awaited them. The moment the children were ushered out of the carriage, they were whisked away to be bathed and fed, the attendants moving with a calm efficiency. Joff, Egg, and Vis would spend the day safely nestled in the Queen’s apartments, where Stormcloud and Tyraxes watched over them from the balcony.
As soon as Luke’s feet touched the ground, Lady Anella Strong was there, already pulling him toward his rooms with her usual briskness. A bath and a meal were waiting for him, and he could only smile indulgently at her. This lady, the one he could never publicly call his aunt, had been fretting over the coronation and the Swearing of Oaths since before they’d even left Dragonstone. If his cooperation would ease her nerves and let her breathe a little easier, then he would gladly submit to her fussing.
The servants helped him bathe, their hands deft and efficient as they scrubbed away the dust and grime of the journey. When he was dried and dressed in a finely tailored doublet of Velaryon blue, trimmed with silver, they fastened a Targaryen cape around his shoulders. His reflection in the mirror was somber, regal even, though the weight of his role pressed heavily upon him.
There was little time to linger. As soon as he was dressed, Lady Anella ushered him out once more, this time toward the throne room, where the Queen’s arrival was eagerly anticipated.
As Prince of the blood, Luke knew his place should have been to the left side of the Iron Throne, standing with his family as the Queen's kin. However, he was also Heir to Driftmark, and thus, his position beside his grandsire, Lord Corlys Velaryon was equally required. And as the Hand of the Queen, his grandfather would take his place to the right of the throne, and so, Luke stood at his side, a clear statement of Driftmark’s strength and unity. Rhaena, dressed in striking hues of blue and red, stood beside him, a symbol of both their Velaryon and Targaryen lineage. On the opposite side of the Iron Throne, Baela stood in her full Targaryen regalia, her gown woven in shades of red and black, a bold reminder of their shared heritage.
Luke cast a slow, sweeping gaze over the throne room, a room he had never seen so full. It was brimming with lords and ladies, each proudly displaying the sigils of their noble houses stitched onto their fine gowns, doublets, and capes. The colors and heraldry of the great houses painted the room in a tapestry of family pride and fierce loyalty. Closest to the Iron Throne stood the most prominent houses—House Stark’s direwolf and House Arryn’s falcon soaring high above the rest. House Connington represented the Stormlands, standing with quiet confidence. House Tully’s trout, House Tyrell’s golden rose, and even the three lone figures from House Greyjoy with their kraken stitched into their sea-black attire were present, though they stood somewhat apart, their number small and somber.
House Lannister was there as well, though Luke couldn’t help but notice they seemed more subdued than ever. It was as though the grandeur and arrogance usually associated with the lions of the west had been dimmed, their presence muted in the wake of recent events.
As Luke’s eyes scanned the crowd, he tried to remember the faces of those who seemed genuinely pleased to be here. Lord Stark, with his imposing, fur-clad figure, was a towering presence beside his bannermen, Houses Manderly, Dustin, Karstark Mormont and Umber the most prominent. Lady Jeyne Arryn’s smile had not left her lips since she had personally escorted the Queen’s household back to the capital, her joy palpable and infectious. Lord Tully, barely older than Luke himself, stood with quiet dignity, though his reputation for ferocity during the Butcher’s Ball at the God’s Eye preceded him. It was said that a Blackwood bastard’s arrow had felled Criston Cole, the Kingmaker, during that battle—a death as unremarkable as the man who had once tormented their mother. The songs made little of Cole’s demise, only noting the ignominy of a one-man duel he had so desperately sought, only to be cut down by arrows, a dishonorable death for a dishonorable Oathbreaker. Of the Riverland Houses only House Bracken is the one who looks not happy to be there.
The once-proud lords and ladies of the Stormlands and the Westerlands looked noticeably worn, their clothing immaculate but their expressions weary. The calamity that had befallen their kingdoms was etched into their faces, and Luke was certain they had come not only to bend the knee but to seek forgiveness—and support—from the Crown. The devastation wrought on their lands had left them with little choice but to hope for mercy, even as their sigils fluttered, the proud lion and stag subdued in the shadow of the Iron Throne.
The Regent of House Tyrell, usually one of the wealthiest and most powerful houses in the realm, appeared jumpy and nervous, her eyes darting around the hall as if seeking a way out. Yet despite her obvious unease, she was surrounded by a coalition of loyal houses who had never wavered in their support of Queen Rhaenyra. House Tarly stood solidly beside her, their stoic resolve a calming presence. House Beesbury, House Rowan, Caswell, Footly, Costayne, Merryweather, and Oakheart—each one loyal to the Queen—formed a protective circle around the Tyrells, a reminder that the Reach, though shaken, still had powerful allies in their midst.
Only Lord Hobert Hightower remained of his once-mighty house, a solitary figure amid the devastation that had visited Oldtown. His wife, his sons, and grandsons, nephews and nieces, aunts and uncles—gone. From the initial reports, thousands were dead, and many more were injured in the ruins of Oldtown, a city once teeming with life and power now reduced to a ghost of its former self.
Luke felt a pang of sympathy, fleeting as it was, for Lord Hobert. To see a house as great as the Hightowers brought so low was a cautionary tale in itself—a reminder that no power in Westeros was immune to the tides of fortune, or misfortune. Yet he could not forget that it was House Hightower’s ambition and scheming that had brought so much ruin upon their family. Now, standing alone with none of his family to support him, Lord Hobert had little choice but to seek the mercy of the Queen.
The heavy doors of the throne room swung open, and the Black Council entered, led by Lord Corlys Velaryon himself. Luke frowned at the sight of his grandsire walking the length of the hall without so much as a cane to steady him. Though his injuries weighed on him, the Sea Snake's pride would not allow for such weakness to be shown. Beside him, Rhaena huffed in mild exasperation, her voice a soft mutter under her breath.
“He’s so stubborn. Not wanting to look weak. Old goat.” she murmured, earning a hidden smile from Luke.
He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing outright, grateful for the small moment of levity. When Lord Corlys reached the foot of the Iron Throne, he nodded at Luke with a formal, almost distant acknowledgment. Yet there was pride in his eyes, a silent understanding passed between them. Luke stood tall, taking his place beside his grandsire, while the other members of the Black Council arrayed themselves in their positions.
The herald’s voice rang through the throne room, clear and commanding, capturing the attention of every noble present. “Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, Prince of Dragonstone, heir to the Iron Throne!”
Jace entered first, the sound of his boots echoing on the marble floor, his dark leathers a stark contrast to the blood-red cape that billowed behind him. His hand rested confidently on the pommel of his sword, and he carried himself with the easy grace of someone born to rule. He looked majestic—every inch a prince—with a confidence that seemed unshakable. Behind him trailed Ser Joffrey Arryn, resplendent in his white cloak, the very image of loyalty and valor, followed by Ser Loreth of the Queensguard, who stood as proud and tall as his station demanded.
Jace’s eyes, sharp and assessing, flicked over the gathered lords and ladies as he passed, taking in their faces, measuring their reactions, gauging their loyalty with every subtle nod or curtsy. His gaze lingered just long enough on each face to ensure that they knew they were being watched, yet it was done with such poise that none could take offense. A flicker of amusement danced in Jace’s eyes as he caught sight of him standing beside their grandfather, their eyes meeting across the vast room. Jace winked playfully, causing Rhaena beside Luke to stifle a quiet giggle behind her hand.
Then, the moment shifted. The air grew thick with anticipation as the herald stepped forward once again, his voice booming through the hall. “Her Grace, Rhaenyra Targaryen, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm—accompanied by Daemon Targaryen, Prince Consort.”
A collective breath seemed to be drawn as Rhaenyra entered the room. She strode forward, fierce and beautiful, an image of power wrapped in delicate grace. Her armor, gleamed under the sunlight peeking through the tall windows, the black breastplate etched with the unmistakable three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. Beneath the armor, she wore a flowing black silk gown, the luxurious fabric peeking out from beneath the polished steel. The gown cinched at her waist, flowing elegantly from the hips downward, revealing her fitted leather riding trousers beneath. Her legs, protected by intricately designed greaves and cuisses, completed the look of a warrior queen ready for battle. The ensemble was crowned by a blood-red cape, clasped at her shoulders, flowing dramatically behind her as she made her way toward the Iron Throne.
Beside her, Daemon Targaryen loomed, a menacing figure of undeniable presence. His face, as usual, was a mask of open disdain, his sharp eyes scanning the nobles before them, many of whom had once pledged fealty to the Greens. His fingers twitched near the hilt of his sword, and it was only the firm grip of Rhaenyra on his arm that kept him in check, preventing him from acting on whatever dark thoughts stirred within him. Yet despite his outward fury, there was an unspoken bond between them, a balance of delicate and fierce—she was the queen, and he, her sword.
As one, the nobles bowed deeply, their back bending as Rhaenyra and Daemon advanced to the Iron Throne. The entire room seemed to hold its breath as the queen ascended the steps, leaving Daemon behind. Rhaenyra reached the Throne with ease, every movement controlled, and seated herself upon the iron monstrosity with an elegance that made the sharp edges of the throne seem to soften beneath her touch. Her hand rested lightly on the pommel of the sword embedded into the armrest, her fingers curling around it in a gesture of power.
The courtiers at court, still haunted by the memory of how the false boy-king Jaehaerys had perished upon the very same throne, waited with bated breath. Would the Iron Throne rebel once again, refusing her, cutting her, as it had others before? The tension in the room was palpable.
But nothing of the sort happened. The throne accepted her without hesitation, as though acknowledging her as its rightful ruler.
Daemon knelt directly in front of her, his face raised, the look of unwavering devotion unmistakable. It was a silent declaration that, though he was her consort, she was the one who ruled. And as his knee touched the ground, the rest of the hall followed suit, the rustle of silk and the thud of boots filling the air as every noble present bent the knee.
It was Lord Corlys Velaryon who first broke the silence, his voice rising strong and sure, carrying through the vaulted ceilings. “Long live Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms!”
The words echoed, rippling through the crowd as they were taken up by every voice in the room. “Long live Queen Rhaenyra! Long live the Queen!”
The walls of the throne room seemed to tremble with the force of the acclamation, the voices of hundreds of lords, ladies, and courtiers rising in unison, their loyalty declared for all to hear. The noise swelled, filling the chamber, until the very air seemed alive with their devotion, their voices promising allegiance to the queen who had reclaimed her throne.
The Queen sat straight in her throne, the light catching the polished steel of her armor, and addressed the gathered lords and ladies of the realm. Her voice rang clear and steady through the throne room.
"It is good to be seated once more in my rightful place," she began, her eyes sweeping the hall. "I must first give thanks to those who had the courage and foresight to take the capital and restore it to its true ruler. Lord Cregan Stark, who traveled so far from the North—your loyalty and determination are the stuff of legend." Lord Stark, ever composed, gave a solemn nod, his broad shoulders set as if carrying the weight of the entire North with him. "Lady Jeyne Arryn," Rhaenyra continued, "whose loyalty to me has never once wavered, even in the face of great peril." Lady Jeyne’s chin lifted, her lips curving with pride, but her eyes remained calm, a steady reassurance in the room. "And to young Lord Oscar Tully, whose fierceness on the battlefield speaks volumes despite his tender years." Lord Tully’s youthful face flushed with pride, and he straightened, his eyes glowing with the praise of his Queen.
She smiled graciously before turning to her council seated near the dais. "To my Council, who have stood by my side these past six moons, offering wise counsel and unwavering support—you have my deepest gratitude. Our victories are as much yours as they are mine." Each member of her council bowed their heads, some with humility, others with quiet satisfaction, their loyalty acknowledged before the court.
"And to all the lords and ladies who have journeyed here without summons, who came to swear your fealty of your own volition—you honor me. Know that I see your loyalty and will remember it well." A murmur of approval rippled through the hall as lords exchanged nods of agreement, the weight of her words settling upon them like a royal favor bestowed.
"But there will be more time in the days ahead to speak with you each," she said, her tone shifting to one of steel, "for now, we must turn our attention to those who have betrayed us. Justice must be dealt swiftly, for there are traitors among us." The atmosphere in the throne room tightened as her words hung in the air, the lords and ladies stiffening in anticipation of what was to come. "I am your Queen, and I will see it done."
Luke, still kneeling before the Iron Throne, looked up to his mother with a smile. Queen Rhaenyra sat regal and composed, her eyes sweeping over the gathered lords and ladies, assessing each one in turn. It was only then, after a long moment of silence, that she finally spoke. “Rise.”
The nobles, with a rustle of garments, stood as one, though some more slowly than others. Luke turned to his grandsire, Lord Corlys Velaryon, who had hesitated, pride in his eyes even as age weighed on his body. With gentle insistence, Luke offered his arm, and though Lord Corlys initially refused, Luke did not relent. He held his arm firmly until the Sea Snake was steady on his feet. Together, they faced forward, their gaze fixed on the nobility, who now all looked expectantly at their queen.
It was Lord Hand whose sharp voice cut through the room. “Bring in the traitors.”
A shiver of anticipation rippled through the court as the great doors creaked open. The unmistakable sound of boots on stone echoed as the Gold Cloaks marched in, surrounding the members of the Green Council, who followed in chains.
At the forefront was Alicent Hightower, the once-proud queen dowager, now a shadow of her former self. Though clean, there was no mistaking the drawn, weary look that clung to her like a shroud. Her face, pale and gaunt, bore the unmistakable signs of her time in the dungeons, her eyes hollow with the weight of what she had lost. Behind her, Aemond followed—his hair, once thick and silver, had been shorn close to his scalp, and the eyepatch that had once masked his deformity was gone, revealing the black pit where his eye had been. He cast hateful looks toward everyone in the room but remained silent, a dragon who’s wings were clipped.
Behind Aemond, Otto Hightower, Tyland Lannister, Larys Strong, and Jasper Wylde entered in turn, all bearing the marks of their captivity. Unlike Alicent and Aemond, who had been afforded the dignity of a cell within the Red Keep, the men had been subjected to the harshness of the Black Cells. Otto’s face was marred with cuts and bruises, his once proud countenance now stooped, his robes torn and dirty from the scuffle during his capture. Ser Otto, who had nearly escaped on a carriage back to the Reach, now stood a broken man, his cunning eyes no longer gleaming with power. Tyland Lannister, the once-slick Master of Coin, limped forward with a broken arm, his fingers twisted awkwardly as a reminder of the Crown’s justice. He had been apprehended on a boat, half of the Crown’s gold in tow, a coward trying to escape his fate. Larys Strong, disheveled but with his usual eerie calm, limped after them. It was he who had lowered the portcullis of the Red Keep when all hope for the Greens was lost. Jasper Wylde, bruised and bloodied, had been found hiding in a tavern, where the smallfolk themselves had beaten him before the Gold Cloaks arrived. His swollen face was barely recognizable.
Each member of the Green Council bore the shame of defeat, and the weight of the room seemed to press upon them as they faced the Iron Throne.
Lord Corlys stepped forward, his voice steady, cutting through the oppressive silence. “The Green Council, on the night of King Viserys’s death, enacted their long-planned scheme to usurp the throne.” His words hung in the air like a sword ready to fall. “The first victim of their treachery was Lord Lyman Beesbury, who refused to join their conspiracy. His head was bashed upon the table of the Small Council by Ser Criston Cole, the Oathbreaker—within the very chamber he had served for over thirty years.”
The tension in the hall was palpable, and all eyes turned toward Lord Alan Beesbury, who stepped forward with quiet dignity as the Queen called him to forward. He kneeled without hesitation, his head bowed low before the throne.
“Lord Alan,” his mother began, her voice both soft and commanding, “your father was a loyal servant to the realm and to a good friend to me. His devotion shall not be forgotten.”
She paused, her gaze warm yet fierce as she looked down at the young lord. “You were among the first to raise my banner in the heart of the Reach, a place where treachery sought to take root. For this, you shall have a lifetime friend in House Targaryen.”
Lord Alan’s head dipped lower in respect. “House Beesbury will always honor its oaths, Your Grace.”
A smile tugged at the corner of Rhaenyra’s lips, but it was a smile edged with determination. “From this day forth, House Beesbury shall become the stewards of Oldtown. The Crown will aid you in restoring it to its former glory, and with your loyalty, Oldtown will return to the fold.”
Lord Alan looked up at her in awe, his eyes wide with a mixture of gratitude and surprise. “I will see to it, Your Grace, that Oldtown remembers where its true allegiance lies. All disloyalty will be rooted out.”
The Queen inclined her head, a regal acknowledgment of his pledge. The hall was filled with murmurs of approval, the nobles watching as the once minor lord was elevated to a position of significant power.
Queen Rhaenyra's gaze swept across the chamber before it fell upon Lady Tyrell, whose startled jump drew the attention of the court. Her discomfort was palpable. "The Reach," the Queen began with a tone both firm and measured, "has long been in need of strong leadership." Lady Tyrell, pale and wide-eyed, barely dared to meet the Queen’s gaze.
“House Tyrell has been remiss in taking its bannermen to hand,” Rhaenyra continued, her voice sharp with reprimand. “You allowed House Hightower to foment dissension, grasping beyond their means, and when war was declared, you dallied in your castle while smaller houses around you raised my banner.”
Lady Tyrell’s lips parted in silent protest, but no words came. The Queen’s eyes glinted with finality. “The Reach needs strength. And for that, I shall appoint Lord Alan Tarly as regent over House Tyrell, to guide your house until its heir comes of age. His granddaughter shall become the future Lady of Highgarden.”
A collective murmur rippled through the room. Lord Alan Tarly, ever composed, stepped forward, knelt before the throne, and bowed his head low. “Your Grace, I will not disappoint you. House Tarly stands ready to serve the Crown.”
Lady Tyrell, her face a mixture of relief and humility, followed suit, her voice trembling as she, too, knelt. “I am grateful, Your Grace, for another chance. I will ensure that my son grows up loyal to the Crown.”
The Queen’s lips curled into a knowing smile, though her eyes held a glint of caution. “We shall see, Lady Tyrell,” she said softly, but there was an unmistakable edge to her words. “We shall see.”
Without missing a beat, Rhaenyra turned her attention to Lord Stark, her tone shifting from reprimand to intrigue. “I understand that you brought a gift for me, Lord Stark.”
The Northern lord appeared momentarily taken aback, his stoic face betraying a flicker of surprise. With a curt nod, he motioned to one of his retinue, who stepped forward, carrying a shield crafted from weirwood tree.
Luke’s breath caught as his gaze fell upon it. The face carved into the weirwood was haunting, frozen in perpetual horror. Deep-set eyes stared out with an eerie intensity, the expression twisted as though it had witnessed something unspeakable. The face bore tear tracks, but they were crimson, like blood. Luke swallowed hard.
Lord Corlys leaned close to him, his whisper grave. “It is weirwood sap, but it should not weep continuously—it is no longer part of the tree.”
The man holding the shield seemed just as uneasy. He looked first to the shield and then to Queen Rhaenyra, his expression one of uncertainty, as if questioning whether such a gift should be given.
Lord Cregan Stark approached the Throne, his voice calm but steeped in Northern pride. "Your Grace," he began, "though the Red Keep stands far from the North, it is not without a piece of our ancient ways. I saw the weirwood tree within your walls, a reminder of the Old Gods and their ever-watchful gaze." He paused, gesturing to the shield carved from the rich, pale wood. "This shield was shaped from the heart of Winterfell's Heart Tree itself. It is older than Winterfell, my nan once told me—the tree it came from had already stood tall when the North first knew snow. May it serve as both protection and a reminder that the strength of the North is always with you, even here in the heart of the South."
The court murmured in awe at the gesture, as Lord Stark presented the shield, a symbol of unity between North and South, the weight of its history almost palpable.
The Queen regarded the shield with a solemn, almost reverent expression before speaking, her words carrying an air of mystery. “I have learned,” she began, “that one cannot lie before a weirwood tree. The consequences, I’m told, are dire. Is that not true, Lord Stark?”
The Lord of Winterfell inclined his head solemnly, “The weirwoods are sacred, Your Grace. They are believed to be imbued with the power of the Old Gods. The faces carved into them are thought to see all, and through them, the Old Gods observe and judge.”
A hush fell over the room as he continued. “Swearing an oath before a weirwood binds a man to his word under the watchful gaze of the gods. To break such an oath would not only anger them, but also invite a curse or divine retribution. The weirwoods are eternal witnesses to the truth, and to betray one’s word before them is to invoke the wrath of forces far older and far more powerful than men.”
All eyes were on Queen Rhaenyra, who studied the weirwood shield with a contemplative gaze, as if sensing the ancient power it carried. “Thank you, Lord Stark,” she finally said, her voice thoughtful, yet commanding. “It seems the Old Gods shall have their role to play today.”
Queen Rhaenyra turned her gaze towards the traitors, who had remained silent throughout the proceedings, their downcast eyes fixed on the stone floor, trying desperately not to draw attention to themselves. The Lord Hand made a subtle gesture, and the Gold Cloaks moved swiftly, taking Jason Lannister and Hobert Hightower from the crowd, lining them up with the other traitors. Neither man resisted, though a chorus of soft sobs broke out from Lady Lannister and her daughters, their cries echoing through the grand hall.
The Queen’s voice, sharp as a blade, cut through the heavy air. “Otto Hightower will die today.”
A sudden intake of breath rippled through the court as all eyes fell upon the former Hand. Mother’s gaze was unyielding as she continued, “My father trusted you. He valued you more than the family he had at times. And yet, for all his faith, you disrespected his wishes, and for decades, you worked tirelessly to trample on his legacy.”
Otto Hightower’s jaw tightened, but his eyes remained closed, as if resigned to his fate.
“For that,” the Queen declared, her voice ringing with cold finality, “your head will decorate the castle walls you coveted your whole life. Your body will be given to the dogs.”
Queen Alicent was openly weeping now, her hand pressed against her mouth to stifle her sobs, her frame trembling. Otto, however, remained eerily still. After a long moment, he finally spoke, his voice quiet but firm. “I did what I thought was right for the Realm.”
“That,” Rhaenyra interjected, her tone biting, “was your first mistake, Ser Otto. To think that you were ever qualified to make decisions for the Realm.”
She turned her back on the rest, now addressing the others. “I am not a cruel ruler. I know many of you were manipulated and offered empty promises. I will give you one last chance—to renounce your cause and swear fealty to the Crown.”
A tense murmur spread through the court, growing louder as the noble lords and ladies exchanged whispers. Luke could hear the heated protests of Lord Caswell and Lady Connington, their voices sharp with grief and anger. “Our kin were killed by these traitors!” Lady Connington cried. “They deserve no mercy!”
At that moment, Alicent reached for her son, her trembling hands gripping Aemond’s arm as she whispered desperately in his ear. Her pleas seemed to weigh heavily on him, and with a clenched fist and his eyes tightly shut, Aemond was the first to kneel. His defiance drained away in the face of his mother’s despair.
One by one, the others followed—Alicent, her shoulders slumped in defeat, knelt beside her son, and the rest of the traitors, their faces marked with shame and regret, slowly bent the knee.
Luke glanced back at his mother, his heart heavy with doubt. He knew these oaths meant little. These people had already broken their vows once—they would do so again without hesitation. Yet his mother, serene and victorious, merely smiled, her gaze sweeping over the kneeling traitors as if she were already miles beyond them.
“You know the words,” she said softly, but her voice carried through the hall. “And you should remember that the Old Gods are watching.”
Her words were pointed, a subtle glance toward the weirwood shield that rested near the base of the Iron Throne, leaning against the many swords. The eerie face carved into the wood, frozen in eternal horror, seemed to observe all. The reminder hung in the air, heavy and ominous, a silent promise of consequences should they dare betray their oaths again.
Aemond opened his one remaining eye dark with resignation, yet resolute as he spoke. "Your Grace," he began, his voice measured and firm, "I have fought for a cause that has divided our family, for a crown that was never truly mine to claim. I I renounce my claim, and with it, all ambitions of the throne. From this day forth, I swear my fealty to you, Queen Rhaenyra, rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms."
Alicent, kneeling beside her son, her face pale and drawn, followed with a softer, more trembling voice. "Your Grace," she began, her hands clasped tightly together, "I sought to protect my children, to preserve a legacy I thought was theirs by right. But in doing so, I have only started a war that has cost us dearly. I see now that the throne was never meant to be ours. I, too, renounce our cause and swear my loyalty to you, my Queen. May the gods have mercy for all that has passed between us, and may the realm know peace under your reign."
One by one, they knelt and swore their renewed oaths of fealty. The Queen, poised on her throne, merely watched, her face unreadable despite the discontent rippling through the ranks of nobility. Whispers grew louder, but Rhaenyra remained unshaken, her gaze sharp and cool. The room held its breath, until a sudden gasp of pain shattered the tension. Aemond, his hand clutching his head, doubled over in agony.
Queen Alicent, frantic and pale, rushed to her son’s side, trying to cradle him, but Aemond thrashed in her arms, his body convulsing as he cried out. Luke’s eyes widened in shock, his hand instinctively tightening around Rhaena’s. Horror gripped the court as, one by one, Jason Lannister, Jasper Wylde, and Larys Strong collapsed, their screams filling the hall.
Lady Lannister and her daughters rushed toward Lord Jason, but the Gold Cloaks were quick, holding them back as the chaos unfolded. The men writhed on the cold floor, clawing at their own faces, trying desperately to relieve the torment that consumed them. Their fingers gouged at their eyes, tearing at their skin in a futile attempt to stem the unspeakable pain. Blood poured down their cheeks in dark, sickening rivulets, turning their cries into gurgled sobs. Their faces twisted into grotesque masks of agony, their eyes bleeding as if weeping.
The courtiers recoiled in horror, some turning away, others frozen, their faces pale and stricken as the once-proud lords of Westeros were reduced to broken, wailing creatures.
Alicent's voice, broken with desperation, cried out for help, her hands trembling as she reached for her son. "Please! Someone—help him!" But no one dared to move. The horror was too great, the fear too deep. Even the bravest among them kept their distance, their eyes filled with dread as they watched Aemond and the others suffer.
Luke, fighting the bile that rose in his throat, held fast to Rhaena, his grip firm as if anchoring himself to reality. He stole a glance at his brother Jace, whose face was set in grim resolve. Beside him, Kepa raised an eyebrow as he watched the events unfold, his expression one of surprise, but no trace of pity or fear lingered on his face. Somehow, the sight of his stepfather’s calm steadied Luke, but the horror remained all the same.
The screaming ceased as suddenly as it had begun, leaving only a chilling silence, punctuated by ragged sobs and shallow, broken breaths. Luke turned his gaze back to Aemond, whose face was now a ruin of blood and torn flesh, his remaining eye clawed out and his mouth frozen in a silent scream. The others were much the same—faces pale, their bloodied tears staining the floor beneath them. The sight made Luke’s skin crawl; they looked eerily like the weirwood face carved into the shield presented earlier.
The Queen sighed, her voice heavy with disappointment as she surveyed the aftermath. “You were warned not to lie in front of the Old Gods,” she said, her tone cold and unwavering. “Now we know what happens when you do.”
With a wave of her hand, the Gold Cloaks stepped forward, dragging the broken bodies from the floor, their limp forms a grotesque reminder of the Old Gods' wrath. The court remained in stunned silence, faces pale, hands trembling. They had just witnessed something beyond mortal punishment—something divine and terrifying.
Lord Corlys’s voice cut through the stillness, calm and unshaken. “Now that the primary traitors have been dealt with,” he said, his words a clear declaration of finality, “we may begin the swearing of the oaths.”
The court remained stunned, the weight of what they had witnessed pressing down upon them like a suffocating cloak. Not a soul dared to speak, not a soul dared to protest. The Old Gods had shown their power, and the room was filled with the knowledge that no lie could escape their gaze.
Gwayne POV
Gwayne watched as his sister, delicate and trembling, tried to pour him tea. Alicent’s once elegant grace had withered over time, her thin arms barely strong enough to hold the weight of the teapot. The tea spilled, sloshing onto the table in a messy cascade, and Alicent gasped, her trembling lips attempting a frail smile as she fumbled for words.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, her voice barely holding. “So terribly sorry.”
Her apology was laced with guilt, as though this small accident had exposed a far deeper fragility. Gwayne, his heart heavy, gently took her trembling hand and guided her to sit, his movements tender and reassuring.
“Rest, sister.” he murmured softly, his voice calm. With a steady hand, he began to clean the mess, each deliberate motion meant to comfort her. There was no judgment in his eyes, only a quiet sorrow at seeing her in such a state. Once the table was tidy, he took the teapot himself and poured tea into her cup, the action fluid and practiced.
Alicent’s eyes, wide and glassy, darted around the room, searching for something invisible, her fingers nervously tugging at the frayed edge of her sleeve. She was wearing a simple blue gown, a stark contrast to the green dresses she had once adorned herself with proudly. Gwayne remembered the last time he had visited, bringing her a fine green gown, only for her to toss it aside and tremble under a table. “Green was the beginning of the end,” she had whispered. “Green is the color of war, of greed and envy. Green is the color of lost families, dead children… green is the color of death!”
He had learned since then—never to wear green, never to bring it into her chambers. The windows were now barred, keeping even the sight of the greenery outside from her.
“I’m sorry… I’m so useless.” Alicent murmured again, her voice fragile as she looked down at her lap, her fingers tracing the simple fabric of her gown.
Gwayne smiled gently, leaning closer to her, his words soft yet firm. “You are not useless, Alicent. You’ve endured more than anyone should have to bear. You are still here.”
She looked up at him then, a flicker of something—perhaps gratitude, perhaps resignation—crossing her face before she offered him a small, tentative smile. It was a ghost of the woman she once was, but it was something. He took in the sight of her—once so formidable, so sharp. Now, her mind dulled by the weight of the years, the tragedies she had suffered. Her wide eyes, once full of fierce intelligence, now wandered, lost in thoughts only she could comprehend.
“Do you have more stories for me today?” Alicent’s voice, childlike and innocent, broke the silence. Her eyes brightened, and she leaned forward, eager as a child awaiting a bedtime tale.
Gwayne’s heart clenched, but he kept his face serene, leaning closer as he asked, “What stories do you wish to hear, dear sister?”
Her eyes lit up with excitement, and she clapped her hands together. “The story of the God Queen!” she exclaimed, her voice brimming with enthusiasm.
For a moment, Gwayne’s face fell. The story of the God Queen—the tale she clung to in her fractured mind—was one she had twisted into fantasy. But he quickly pasted a smile back on, hiding his disquiet as he began.
“The God Queen of Westeros…” he started, his voice soft and measured, spinning the tale as Alicent watched with rapt attention. “It is said that during her reign, her power was felt across the Seven Kingdoms, as though the very air itself crackled with her strength. Under her rule, the harvests grew bountiful, fields flourishing even in regions once plagued by drought and famine. Her influence over the land brought prosperity to farmers, with crops growing tall and vibrant, feeding the people in abundance.
“Trade routes, once fraught with danger, became safer than they had been in generations. Pirates and bandits who had once terrorized merchants vanished from the seas and roads, as if her very presence demanded order and peace. Wealth poured into the realm, enriching cities and villages alike.
“And the people, even those in the farthest reaches of the kingdom, whispered of strange occurrences: the sick who were touched by her magic began to heal faster, with wounds closing and illnesses fading as if the Queen herself had breathed life back into them."
Alicent’s wide eyes were glued on him, her breathing shallow, her hands clasps in front of her in concentration.
“Her children, too, were blessed with gifts, each one of them she bestowed with powers beyond mortal understanding.”
Alicent’s face glowed, her hands clasped together in her lap as she swayed slightly. “Truly? Even the children?” she whispered, her voice filled with wonder.
“They say the eldest was gifted the power of the land.” Gwayne continued, watching her face light up with every word. “The land itself bends to his will, allowing him to rebuild what was broken, to restore the realm with his strength. It’s said he will heal what was torn apart, piece by piece.”
Alicent smiled, a faint, dreamy expression overtaking her as she gazed off into the distance. “The earth… strong, like him… so strong.” she murmured, as though the story had taken root deep within her, offering a fleeting comfort.
His smile faltered as he looked back making sure that no one had heard her and let out a sigh of relief when the guards did not barge in. Gwayne turned back to his sister and nodded gently, though his heart ached to see her so lost in this fantasy. "Yes, the earth," he repeated, "and the next, the sea. The second son commands the tides, can summon the waves to rise and fall at his whim. The oceans carry him wherever he wishes to go, loyal and unyielding."
Her eyes widened with a strange, feverish joy. "The sea loves him," she whispered, her voice trembling with excitement. "Yes, yes... the sea listens to him. I should have let him leave, he would have loved to travel, he always loves revelry, going out in the city with his friends!"
"The third," Gwayne continued, his voice never faltering despite the sorrow lodged in his throat, "controls the storm. Thunder and lightning answer his call. The winds howl for him, wild and fierce. They say he will one day claim the seat where Storm’s End, where the weather mirrors his strength."
A soft, giddy giggle escaped her lips, and she rocked gently in her chair. "The storm... how perfect. The storm was always his... fierce, so fierce. I remember him, he commanded the biggest storm, the one who roared the loudest but he was always gentle with me, my sweet boy…"
Gwayne watched her carefully, his pulse quickening as he prepared to speak of the younger ones. "And then there’s the one they say holds the power of the sun," he continued, his tone reverent. "He’s still young, but already they whisper of his brightness, the light he will bring when the world grows dark."
Tears welled in her eyes, spilling down her cheeks as she pressed her hands to her heart. "The sun," she breathed, her voice breaking. "So bright... I had a little boy then too… he was the sun, my little light. He was taken too soon… away from me so I had to look at him from afar. The sun... it’s too bright for this world."
Gwayne tightened his grip on her hand, anchoring her to the moment as she slipped deeper into her delusions. "And the youngest," he whispered, leaning closer, "wherever he walks, flowers bloom. Nature itself responds to him. His presence brings beauty and life to everything around him."
Her lips parted in a soft, breathless gasp, her eyes wide with wonder. "Flowers," she cooed, her fingers reaching out as if to pluck a blossom from the air. "Sweet flowers... she makes everything bloom. My daughter did not like flowers though, she prefers the bugs, it make my skin crawl but she like them, she likes them…"
Gwayne felt his chest tighten as she swayed in her seat, lost in her reverie. The story, the powers—they were her escape, her fragile tether to a world that no longer made sense to her. He held her hand gently, watching her as she smiled dreamily at the thought of flowers blooming, the sun shining, storms roaring, and the earth rising up—all the things she no longer had a grasp on, but still believed in with all her shattered heart.
Gwayne flinched as the heavy door creaked open, revealing the elderly Grand Maester with his entourage. The old man shuffled forward, a bottle of dark, swirling liquid in hand. "It is time for the Lady’s tonic." the Maester announced in a voice as weathered as the walls of the Red Keep itself. Two young acolytes moved gently towards the bed where she sat, coaxing her with soft words. At least they treated her kindly, Gwayne thought bitterly.
He turned to the Maester, watching as he poured the viscous liquid into a goblet. "Has there been any improvement?" he asked, his voice low but edged with a desperation he couldn't quite hide.
The Maester sighed, shaking his head as he measured out the tonic. "This winter fever is a cruel one, Ser. Vicious in its hold. Even the strongest are felled by it."
Gwayne pressed further, frustration lacing his words. "The Queen... she’s in the North, healing the people. Could she not—" he hesitated, then asked more harshly than he intended, "Could she not heal my sister?"
The Grand Maester’s gaze turned sharp, his lips thinning into a line of disapproval. "The Queen tends to the innocent, Ser Gwayne. She heals those who are in need of her power. A traitor lady locked away in a tower is far from a priority." His words were like ice, cutting and dismissive, but Gwayne knew there was truth in them. He balled his fist, forcing himself to nod. He was lucky they allowed Alicent to remain within the Keep at all. The fact that the Grand Maester himself tended to her was already a mercy. If it were not for her frailty, she would not have been treated so kindly. Unlike him, she would never survive beyond these walls, exposed to the cold and harshness of the world outside.
A guard loomed in the doorway, his voice gruff and impatient. "It’s time, Ser." The man turned on his heel, not waiting for a response, and Gwayne took one last look at his sister. She was murmuring to one of the acolytes, her voice trembling with a childlike innocence. "I must write my stories," she said, her eyes shining with the remnants of a lost mind. "I shall tell them to my sons, my grandchildren. Oh, I want to see my boys again... and my sweet girl, Helaena. And King Jaehaerys... I’ll read to him, as I did when I was a girl. He used to say I had a lovely voice."
Gwayne swallowed the lump in his throat and turned away, walking through the dim corridors of the Red Keep with a heavy heart. As he reached the courtyard, he caught sight of the Prince of Dragonstone himself, deep in conversation with the Hand of the King. Gwayne bowed, though neither spared him a glance. He continued on, unnoticed and unimportant, weaving through the bustling courtiers.
He passed by the godswood, where children’s laughter rang through the crisp air, a brief moment of warmth in the otherwise somber atmosphere. But then, without warning, a sudden gust of wind swept through the trees, knocking him off balance and sending him crashing into the stone wall with a dull thud. Pain shot through his shoulder as he scrambled to his feet falling back into the dirt, his heart pounding in his chest.
Laughter echoed through the godswood, and a voice—young and mischievous—called out, "Joffrey! You mustn’t do that. What if a tree fell and crushed us all?"
More murmurs followed, too soft for Gwayne to make out, but before he could regain his bearings, the Gold Cloak appeared, pulling him to his feet with a rough jerk. "Move along, Ser. We don’t need Hightowers lingering where they’re not wanted." the guard sneered, his grip tight on Gwayne’s arm.
Gwayne gritted his teeth, forcing an apology past his lips as he followed the guard towards the outer yard, where his old horse waited, saddled and ready. As he mounted, he cast one last glance at the Red Keep, searching for the tower where his sister was confined. But before he could even contemplate it, the guard barked, "Go on, now. We’ve no time for sentiment. You’ll return at the next moon, if she lasts that long."
Their cruelty stung, but Gwayne kept his head down, gripping the reins. "I will return." he said quietly, though he doubted they cared. Without waiting for a response, he spurred his horse forward, leaving the Red Keep behind with nothing but the bitter cold wind at his back.