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Chapter Text

Oldtown – 2 BC

The bells in the Starry Sept rang for Terce as Lord Manfred Hightower ascended the spiral stair to the High Septon’s solar. The Reach was calm, the harvest bountiful, the sea-lanes heavy with trade—until the first riders came through the Lion Gate, dust-caked and white-faced.

Harrenhal had burned.

Maester Lorimar unrolled the damp-stained parchment with a measured hand. “The Conqueror’s host struck without siege. One beast—one lizard—took the sky and set the keep aflame. Witnesses say the towers themselves melted, stones running like wax into the lake below.”

Lord Manfred’s jaw tightened. “Dragon’s work.”

Lorimar inclined his head. “The last time such fire scoured the world, the Rhoyne ran black with smoke, and the brick towers of Ghis were pulled down to ash. Valyria’s histories speak of it with pride. Ours only in footnotes—and even there, with doubt.”

The High Septon made the sign of the Seven. “Then he brings an abomination from across the sea. Let him burn Harren’s folly and the Crownlands besides. The Reach will not kneel to a foreign torchbearer.”

“Aye,” Manfred said sharply. “Oldtown bent knee to Gardener kings long before this Valyrian ever set foot here. We shall not bow to some sellsail prince with a reptile for a banner.”

Oldtown – Later That Year

The ravens came at dawn, their claws clicking on the Maesters’ perches. Argilac Durrandon, the Storm King, lay headless on the kingsroad causeway. His daughter, Argella Durrandon, had declared herself the Storm Queen, continuing to hold Storm's End until her own household, fearing the fate of Harrenhal, turned against her. They delivered her to Orys Baratheon, naked and chained. She was then wed to the bastard who slew her father—Orys Baratheon, half-brother to the Conqueror.

The High Septon’s lip curled. “The line of Durrandon broken and replaced with a bastard’s get. The storm worships at the altar of bloodshed now.”

“That is not all,” Lorimar said grimly, unrolling another scroll. “The lions of Casterly Rock marched with the Gardeners. At the Field of Fire, both were broken—forty-five thousand men burned or cut down beneath the dragons’ shadows. King Mern dead with all his sons. King Loren Lannister taken alive and bent the knee.”

The Septon’s knuckles whitened on his prayer beads. “And in the Gardeners’ place? Not kin, not kingsblood—but Tyrells. Stewards.”

“A house that poured wine at Highgarden’s tables,” Manfred said, voice low with fury. “A house that owes its station not to the Seven’s blessing, but to Valyrian whim.”

The Septon’s gaze flicked to him. “Your own blood runs older than theirs.”

“Aye,” Manfred said, his voice like a drawn blade. “The Hightowers ruled Oldtown when the Gardeners were green in the crib. If crowns are to be handed to servants, then the Faith itself is mocked.”

Oldtown – That Winter

The Citadel’s ravens carried the final blow. The Reach had bent. House Hightower had bent—sworn oaths not to a Gardener king, but to Mern’s former stewards.

Lord Manfred returned from Highgarden with a smile carved in stone and a goblet never empty. In private, the cup lay untouched.

“The Seven damn them,” the High Septon spat, striking the table with his open palm. “A gardener’s cupbearer raised above kingsblood, and we are told to bow? The realm bends too easily.”

Manfred’s eyes were hard as winter glass. “We have bent because the Reach is ash. We have bent because the Tyrells have dragonfire at their back. But if we are to survive what comes next, we must put the flame in our own hearth.”

The Septon narrowed his eyes. “You mean to—”

“Invite him,” Manfred said. “Crown him here. In the Starry Sept. On our terms.”

Archmaester Lorimar, seated in the corner, let the silence breathe before speaking. “If he accepts the blessing of the Seven, he accepts the hand that gives it. In crowning him, we may yet bind his reign in the chains of faith.”

The Septon’s fingers tightened on his prayer beads. “And if he refuses?”

“Then he refuses the gods before the eyes of the realm,” Manfred said. “And no king, dragon or not, can burn that stain away.”

Oldtown – 1 AC

The Starry Sept had not seen such pageantry in a generation. Its vast floor was scrubbed until the black and white marble shone like still water, and the seven towering statues loomed high above, their faces half in shadow beneath the dome’s colored glass. Thousands of candles burned, their scents mingling into a haze of beeswax and incense.

From the streets beyond, the hum of the gathered crowd swelled like a distant tide. They had heard the dragons were not here. That alone steadied Oldtown’s breath.

Lord Manfred Hightower stood beneath the Mother’s gaze, his cloak bearing the smoke-grey of his house, worked with the white tower and red-flamed beacon of its arms. In war, the Hightowers wore green; today, in peace, their true colors had returned. Archmaester Lorimar lingered just behind, his chain heavy with links of silver, iron, and yellow gold.

When the great doors opened, the murmur inside the sept fell to a hush. Aegon Targaryen entered, clad in black and red, the crown of Valyria in his hands rather than upon his brow. His sisters walked with him—Visenya in the cold gleam of mail, Rhaenys in flowing silk the color of midnight.

He knelt without hesitation.

The High Septon anointed his brow with seven oils, reciting blessings older than the Sept itself. “By the Father’s justice, by the Mother’s mercy, by the Warrior’s strength…” His voice echoed through the vast dome, steady and measured. He then raised his voice, resonating through the solemn hall. “By the will of the gods, and the grace of the Seven, I proclaim before all present: Aegon of House Targaryen, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm!”

When the crown was placed upon Aegon’s head, the sept did not erupt in cheers. It exhaled—a long, slow breath of relief, as if the city itself had been holding it since the black smoke over the Field of Fire.

In the shadowed alcove of the sept’s west transept, Lorimar leaned toward Manfred. “And now?”

“Now,” Manfred murmured, watching the silver-haired king rise, “he is ours in the eyes of the realm.”

Lorimar’s eyes followed the young monarch’s measured steps toward the altar. “Dragons burn hot, my lord. But faith… faith smolders.”

The bells of Oldtown rang out in rolling peals as Aegon the First, by the Seven’s grace, was proclaimed King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm.

Outside, the smallfolk lit lanterns. Inside, beneath the Seven’s stony gazes, the Faith, the Hightower, and the Citadel began their quiet work.

Oldtown, 25 AC

The scent of incense clung to the stones of the Starry Sept, where three figures conferred in a narrow chamber beyond the septon's hall: Lord Manfred Hightower, his brother the High Septon, and Maester Lorimar of the Citadel.

“Visenya presses for her son to marry Aenys’s daughter,” the Septon said darkly. “Valyrian blood wedded to Valyrian blood. Uncle to niece.”

“A pure dragon line,” Lorimar said. “Stronger. Tighter. Unbroken.”

“Too strong,” Manfred murmured. “Too foreign. That kind of union would silence the realm’s voice in choosing its rulers.”

“So we offered Ceryse,” the Septon said. “A daughter of Oldtown. She'll temper him.”

“She ties him to the Faith,” Lorimar added. “To us.”

“Good,” Lord Hightower said, his voice laced with satisfaction. “Let the dragons wear our chains while they think they wear crowns.”

“And if succession turns unclear?” the Septon asked, a hint of avarice in his tone.

“Then the realm will look not to blood, but to the gods,” Lorimar said, his gaze distant. “And the ones who speak for them.”

Oldtown, 41 AC

The flames in the Starry Sept flickered low as voices rose in anger and zeal.

“King Abomination,” the High Septon spat, waving the royal proclamation in one hand. “Brother weds sister, as if the laws of gods and men were parchment to burn.”

“First Maegor defies us. Now Aenys follows the same path,” Lord Martyn Hightower said, his face tight with fury. “And the king dares make that bastard Murmison his Hand.”

Maester Walys of the Citadel, seated in the shadowed rear of the chamber, spoke calmly. “The people whisper already. Dragons breed abominations, they say. The storm gathers.”

“It should,” the Septon growled. “We will not bless this marriage. We will not bow.”

“And if the king resists?” Walys asked.

Lord Hightower looked toward the septon's flame-lit face. “Then Oldtown will become the soul of the realm. We will give the people something nobler than fire and blood.”

“Good,” Walys murmured, a faint smile touching his lips. “The Citadel will ensure the message spreads.”

Outside, the bells tolled again, this time not for worship—but for war. Across the city, pious men armed themselves. The Faith was rising.

Oldtown, 42 AC

Rain lashed the Hightower. Lightning etched silver light over the city as Lord Martyn Hightower stared from his high chamber toward the distant Starry Sept.

“They’ll be here in a day,” he said softly. “Balerion and Vhagar both.”

Maester Luthor, gaunt and dry, replied from the firelit corner. “And the High Septon still preaches from the pulpit. He will not bend.”

“Then he will burn,” Martyn muttered. “And so will Oldtown.”

There was silence. Then a low voice spoke—Patrice Hightower, his aunt, wrapped in a thick gray shawl.

“The Faith is more than one man,” she said. “If he dies before dawn, Septon Pater may rise. A gentler voice.”

Luthor did not look up. “A heart attack, perhaps. In the night.”

Martyn poured a goblet of Arbor gold. He drank deeply, then handed the cup to Patrice. “Let no order be written. Let no words be spoken.”

She took the wine, unblinking.

In the Starry Sept, the High Septon knelt long in prayer that night. By morning, he was found cold upon the altar, hands folded and lips blue.

When Maegor arrived at the gates with dragons circling above, Oldtown opened its gates. The city was spared. So too was the Citadel.

No record named the hand that stilled the Septon’s heart. No name, yet many knew.

The Citadel, Oldtown – 48 AC

Rain pattered gently on the domes of the Citadel. Beneath the green copper ceiling of the Conclave Hall, seven archmaesters sat in candlelight, their chains heavy with knowledge—and calculation.

“Maegor is dead,” Archmaester Lorimar declared, his voice thin with age but still sharp. “Found split on the Iron Throne.”

“Suicide?” asked Archmaester Theomore of Ravens.

“Convenient, either way,” Lorimar said, turning the page of a leather-bound codex. “The dragons devour their own. As ever.”

A pause.

“Jaehaerys has been crowned,” Archmaester Walys, newly raised from the White Ravens, reported. “Young. Temperate. The people adore him. The High Septon kissed his brow.”

“And the dragons?” Theomore asked.

“Still ride them,” Lorimar confirmed. “But the boy speaks of peace. Of healing. His mother fled Maegor. She will remember what fire costs.”

Another archmaester, wrinkled and soft-spoken, added, “His sister-wife is young. He listens to the septons. There’s a Septon Barth in the Red Keep—a clever man. A thinker. He loves the written word.”

Lorimar nodded. “Perhaps we give him books.”

“And silence talk of sorcery, blood purity, and Valyria,” Walys added.

“Gently,” cautioned Lorimar. “The people will not love chains in place of crowns. But they may come to trust them more.”

A bell rang faintly below—students summoned to the Hall of Illumination.

As the archmaesters rose, Lorimar closed the codex and looked out the rain-slick window, across the Honeywine.

“Dragons are fire,” he murmured. “But knowledge… knowledge is smoke. And smoke lingers longer.”

Oldtown, Mid-Reign of Jaehaerys (circa 60-80 AC)

The grand halls of the Hightower hummed with the quiet industry of generations of plotting. Lord Osmund Hightower, a stern man with calculating eyes, now presided over the intimate councils. Archmaester Luthor, though advanced in years, remained sharp, his eyes missing nothing as he observed the movements of the realm.

“The Queen continues to birth babes,” Maester Luthor said, his voice a dry rustle of parchment. “A surfeit of Targaryen blood. Too many riders, too many dragons bonded.”

“Then the blood must be thinned,” Lord Osmund stated, his hand resting on a map of Westeros. “Through marriage, we can weave their threads into the tapestry of the realm. Dilute their potency.”

Septon Eustace, a zealous man of the Faith, nodded gravely. “There are young princes and princesses of the royal house. Such matches can be made with powerful, loyal houses, especially those without male heirs, to anchor the Targaryen line to more… mundane families. Away from the incestuous Valyrian practices that so offend the gods.”

Luthor added, his voice dropping to a near whisper, “And some bonds are best broken before they even form. The queen is fertile, yes. But miscarriages happen. Illnesses plague newborn babes. It is the will of the gods, is it not, for some lines to wither and others to flourish?”

Eustace closed his eyes, making the sign of the Seven. “The gods work in mysterious ways, guiding the righteous to their destined end.”

Lord Osmund merely gave a thin smile. The subtle work continued, a poison administered drop by slow drop.

King’s Landing, 92 AC

The bells tolled over the city. Prince Aemon, eldest son of King Jaehaerys, was dead—struck down by a Myrish crossbow bolt on the shores of Tarth. In the small council chamber, the mood was heavy. King Jaehaerys sat pale with grief, fingers clasped before him. Queen Alysanne stood at his side, silent and stern. Beside her, the white-bearded Grand Maester Elysar studied the room, his expression unreadable.

“He was our future,” Jaehaerys murmured. “My heir. The realm’s hope.”

“His daughter lives,” Alysanne said firmly. “Rhaenys is young, but of strong spirit—and Targaryen blood. She flies Meleys.”

“Indeed, Your Grace,” said Elysar gently. “Yet… the lords of the realm are not likely to accept a woman, much less one married to Lord Corlys Velaryon.”

Ryam Redwyne, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, scratched at his jaw. “Corlys is proud. Ambitious. Some would say dangerous.”

“He’s built the greatest fleet since the Conquest,” said Lord Beesbury. “He would bring strength—and leverage.”

Alysanne’s eyes narrowed. “And is it better to pass over my granddaughter simply because her husband is strong?”

“It is not strength that concerns us, Your Grace,” Elysar said calmly. “It is what he might do with it.”

The king closed his eyes. “Then Baelon?”

The room fell still. Elysar gave a shallow nod.

“Prince Baelon is beloved,” said Ryam. “And loyal.”

“He’s hot-headed,” Alysanne muttered. “And his second son—Daemon—is a wildfire waiting to catch.”

Jaehaerys did not respond. He stared at the carved map table, where the seven kingdoms lay still and expectant.

At last he said, “The boy shall be named Prince of Dragonstone.”

The Citadel, Oldtown – One Moon Later

A scroll was laid on a polished table, bearing the king’s seal.

“Prince Baelon named heir. Rhaenys passed over.”

Archmaester Luthor, his hand trembling slightly with age as he traced the words, tapped it with one finger. “Predictable.”

“The queen won’t like it,” said Maester Luthor.

“Nor will the Lord of the Tides,” Luthor said. “But Corlys plays at storms and salt. We shape kings and memory.”

King’s Landing, 99 AC

The death of Septon Barth left a void few could fill.

King Jaehaerys sat in silence after the raven was read. “He gave me truth even when it stung,” he said at last. “And counsel that never served himself.”

The council was subdued. The lords shuffled scrolls and sipped wine, but the grief in the air was real.

“We need a Hand,” said Lord Beesbury. “The realm cannot stand leaderless.”

After long debate, the king raised his hand. “Let it be Ser Ryam Redwyne.”

A gallant knight, known across the realm for valor and virtue. Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Loyal, beloved. But not bred for governance.

The Citadel, Oldtown – Late 99 AC

“He is no fool,” said Archmaester Luthor. “But he is no steward either.”

“He will act on honor, not reason,” Archmaester Luthor murmured. “A hammer in a room full of scrolls.”

They sat in the scriptorium, candles hissing against the cold stone walls.

“Let him have his time,” said Luthor. “The more he fumbles, the more the court will crave a true administrator. One we can groom.”

“Otto?”

“Indeed. He has managed Oldtown’s docks and harbormaster's ledgers with precision. Balanced taxes in the Reach. Restored order after the Starpike raids.”

“He is Hobert Hightower’s brother,” Luthor noted.

Luthor gave a slow nod. “The line is stable. The boy is loyal. Otto, in King’s Landing, can serve while advancing our aims quietly.”

King’s Landing, 100 AC

Ser Ryam did his duty with the same discipline he brought to sword and saddle. But administration is not war. He struggled to master ledgers, fumbled with tariffs, and moved too slowly for lords with sharper tongues. Smallfolk still adored him. Lords grumbled. The king grew weary. The old king saw the storm coming.

King Jaehaerys named Prince Baelon as Hand of the King.

Oldtown, Winter 100 AC

The fire snapped and hissed in Lord Hobert Hightower’s private solar, casting long shadows across the carved stone walls. His son, Ormund, stood silent in the alcove, eyes fixed on the flicker of flame reflected in polished goblets of Arbor gold.

“He commands loyalty,” said Lord Hobert, calm but firm. “Too much.”

Archmaester Luthor stroked his grey beard with ink-stained fingers. “He does not heed the Citadel. Nor the Faith. And he honors… old gods.”

“He lights candles to fire and calls them his ancestors,” the septon muttered. “And teaches his sons to do the same.”

“Then the fire must be snuffed before it spreads,” Hobert replied. “Before it becomes a conflagration.”

“The body,” said Luthor quietly, “is full of weaknesses. The belly, most of all.”

No one said the word poison. None had to.

“And the king?” asked the septon.

“He will mourn,” said Hobert, rising. “But he will not question.”

Behind them, young Ormund Hightower watched in silence, learning the game of thrones.

King’s Landing, 101 AC

Prince Baelon Targaryen, the Spring Prince, returned from a hunting trip pale and hollow-eyed. He had complained of a stitch in his side—but that stitch became a blade. Within a day, he was bedridden in the Tower of the Hand, feverish, his gut roiling like storm-tossed seas.

The Tower of the Hand stood quiet. Daemon paced like a caged dragon. Some said he broke chairs with his bare hands. Others claimed he threatened the Grand Maester. None knew what truly happened within those stone halls.

By dawn of the fifth day, Baelon was dead. Some whispered it was poison. Others claimed his dragon blood had turned against him.

King Jaehaerys, broken with grief, lit the pyre himself on Dragonstone. His eyes were dry, his face like carved stone.

In King’s Landing, the ravens flew swift from the Red Keep to Oldtown.

By week’s end, Ser Otto Hightower—Lord Hobert’s younger brother—was summoned to court. The king named him Hand of the King.

Harrenhal, Summer 101 AC

The banners of a thousand lords flapped in the hot wind, casting long shadows across the blackened stones of Harrenhal. The Great Council was convened under the rule of King Jaehaerys I, though the old king did not come in person.

For thirteen days, the lords of the realm debated blood and law. Rhaenys’s son Laenor bore the strength of primogeniture, the legacy of Prince Aemon. But he was only a boy, and his mother a woman.

Viserys Targaryen, Baelon's eldest son, soft of voice and slow to anger, rode the memory of Balerion. A man grown. A man with a daughter and a famously patient temperament.

By the fourteenth day, the decision was clear. Laenor was too young and his father too ambitious. Viserys was chosen. Peace over ambition.

As raven after raven flew westward from Harrenhal, another fire was kindled farther south.

Oldtown, Autumn 101 AC

Below the Hightower, in a quiet chamber built of black stone, lit only by flickering candles, the true council began.

Lord Hobert Hightower poured a cup of Arbor red, offering it to the Archmaester.

“It is done,” he said.

Luthor took the wine with a nod. “Viserys will sit the throne. He is… manageable.”

“The girl?” asked Septon Aerick, wringing his hands around his prayer beads.

“She is a child,” said Hobert, “spoiled and silken. She can be brushed aside.”

“The queen?” the Septon asked, more carefully.

“She is fragile,” said Luthor calmly. “And well in our care. Her next birth will be her last.”

There was silence for a moment. Only the crackle of wax on the candlesticks and the faraway creak of tide against stone.

“Then it begins,” Hobert said, lifting his cup.

Luthor did not drink. “We have waited since the Conquest. One dragon gone. Another dimmed. The Faith will no longer bow.”

In the shadows, their agreement was sealed—not with blood, but with quiet nods, and the silent promise of a realm slowly reshaped.

King’s Landing, 103 AC

The bells tolled for King Jaehaerys the Wise as his body was laid to rest beneath the Red Keep. After a reign of peace and consolidation, the realm stood at a crossroads.

Viserys I Targaryen was crowned king without contest. Kindly, eager to please, and slow to offend, he inherited not just the crown, but the burdens of a kingdom long held in delicate balance. To appease every faction, he retained the small council of the Old King unchanged—grey men clinging to precedent, ritual, and the illusion of continuity.

His queen, Aemma Arryn, remained at his side, though her health had begun to falter. Their only living child, Princess Rhaenyra, The Realm's Delight, grew into a bright and proud girl—Valyrian in look and bearing, beloved of her father, and admired by lords and courtiers alike.

With no son born to the king, Prince Daemon—brother to Viserys and rider of the dragon Caraxes—stood as heir presumptive.

Oldtown, 103 AC

The bells in the Starry Sept rang too, not for mourning, but opportunity.

In the Hightower’s shadowed halls, beneath stained glass and carved pillars, the conspirators gathered. Lord Hobert sat at the head of the long table, with Archmaester Luthor at his side, quill scratching across parchment. Septon Aerick poured wine—modest Arbor red, for this was not yet celebration.

“Daemon stands too near the throne,” said Hobert, eyes narrowed. “A warrior, a dragonrider, and worse—unruly.”

“A second Maegor,” murmured Luthor. “Worse, perhaps. The blood sings too loud in him.”

Septon Aerick set his cup down. “The king is soft. A daughter as heir can be molded. A queen may be set aside.”

“And a second queen,” Hobert said, voice low, “can be placed with care.”

Luthor looked up from his writing. “The first must not last. Not long enough to give the king a son.”

No one spoke the word birthing bed. They did not need to.

“The girl is favored now,” Eustace said, “and beloved by her father, but girls grow into women. Women can be shamed, manipulated, brushed aside.”

Lord Hobert smiled thinly. “Then let us pray for the king’s health… and his loneliness.”

King’s Landing, 110 AC

The bells rang again—not for death, but celebration.

The queen was with child, her time drawing near. In anticipation, King Viserys declared a grand tourney, a spectacle to honor the birth of his long-awaited son and to declare the child his heir. Banners flew, lords gathered, and the Red Keep echoed with the sound of music and mailed fists.

Princess Rhaenyra, golden and proud, watched from above. She had grown into a dragon—clever, observant, beloved by many. At fourteen, she should have had half a dozen ladies in waiting. Instead, she had one: Alicent Hightower, daughter of the king’s Hand.

Alicent smiled softly, always softly. She brushed Rhaenyra’s hair, read to her, sat quietly as the princess held court in miniature. She spoke little, listened always.

“She is a loyal companion,” Viserys once said, pleased.

“She is a shadow,” Rhaenyra once thought, uneasy.

In the Tower of the Hand, Otto Hightower met alone with Grand Maester Runciter. The air was heavy with incense, too sweet to be natural.

“She grows weaker with each moon,” said Runciter, stirring a vial of thick, clear liquid. “A gentle nudge, no more.”

“She must not survive,” Otto said. “And if the babe is male?”

Runciter hesitated. “A twisted cord. A breath that does not catch. These things… happen.”

Otto folded his hands. “Make them happen.”

Runciter bowed.

“The king must grieve,” Otto said. “And he must be comforted.”

Alicent did not yet know the role she would play. Or perhaps she did.

The bells would ring again, soon.

Chapter Text

The Throne Room of the Red Keep, usually a chamber of solemn power, hummed with a restless energy that morning. Sunlight, splintered through the tall, arched windows, caught dust motes dancing in the air, giving the impression of a thousand tiny, shimmering jewels. King Viserys I Targaryen sat upon the Iron Throne, a figure of amiable authority, his velvet robes and crown a stark contrast to the grim, twisted steel beneath him.

Princess Rhaenyra, at fourteen named the Realm's Delight, stood quietly beside the Iron Throne, observing the milling courtiers. Her silver-gold hair, braided with black ribbons, shimmered as she absorbed every detail of her father's public court. She had been her father’s shadow for the past six years, since the age of eight, privy to every murmur and whisper, every plea and grievance laid before the throne. She watched. Lord Beesbury’s smile seemed stuck. Ser Otto’s eyes darted with something she couldn’t quite name, impatience perhaps, or something colder. Even Grand Maester Mellos, with all his years, seemed to bend low, like a willow in a strong wind.

Lords, a colorful swarm, pressed forward, their voices a chorus of demands and hopes, each eager for her father's eye. Lord Staunton of Rook’s Rest begged for royal intervention in a border dispute with House Stokeworth. A merchant from Lannisport pleaded for increased patrols against raiders in the Sunset Sea. Viserys listened, often nodding, sometimes interjecting with a soft word or a promise to consider. Rhaenyra's gaze lingered on the King’s often-distracted eyes. He loved his realm, of that she was certain, but the endless squabbles seemed to weary him more than they invigorated.

When the last petition had been heard and the final courtier bowed, King Viserys rose from the Iron Throne, signaling the end of the public audience. The lords and ladies began to disperse, a slow tide receding from the great hall. As the great doors of the Throne Room swung shut behind the last courtier, Viserys led his Small Council, their steps quieter now, towards the dedicated Small Council Chambers. This was a more intimate and guarded space where the true business of the realm was conducted, its heavy oak doors, carved with the Targaryen three-headed dragon, muffling the sounds of the Red Keep.

The chamber smelled faintly of parchment, ink, and aged stone—a place where words lingered longer than swords. Morning light spilled through narrow arched windows, striping the round table with gold. Rhaenyra stood at her post near the wine table, one hand resting on the polished ewer. Officially, this was where her role as the King's Cupbearer began. She poured when asked, stepped lightly when needed, and said nothing.

That was what they expected of her. The cupbearer. The silent girl. The Realm's Delight.

But Rhaenyra was not silent in her mind.

She watched. She listened. Every breath, every glance, every pause in speech was a lesson. This table ruled the Seven Kingdoms, and one day, she might influence its decisions, perhaps even guiding the hand of a future king, her brother. And so she learned, one cup at a time.

At the head of the table sat her father, King Viserys I Targaryen—soft-faced and silver-haired, ever quick to smile, eager to smooth over tensions with jests and nods. He did not command the room, not truly. His presence filled the air like warm milk—comforting, familiar, and far too easily ignored.

The men around him were older, louder, and in some ways, more dangerous.

To the king’s right sat the Hand, Lord Otto Hightower, draped in grey and silver. His eyes were always calm, always calculating. Otto spoke little, but when he did, the rest followed. He’d risen far for a second son of Oldtown. Too far, Rhaenyra often thought. He spoke with the weight of authority, as though he carried not just the king’s seal but the gods’ judgment. They said that the longer he served as Hand, the more arrogant he became. She did not trust him. Her father did. That was enough reason to be wary. On his chest, a heavy brooch of a golden hand gleamed—his badge of office. Before him, in its holder, rested his own orb, a miniature golden hand around a golden orb.

Beside him sat the Grand Maester, Mellos. His chain of office, a thick, interwoven collar of black iron, red gold, copper, lead, steel, tin, silver, brass, bronze, and platinum, adorned with garnets, amethysts, black pearls, emeralds, and rubies. It covered him from throat to breast, representing every field of study in the Citadel. Rhaenyra remembered the tales of Aegon's demand for a truly learned Archmaester, a man whose chain bespoke vast knowledge, to serve the King of the Seven Kingdoms – the very first Grand Maester. Mellos, however, had never worn a silver link for healing before his ascension to this high office. His advice always came laced in history, precedent, and "proper conduct." Rhaenyra had come to understand that he was less healer and more handler - ever nudging her father toward what the Citadel deemed acceptable. He was pleasant, with soft hands and gentler eyes, but his words were too smooth. He reminded her of a cat that had learned how to speak. Why did they send him instead of someone truly learned in healing arts? she often wondered. Perhaps they preferred a man who whispered caution over one who offered cures, or even one who would steer the King away from difficult truths. She wondered who, in the Conclave, might have suggested such an unqualified maester to serve on the King’s council. A man whose Grand Maester's chain was supposedly a symbol of great learning, yet in his own studies, he had never even mastered the most fundamental link for healing.

The Master of Coin, Lord Lyman Beesbury of Honeyholt, was round and red-cheeked, forever adjusting his collar and muttering about coin tallies. He had served the Old King before her father and took pride in the fact that he had never once altered his ledgers for fashion or favor. To him, extravagance was the enemy of stability. He fretted over every royal expense, resisting proposals not out of spite, but out of sincere belief that the realm's coin was a sacred trust. Rhaenyra found his scruples dull, but respected his constancy. He was a man of habit, not ambition—and that made him honest in a court full of masks.

Lord Lyonel Strong, the Master of Laws, was different. Quiet, deliberate, and possessed of the sort of intellect that measured every word before loosing it. Rhaenyra respected him. There was weight behind his silences, the sense that even his pauses were considered. She had learned that, as a youth, he had studied at the Citadel and earned six links of his chain before deciding that the maester’s life was too narrow a path for him. That blend of scholarship and pragmatism had served him well. He was of House Strong—ancient, riverlander, and little-loved—but Lyonel had earned his seat not through name, but merit. Sometimes, she caught him watching her with a thoughtful look—not unkind, not indulgent, just assessing. Perhaps trying to decide what sort of woman she was becoming.

Lord Harrold Westerling, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, was the only man at the table she felt entirely safe near. His white cloak draped like snow across his broad shoulders, and he carried himself with the weary patience of someone who had seen both too much and not enough. He had been her sworn shield since she was four—long before he took up the white mantle of Lord Commander. Through every misstep and mischief she’d dared in the Red Keep’s shadowed halls, he had been there, stern when needed but never cruel. Rhaenyra thought of him as another kind of father - honorable, solid, and steadfast. He never questioned her presence here. That, she thought, was worth more than a thousand flowery compliments.

Lord Corlys Velaryon, Master of Ships, wore the sea like others wore cloaks—his presence always seemed touched by salt and wind. His dark eyes held the weight of a thousand voyages, and his words were sharp as reefs. Rhaenyra respected him more than most at the table. He was no court flatterer, no craven lord. The Sea Snake had sailed farther than any man in Westeros, his wealth rivaled the crown’s, and his ambitions were carved deep and proud. Some whispered that he had never forgiven the Great Council for passing over Rhaenys and Laenor's claim, but Rhaenyra saw no overt bitterness—only focus. He simply masked his true feelings better than most. They were kin, after all. The blood of Old Valyria ran in his house as it did in hers. House Velaryon had come from the smoking shores long before the Doom, dragonless but proud, and Rhaenyra often thought of them as cousins in fire and salt. Corlys did not worship the Seven, nor bow easily to tradition. That made him dangerous to some, but to Rhaenyra, it made him honest. She watched him closely, and she knew he watched her in turn—not with suspicion, but with calculation. He was always measuring the tide.

They saw a girl with a pitcher. She saw a council of puppets and players, each tugging at threads beneath the crown.

Her father is a man too fond of laughter and too eager for peace. He did not see the traps being laid in smiles and ceremony. Rhaenyra did.

They thought her a child, a vessel for pouring wine. But each meeting taught her the rhythm of rule: the hidden power behind polite refusals, the way ambition wrapped itself in deference, how decisions were disguised as debates.

Power, after all, blooms even in silence.

The air in the Small Council chamber was thick with the scent of parchment, wax, and the faint trace of the king’s wine. As cupbearer, Rhaenyra stood near her father’s side, the flagon in hand, still and listening.

“The Queen is in her final stages of pregnancy,” Viserys said, his voice lilting with cheer. “The Maesters say the babe may come near the end of this season. Gods willing, it shall be a son.”

A pleased murmur circled the table. Rhaenyra said nothing.

“And so,” the king continued, “let there be a tourney. A grand one. Something worthy of the heir who comes. Lances in the Dragonpit. Feasts on the Hill of Rhaenys. Banners from every corner of the realm.”

The council exchanged glances. Plans bloomed in the silence.

Otto Hightower, the king’s Hand, nodded. “With your permission, Your Grace, we might time the event to begin on the eve of Her Grace’s labor. The child’s arrival - timed with fanfare- would make a powerful symbol. One the lords will not soon forget.”

“And if she delivers earlier?” Lord Strong asked mildly, folding his broad hands.

Grand Maester Mellos leaned forward, his voice soft and clipped. “The Queen's progress has been steady. Based on her last confinement and signs noted in recent examinations… end of the next moon is most likely. We may send ravens at once and still allow time for the great lords to travel.”

“The jousts alone will require a full week,” added Lord Corlys, stroking his trimmed beard. “We will need ships prepared, harbours secured. Grain stores replenished. If we're to host the realm, we must not shame the Crown.”

Lord Beesbury, red-faced and fidgeting, grumbled into his collar. “The expense will be... considerable. Lists, pavilions, knights' purses, the feasting—”

“The cost is a gift,” Otto said. “The realm will see the strength of its king, and the promise of a son. Peace is purchased with confidence.”

Viserys smiles broadly and lifts his goblet. “Then it is decided. Let the heralds be readied. The heir shall have his welcome.”

No one looked at Rhaenyra. She poured for her father and moved quietly behind the long table, her eyes drifting from face to face.

Otto, ever composed, already drafting half the invitations in his mind. Lord Beesbury, muttering under his breath and counting coin as if it were breath itself. Lord Strong, unreadable, ever the watchful pillar. Corlys, who carried pride and salt in his blood, already thinking of sails and tides. Mellos, whispering like ivy on old stone.

They spoke of her brother as if he were already born. As if the gods had already passed their blessings. She said nothing. She only watched and listened. Let them crown their tourney with golden hopes. Let them write the songs before they’ve heard the cries. She tightened her grip on the flagon. The wine trembled, just slightly. And in her mind, she whispered a prayer—not to the Seven, but to the gods of Old Valyria, the Fourteen Flames her uncle had spoken of.

That’s when Lord Corlys Velaryon leaned forward, the Sea Snake’s voice cutting through the drift of court politicking. “Your Grace, forgive the shift in topic—but the Stepstones grow bolder. My ships—those bearing the Velaryon sail—have been harried thrice this month. The Triarchy tightens its grip. If we do nothing, trade across the eastern shores of Westeros will bleed. Gold, spice, silks… all jeopardized.”

Otto sniffed lightly, a dismissive wave of his hand accompanying the gesture. “These are pirates, Lord Corlys, not kings. Matters of mere coastal brigandry, hardly requiring the full attention and treasure of the Crown. Your fleets may sail far, but their skirmishes are not the realm’s concern. These are but minor annoyances, not worthy of the King's direct consideration when we await a joyous birth.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes narrowed. There it is again, she thought. The Hand speaking with the King's voice, and the King letting him. But the Stepstones are vital. Every lord in the eastern and western coasts relies on those trade routes, especially those that bring the silks, spices, and precious metals from Essos to Westeros. For Otto to dismiss it so casually... he either truly underestimates the threat, or he has another, hidden motive for keeping the Crown’s eyes away.

But Corlys did not flinch. “When war reaches the docks, it is already too late.”

Viserys looked vaguely troubled, yet noncommittal. “Perhaps we should observe further. We will discuss it more if the pattern continues.”

The meeting concluded. The King, with a final, weary nod, rose from his chair. One by one, the councilors collected their orbs of office, their murmurs fading as they departed, leaving the large, polished table gleaming in the muted light. The great chairs sat vacant, and the only sound left was the soft pop of wood settling in the hearth. Shadows stretched across the stone walls, flickering with the dying firelight. Rhaenyra lingered, as she often did. She liked the silence after the lords had gone—the stillness when the weight of their words no longer hung thick in the air. Here, she could think. Observe. Remember.

Rhaenyra left the council chamber, the echo of heavy doors closing behind her. Her silks whispered with each step, her thoughts still turning over the words spoken and unspoken around the table. She walked a pace ahead, seeking the quiet solitude of the castle’s godswood. The familiar scent of weirwood and damp earth was a balm to her tightly wound nerves. She found a quiet bench near the ancient white tree, its red leaves like bloodied hands, and sat, taking a deep, shuddering breath.

“Princess Rhaenyra?”

The voice, light and hesitant, was a ripple in her sought-after peace. Alicent, she thought, a familiar weariness settling over her. Always Alicent. Like a shadow, always there.

It was Alicent Hightower, her maid, emerging from a nearby archway as if by accident, her presence always a gentle intrusion. Her dress, a modest grey, seemed to melt into the stone. She carried a small, leather-bound Seven-Pointed Star and clasped her hands before her, her posture radiating quiet piety.

“Oh, Princess, there you are!” Alicent exclaimed, her voice bright, stepping forward with the easy familiarity of one who assumed their welcome. “I was hoping to find you. You looked so… serious after the King's audience. Has the weight of court troubled you?” Her brow was furrowed with a practiced concern, genuine enough, yet also bearing that subtle assumption of closeness Rhaenyra found grating. She thinks us friends, Rhaenyra thought, a quiet internal sigh. She is my maid. Her father’s orders. Alicent’s hand reached out, then hesitated, hovering for a moment before dropping back to clutch her Seven-Pointed Star.

“As well as can be, Alicent,” Rhaenyra replied, her voice tinged with a weariness she couldn't quite hide. The godswood, which moments ago offered solace, now felt less private.

Alicent offered a soft, sympathetic smile, gentle and utterly unthreatening. “Sometimes, when the burdens of the world weigh heavy, I find such comfort in the Holy Seven. My Septa always taught me much wisdom. Perhaps if we listen to the gods, our burdens feel lighter, and we find the right path. Do you not find solace in the Mother’s embrace, Princess, or the Father’s justice?”

Rhaenyra’s mouth twitched, but not in amusement. Listen to the gods, she says, Rhaenyra thought. And I do listen. But not for solace. I listen to the whisperings of ambition, the unspoken alliances, the sharp edges hidden beneath polite words. Alicent doesn't understand this. She sees only the surface, believes the world can be ordered by simple virtues and pious proverbs, while I sit and watch the men who truly rule, not by shouting, but by manipulating quiet truths and dismissing inconvenient ones. The words were so... Alicent. So full of the neat, simple pieties that always seemed to slide off the complicated truths of court. They sounded like something a septa would whisper to a child, and perhaps they had, a thousand times, until Alicent had learned them by heart, a rote answer for every complexity.

“Perhaps,” Rhaenyra said, her voice dry, a spark of defiance she couldn’t quite suppress. “Though I find the gods’ understanding of royal politics to be rather lacking.”

A small, quickly stifled laugh escaped Alicent, almost a nervous flutter. She lowered her eyes. “You shouldn’t say such things, Princess. The Seven are always listening. And they are with us, always. We are never truly alone.”

Rhaenyra leaned back against the weirwood, a flicker of irritation passing through her. That’s the problem, she thought. Never truly alone. Her gaze swept from Alicent’s earnest face to the ancient, silent tree. “Are they? Do they listen to every endless argument, every muted fear, every unspoken ambition that fills that room? Or do they only listen to the prayers of those who benefit from their silence?”

Alicent sat on the stone bench beside her, hands folded demurely over the Seven-Pointed Star in her lap. She was always like this—composed, obedient, reciting from the same tired book of wisdom she’d been raised on. The septas had taught her humility, patience, piety. And she wore all three like a second skin. She wasn’t cruel. She wasn’t clever. She was good, and Rhaenyra could not breathe around her. The lavender oil Alicent favored, meant to calm, only seemed to constrict the air around them, replacing the clean scent of damp earth with something cloying and stifling.

“They are seven, Princess,” Alicent murmured, almost like a prayer, her gaze fixed on the leather-bound holy book, “but also one. The Father, the Mother, the Warrior, the Maiden, the Smith, the Crone, and the Stranger… all watch over us. They guide our steps, even when we do not understand their path. We find strength in their holy light.” She looked up, her expression earnest, clearly expecting a nod of agreement, a shared moment of piety.

Rhaenyra offered a polite smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Inside, she recoiled. It was always the same with Alicent—kindness wrapped in scripture, comfort laced with an unspoken demand for conformity. She could never tell if Alicent truly believed the words she spoke, or if she’d simply never learned anything else, never dared to question the narrow path laid out for her. Alicent’s world seemed so perfectly ordered by the Seven, so unburdened by the roaring chaos of dragons and ambition that defined Rhaenyra’s own blood. A Targaryen princess, with magic in her veins and the fire of Valyria in her soul, was not meant to conform to a religion that asked for quiet submission.

“Indeed,” Rhaenyra said, her voice flat, the sarcasm thinly veiled. “The Seven truly are masters of… observation.”

Alicent’s brow creased, a genuine flicker of hurt in her eyes, then a slight blush. She registered the coldness, the dismissal. Her gaze dropped to her clasped hands.

“If you wish for solitude, Princess,” Alicent said, her voice now softer, more subdued, a hint of understanding finally dawning in her eyes that her presence was not desired. “I will leave you to your peace. Perhaps I will walk in the Godswood later. I could wait for you, if you change your mind.”

And then she was gone, her footsteps light and hesitant on the path, leaving only the fading scent of lavender oil and sanctity behind. Rhaenyra leaned her head back against the rough bark of the weirwood tree, closing her eyes. The Seven had never spoken to her. But fire had.

That night, after the Queen's chambers quieted and the last lamps were snuffed, Rhaenyra retreated to her own apartments. The day's tensions still thrummed beneath her skin, a restless energy that would not let her sleep. She dismissed her own maid with a curt nod, craving genuine solitude. The silence of her chamber, broken only by the distant hoot of an owl, was a relief.

She moved to the back of her wardrobe, pushing aside heavy gowns and cloaks. Behind a false panel, a narrow, unlit passage yawned. This was a secret Daemon had shown her years ago, a network of forgotten tunnels beneath the Red Keep, leading to places few knew existed. Her uncle had always had a knack for finding hidden ways, for seeing beyond the obvious. This secret passage and the chamber it led to were known only to Targaryens, a sacred trust passed down through generations. Now, only she and Daemon, when he was in the city, knew of its existence and visited its solemn confines.

After a winding descent, the tunnel opened into a small, circular chamber. This was the shrine, a place known only to Targaryens. It was not as ancient as the fire-kissed shrines beneath Dragonstone, carved into the very rock before the Doom, but it held a similar, potent reverence. It was said Maegor himself, on the orders of Queen Visenya, had constructed this shrine, a space for the old gods of Valyria, before the Seven had fully claimed the Targaryens.

The walls were rough-hewn black stone, untouched by masons' tools, absorbing the lamplight. In the center, three large obsidian braziers stood, cold and empty. Rhaenyra approached the largest, its surface smooth and dark as dragon glass. She reached into a small pouch at her belt, pulling out a pinch of powdered dragonglass and a few polished dragonscales – offerings Daemon had taught her to carry. With a silent prayer, she scattered them into the brazier, then struck a flint, coaxing a small, dancing flame to life. The fire caught, its light flickering across the obsidian, casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to writhe like dragons on the walls.

She knelt before the brazier, the warmth a comforting presence against her skin, the scent of burning dragonglass and the faint, ancient scent of dragonscales filling the small chamber. This was where her true gods resided, not in distant heavens, but in the heart of the world, in fire and blood.

"Arrax, King of Flames, Father of the Eternal Ember," she began, her voice a low murmur, echoing slightly in the confined space. "And Aegarax, Queen of Blood, Mother of the Eternal Ichor. I offer my breath and my hope to you, as my blood is offered to the world. Watch over my mother, Aemma. She carries the hope of our house, the seed of our future. Let her strength not falter."

She paused, envisioning the golden scales of Syrax, the fierce loyalty of her own bond with fire.

"Tyraxes, Goddess of Fertility and Compassion, and Shrykos, Goddess of Beginnings and Transitions," Rhaenyra continued, her voice gaining a quiet intensity. "Guide my mother through the birthing bed. Let the transition be swift, the new beginning joyful. Let the babe come into this world with a strong cry and a full breath."

Her gaze lingered on the dancing flames, a silent plea for easy passage, for a life to emerge whole and vibrant.

"And to you, Balerion, God of Death, of Transformation and Afterlife," Rhaenyra whispered, her voice tinged with both reverence and a plea. "Ruler of the Underworld, stay your hand. Let not your shadow touch my mother, nor the child within her. Grant them passage through this trial, not to the afterlife, but to life. Let them both live."

"Draxtar, God of Life and Creation," she finished, her voice a whisper of desperate hope. "Breathe life into this child. Let this Targaryen come forth under your benevolent eye. Keep them both safe, Mother and babe, under the gaze of the Fourteen Flames."

She remained there for a long time, watching the fire, feeling the ancient magic hum around her. Here, in the dark heart of the castle, surrounded by the echoes of her ancestors and the warmth of fire, Rhaenyra felt a different kind of peace. A Targaryen peace.

Chapter Text

The Small Council Chamber, usually a sanctuary of measured whispers and the scratching of quills, carried a restless hum that morning. Sunlight slanted in through the narrow arched windows, pooling in gold upon the polished table, glinting off the inlaid map of the realm. King Viserys sat at its head, fingers idly tracing the carved dragon heads along the rim, his expression one of distracted contentment. Ser Otto Hightower, the King’s Hand, observed from his right—posture straight, hands folded before him, his eyes sharp and unblinking.

The morning’s business had been an ordinary affair: petitions for minor land grants, tariffs on wine from the Arbor, a request for additional garrison pay in Blackwater Bay. But the rhythm of routine faltered when a sound, faint at first, stole into the chamber. It was no wind off the bay, nor the distant tolling of the Sept’s bells. It grew, a low, throbbing bellow that rolled through the stone like the heartbeat of some ancient beast. Then came the high, keening whistle that set the glass panes trembling in their lead frames.

Every man in the chamber knew it. The call of Caraxes, the blood-red dragon whose long, sinuous neck had earned him the name Blood Wyrm. He had not been heard over King’s Landing for many moons. His return was no small matter.

Some glanced to the windows, as though they might glimpse the great beast’s shadow sweeping over the city. Lord Corlys Velaryon’s lips curved in the faintest of knowing smiles; Lord Beesbury muttered something into his beard and fumbled with his tally sheets; Grand Maester Mellos merely adjusted the heavy chain at his throat and sat back, the links clinking softly.

Prince Daemon Targaryen was home. And Daemon’s returns were never quiet things.

The sound swelled, echoing against the chamber’s high vaults, until at last it faded into the distance. The low, warbling roar was unlike any other—half whistle, half shriek, and all menace.

Lord Corlys Velaryon pushed back his chair and strode to one of the narrow arched windows, his sea-hardened eyes narrowing against the morning glare. “That is Caraxes,” he said with certainty. “And Prince Daemon upon his back. They make for the Dragonpit.”

Lord Lyonel Strong glanced up from his folded hands. “Then perhaps the City Watch will stir from their complacency. The Prince has a way of… sharpening their discipline.”

At the wine table, her fingers rested on the ewer’s handle, and memory stirred. Uncle Daemon never returned from his travels empty-handed. From Qarth, a dagger with a grip carved like coiled dragons; from Lys, a bolt of silk so fine it could be drawn through a ring; from the Stepstones, a string of pearls that caught the sunlight like drops of moonlight. Each gift came with that crooked, knowing grin, as if he dared the court to question why a prince spoiled his niece like a treasured daughter. A year had passed since she had last seen him—far too long.

A year since she had last seen him… yet the memory of him never drifted far. Rhaenyra’s thoughts slipped further back, to six years ago, when she had been only seven. That had been the day her father sent Daemon away from King’s Landing—again. She had trailed after him through the stables and across the yard to the Dragonpit, tears hot on her cheeks, refusing to let him vanish without her. He had swung up into Caraxes’ saddle, all gleaming crimson scale and sinew, and glanced down at her with a sad smile.

“Best dry those tears, dārilaros,” he had told her. “You’ve your own dragon to mind—you can’t follow me where I’m going.”

Syrax. Her golden lady. The egg that Daemon himself had chosen, placed in her cradle within hours of her birth. The Old King had not approved—Jaehaerys’s sharp words still echoed in her memory, though she had only heard them retold later. Even a mere lord and lady, son and daughter of Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys, were given eggs, Daemon had argued before the Iron Throne. Why should the daughter of the firstborn son of the heir to the Iron Throne be denied? It was said the Old King had grumbled long and loud… but when the egg cracked and the hatchling unfurled in her swaddling clothes, he had not taken it away.

From that day forth, Syrax had been hers.

Her first flight had come the day Daemon left. She had stood in the shadow of the Dragonpit, watching Caraxes leap skyward in a spray of red wings, the wind of his passage tugging at her hair. She had not thought, only acted—running to Syrax’s stall, clambering onto the young dragon’s back with the heedless determination of a child. Syrax, scarcely grown enough for the weight of a rider, had answered her will with a roar and launched into the sky. The city shrank beneath them, rooftops and spires blurring as they chased the great red shadow over the Blackwater.

Caraxes was too fast, too strong, but Daemon had seen them coming. He slowed his mount, guiding them into formation, his face unreadable as the tiny golden dragon fought to keep pace. When the chase faltered and the wind began to buffet her, he circled back, bringing Caraxes alongside Syrax and guiding her down with steady hand signals and shouted commands that cut through the wind.

Her father had been both proud and furious when she landed—the youngest dragonrider in living memory, perhaps ever. Her mother had been pale with fear, clutching her as if she had nearly been lost. And Daemon… Daemon had been proud and touched in equal measure, telling her she had “flown like a true daughter of fire” and that Syrax had “chosen well.” She had glowed under his praise, the memory of it still warming her even now.

The roar of Caraxes faded into the distance, pulling Rhaenyra back from the sunlit memory to the cool, stone-bound air of the council chamber. The room’s murmurs resumed, the great red shadow already gone from the windows.

The council shifted back to its final notes of business—half-hearted talk of port fees and patrol schedules—before the meeting unraveled entirely. Lords gathered their cloaks, their orbs, the sound of chairs scraping against stone echoing under the chamber’s high arches.

Rhaenyra lingered only long enough to set the wine jug back in its place, her steps unhurried as she left the chamber. With no clear destination, she wandered the familiar corridors of the Red Keep, her hand brushing the cool stone of the walls. The light from the high windows dimmed as she passed beneath the vaulted shadows, and the echo of her own footfalls guided her toward the grand hall.

The Iron Throne rose from the dais like a jagged mountain of frozen flame, its black and silver blades catching the pale afternoon light. Forged from the swords of Aegon’s vanquished foes, its edges were uneven, cruel—blades bent and twisted until they formed a throne meant to wound as much as to support. The air here always felt colder, as if the steel itself remembered the heat of conquest and resented its cooling.

And at its base stood Daemon Targaryen.

He turned at the sound of her approach, his hair unbound, his travel leathers marked by salt and soot. The faint scent of dragon lingered about him—smoke and hot stone, an unshakable reminder of the beast he rode.

“Dārilaros,” he greeted in their mother tongue, the syllables warm despite the steel around them.

“Kepus,” she returned, her tone light.

His gaze lingered on her a moment before one corner of his mouth tilted upward. “You’ve grown since I last saw you.”

She arched a brow. “And you’ve collected more ash.”

A quiet chuckle passed between them, the kind reserved for those who needed no formalities.

From a pouch at his belt, Daemon drew something wrapped in dark cloth. “I thought this might suit you.”

The cloth fell away to reveal a necklace of black Valyrian steel, each link shaped like the scaled segment of a dragon’s spine. At its center, a dragon’s head reared, eyes set with rubies that caught the light like twin embers. The metal seemed to drink the air around it, holding a faint, otherworldly gleam that was neither gold nor silver but something older—alive in a way no common steel could be.

“Forged in Old Valyria,” Daemon said, his voice low, shifting to their mother tongue, as though the words themselves carried weight. “I found it in my travels. The man who sold it swore it was taken from the ruins before the Doom. Wear it close, and it will help you remember.”

She regarded it with a faint, unreadable smile, stepping forward to let him fasten it around her neck. The metal was cool at first touch, then seemed to warm against her skin.

“What am I to remember?” she asked in the same language. As is their habit when speaking.

“That your blood runs hotter than most,” he replied, his hands falling away. “And that fire belongs to you.”

She touched the dragon’s head lightly, feeling the weight settle there—not just of the steel, but of something older, something carried across the sea long before either of them had been born.

“Come,” he said then, glancing toward the corridor. “We should see your mother before the court swallows us whole.”

And together they left the hall, the jagged shadow of the Iron Throne stretching long behind them.

They found Queen Aemma in her solar, the soft autumn light spilling through the tall windows onto a scatter of embroidery silks and parchments. A thin fire crackled in the hearth, carrying the scent of dried lavender. She looked up as the door opened, and Rhaenyra’s grin came first.

“Look what the dragon dragged in,” she announced, stepping aside to reveal her uncle behind her.

Aemma’s face lit with a mix of surprise and delight. “Daemon!” She rose—carefully, with the weight of her pregnancy—and extended her arms. “Gods, it’s been too long.”

He crossed the room in a few long strides, bowing only enough to keep it from being mockery before taking her hands. “Sister,” he greeted warmly. “Still radiant as ever, though I see you’ve been busy.”

Aemma laughed, giving his hands a squeeze. “And you still have soot in your hair. Tell me, do you ever wash it, or is dragonfire your only bath?”

Rhaenyra smirked at the exchange, slipping onto the cushioned bench by the hearth. “I told him the same thing in the throne room. You should have seen him—looked like he flew through a chimney just to get here.”

Daemon cast her a sidelong glance, feigning a scowl. “Careful, dārilaros, or I’ll keep your next gift for myself.”

“Oh?” Aemma arched a brow. “And what have you been bringing my daughter?”

Rhaenyra lifted the Valyrian steel necklace from her collar just enough for the firelight to catch on the rubies. “Something from Old Valyria,” she said, her tone equal parts pride and mischief. “I think he’s trying to outshine my dragon.”

Aemma leaned forward to admire it, her eyes widening slightly at the gleam of the black metal. “Seven save us, Daemon, where do you even find such things?”

“Far from Oldtown’s markets, I assure you,” he replied, a ghost of a grin tugging at his lips. “Essos has its secrets, and a few of them still find their way to me.”

For a while they talked of his travels—of Tyroshi merchants with hair like bright coral, of feasts in Myr that stretched until dawn, of duels in the shadow of Volantene towers. Rhaenyra drank in every word, laughing when Daemon exaggerated a detail or made a sly jest at some pompous prince he had met abroad.

“And you?” Daemon asked at last, his gaze softening as it dropped to Aemma’s rounded belly. “How fares my nephew… or niece?”

“Well enough,” Aemma said, resting a hand over the swell. “The maesters say all is as it should be. But you’ll have to wait to know whether you’re an uncle to a boy or a girl.”

Rhaenyra leaned back, eyes bright. “If it’s a boy, I’ll have to train him myself—else he’ll end up like Father, more at home with a goblet than a sword.”

“Careful,” Aemma chided, though her smile betrayed her amusement. “You’ll start another rumor in the court.”

Daemon chuckled low. “If it’s a girl, perhaps she’ll ride a dragon before her tenth nameday, like her sister. Then we’ll see if Viserys tries to stop her.”

They lingered in that warm, easy space until the sun had shifted lower, throwing golden light across the solar floor. At last, Daemon rose, buckling his sword belt once more.

“I should see what my gold cloaks have been up to while I’ve been gone,” he said, glancing toward the door. “No doubt they’ve grown soft without me.”

Aemma gave him one last smile, and Rhaenyra followed him a few steps toward the corridor before breaking off. “Don’t cause too much trouble,” she called after him.

“No promises,” he answered, without turning back.

And then he was gone, his boots fading down the hall, leaving behind the scent of smoke and salt and the echo of laughter in the Queen’s solar.

They had barely settled again into easy talk when the solar door swung open. King Viserys stepped inside, the sunlight catching in his silver hair, his cheeks still flushed from the walk up from the throne room. His eyes went first to Aemma, softening with that familiar mixture of pride and worry.

“The maesters tell me it’s a boy,” he said with a smile meant to be reassuring, though his voice held a note of almost boyish excitement.

Aemma arched a brow. “The maesters have told me that before,” she said wryly.

Viserys chuckled and came closer, lowering himself into the chair opposite her. Then, almost as if forgetting the others were in the room, his gaze drifted to some distant point beyond the window.

“I dreamt again last night,” he said, half to himself.

Aemma’s hands stilled in her lap. Rhaenyra turned her head toward him but did not speak.

“It was clearer than a memory,” Viserys continued. “Our son… was born wearing Aegon’s iron crown. I heard the thunder of hooves, the clash of swords. I placed him upon the Iron Throne as the bells of the Grand Sept tolled, and all the dragons roared as one.”

Silence followed, save for the faint pop of the hearth fire.

Rhaenyra watched her father, studying the way his eyes glistened faintly, how he seemed almost transported by the vision. Dreams meant something to her—had always meant something in her blood—but she had learned not to share that truth with the wrong ears. She wondered if her father’s dream was a blessing or a curse, and whether the crown in it weighed as heavily on the boy’s brow as it did in the waking world.

Viserys blinked and seemed to return to himself, forcing a smile for Aemma’s sake. “Rest, my love. We’ll have much to celebrate soon.”

Rhaenyra stayed only a little longer, until her father’s talk turned to the tourney and the arrangements for the lists. She excused herself quietly, slipping into the cool, dim corridors of the Red Keep.

Rhaenyra slipped back to her chambers, the corridors quiet save for the soft murmur of servants somewhere distant. Inside, the air smelled faintly of lavender from her maid’s earlier fussing. She crossed to her wardrobe, fingers trailing over the carved dragon motifs, and pushed aside the row of gowns until her hand found the small catch hidden in the back panel. The wood shifted with a muted scrape, revealing the narrow, dark mouth of the passage.

A single oil lamp lit her way as she descended, the air growing cooler, touched with the mineral tang of stone long sealed from the wind. She had only ever learned this one path through the secret ways—shown to her by Daemon when she was younger. It led here, always here.

The passage opened into the shrine, its walls rough-hewn black stone that swallowed the lamplight. Obsidian dragons coiled in relief along the curved walls, their shadows writhing like things alive. Three great braziers of polished dragonglass stood silent at the center, their dark mouths yawning cold and empty.

Daemon was already there. He stood with his back half-turned, firelight from a single torch catching in the planes of his face. His coat hung unfastened, his hair tousled from the night air, Dark Sister slung carelessly at his hip. With a glance over his shoulder: “Are you following me now?”

“I could ask the same,” she said, stepping inside. “I thought this place was sacred.”

“It is. That’s why I come here—to breathe without being strangled by septons, smallfolk, or Ser Otto’s eyes.”

“So… coincidence?”

“Fate.” His mouth curved—not the sly smirk he wore in court, but something gentler.

“Fate.” His smile was crooked, but softer than his usual smirk.

She settled cross-legged near the largest brazier, its obsidian lip smooth beneath her fingers. “Do you believe dreams matter, kepus?”

His brows arched. “Strange question for you to ask. What prompted it?”

“My father,” she murmured after a pause. “He has been dreaming again.”

Daemon stilled.

“He sees a son born wearing Aegon’s crown, set upon the Iron Throne as the bells of the sept toll. He hears hooves, swords, dragons roaring as one…” Her words trailed into the silence.

Daemon’s gaze sank to the brazier. Inwardly, he thought of Daenys, whose vision had saved their blood from the Doom. Of Aegon, who had seen something darker still, enough to bind a realm of kings beneath dragonfire. Dreams had carried their line through fire and shadow before—warnings carved in smoke and ash.

Always dreams. Always fire. Always warnings.

“Our dreams aren’t promises, dārilaros,” he said at last. “They’re not crowns to be claimed, nor songs to be sung. They are fire given form—gods’ way of warning their chosen. Not for glory. For survival.”

Her eyes searched his. “You believe the gods send them?”

“Which gods?”

“Not the Seven,” she said quietly.

“No.” He shook his head, a shadow in his eyes. “The Seven give empty prayers and stuffed tombs. The Old Gods… greensight, skinchangers. Magic rooted in soil and bone. The Rhoynar had water-sorcery, rivers that answered their call. The Red God offers visions in flame. Even the Faceless One—death and masks. All gifts, of a kind.”

“And us?” she pressed, voice softer still. “What do we Valyrians have?”

“Dragons. Dreams. Fire in our blood.” His voice lowered, almost reverent. “We were never promised peace, Rhaenyra. Only power—and the burden of foresight.”

“So we’re chosen?”

Daemon’s eyes burned in the half-light. He shook his head. “No. We’re warned. And the warnings are always of doom.”

The silence stretched, broken only by the faint crackle of the torch. Rhaenyra drew a small pouch from her belt. She scattered powdered dragonglass and polished scales into the brazier, then struck flint until a flame caught. Fire leapt, dancing across the black stone, shadows of dragons rippling around them.

She knelt, bowing her head, the scent of burning dragonglass sharp and ancient in her lungs. This was where her true gods resided—not in marble septs, but here, in fire and blood.

Daemon did not kneel. He stood with one hand resting lightly on Dark Sister’s hilt, eyes half-closed, as though listening to something only he could hear. Neither prayed to the Seven. Their gods needed no temples—only flame.

At last, she looked up at him. “Good night, kepus.”

He inclined his head, the faintest ghost of a smile touching his lips. “Good night, dārilaros.”

He turned first, the folds of his cloak slipping into shadow as he vanished into the passage. For a heartbeat, he paused, the brazier’s flickering glow reflected in his eyes.

For a fleeting moment, he wondered what warning Viserys’s dream carried—what shadow crept just beyond its crown and thunder. But he did not say it aloud. Some truths, even spoken between kin, were too heavy for the night.

Rhaenyra lingered. She let her gaze sink into the flames until the chamber seemed to fall away. The fire breathed and shifted, and for an instant she thought she saw shapes moving within—wings unfurling, towers toppling, shadows rising like smoke. The sight made her heart quicken, yet when she blinked, it was gone, only fire again.

Still, the unease clung to her, curling deep in her chest like a coal that would not cool. She could not name what she’d seen, only feel the strange certainty that the fire was not just warmth, but warning.

At last, she drew a sharp breath and followed into the passage. The shrine fell silent behind her, the braziers’ flames burning on alone, their warnings unspoken but waiting.

Chapter Text

The morning light slanted pale and thin through the high windows of the Small Council chamber, catching in the dust motes that drifted above the long oak table. Wax ran in slow rivulets down the stubs of candles burned overnight, their smell still clinging to the stone.

Rhaenyra stood as she always did, in her place against the wall with the silver flagon in her hands, her wrists aching from its weight. When Viserys shifted on his chair at the head of the table, she moved forward to pour his cup before retreating back into shadow. None of the men spared her more than a glance—except her uncle, lounging as though the chamber were his hall, one leg thrown carelessly over the other, Dark Sister propped against the table edge.

Lord Beesbury was already droning, his soft voice like a quill scratching against parchment.
“The lists for the tourney will require an additional three thousand gold dragons at the least, Your Grace. The grounds must be leveled, the tilts raised anew, and the prize purses—well, a tourney without rich purses draws only hedge knights and poachers, and the King’s Heir deserves more fitting champions.”

Viserys smiled vaguely at that, as though the expense were already half-paid.

Grand Maester Mellos cleared his throat with ponderous gravity. “Might I again counsel moderation, Your Grace? The queen’s condition requires—rest, serenity. Such excitements, such clamor—”

“The child will be strong,” Viserys said, brushing him aside with a flap of his hand. “A little cheer will do no harm.”

Otto Hightower seized the pause to lean forward, fingers steepled. “If cheer is wanted, then perhaps order is the greater need. The streets have grown—troubled—since His Highness’ absence from the Watch. Cutpurses abound in the markets, three murders in Flea Bottom this fortnight, and worse whispered still. King’s Landing cannot be left to fester, not with half the realm soon descending upon us for the tourney.”

Daemon’s smile sharpened like a drawn blade. He had not spoken, not yet, letting his brother’s Hand paint the picture. Now he stirred, lazily. “A sorry state, if three murders and a handful of cutpurses sends the council into prayer. The Watch has too few men, too little coin, and too many old women whispering in their ears. You starved them, Otto, and now you feign surprise when the dogs do not bite.”

The Hand’s jaw tightened. “The Watch requires a steady hand, Your Grace. Ser Gwayne—”

“Ser Gwayne?” Daemon’s laugh was quick and sharp. “A boy knight of two-and-twenty, more used to tilting at quintains than cutthroats in the alleys? Will he chase footpads with his mother’s blessing and a prayer to the Seven?” His voice grew soft, amused. “He would piss his greaves before the night was through.”

The scrape of Viserys shifting in his chair cut through the sudden silence. His eyes moved from his Hand to his brother, weariness already in the lines of his face. “Daemon. You will resume your post as Lord Commander of the City Watch. See that King’s Landing is ready for our guests. The realm must know the crown keeps order.”

Daemon dipped his head in mock solemnity. “As you command, brother. The gold cloaks will shine brighter than the sun.”

Rhaenyra saw how he smiled—wolfish, dangerous—and how the men at the table shifted under it. They looked at her father and saw a genial king to be coaxed and managed. They looked at her uncle and saw something else entirely: a man who did not beg their approval, who took it.

It was Corlys Velaryon who spoke next, his deep voice like the sea itself. “Reports from my captains say the Stepstones grow thick with pirates once more. They raid as far as the Stormlands’ shores, striking at fisherfolk and merchant cogs alike. If left unchecked, they will choke the narrow sea.”

Viserys sighed, as though such matters were dull irritations beside his dreams of tourneys and sons. He waved Beesbury to tally coin, Mellos to prepare his leeching jars, Otto to fret about the Faith, Corlys to guard the seas—and Daemon to guard the city.

And so the meeting ended, its burdens parceled out in words and sighs. Only Daemon rose with any vigor, sweeping Dark Sister to his hip as he passed Rhaenyra’s corner. His hand brushed the table edge, his gaze cutting briefly to her. A flicker of a smile. Then he was gone, and the room seemed smaller without him.

Daemon left the council chamber with Dark Sister at his hip, the steel whispering in its scabbard as he walked. The corridors of the Red Keep were hushed at this hour, servants bowing their heads as he passed. He did not turn toward the outer gates, but instead toward his own chambers.

Inside, the air smelled faintly of oil and leather. A squire rose quickly from his stool as Daemon entered, but the prince brushed him aside and unbuckled his cloak himself, tossing the soft velvet aside. From a chest bound in iron he drew another garment: a heavy cloak of cloth-of-gold, its edges trimmed in black and crimson. On the back, stitched large and proud, spread the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, picked out in threads as red as fresh-spilled blood.

He fastened it at his shoulders, the weight of it settling across him like armor, and regarded himself a moment in the polished bronze disk that served him as a mirror. Not a courtier now. Not a prince sipping wine while Hightowers whispered. No—this was the Commander of the Watch.

Daemon pushed open the chamber doors and strode out. Courtiers in the Red Keep stepped aside at the sight of him, their whispers following him like incense smoke: the prince has taken the gold once more.

By the time he crossed the city and strode through the gates of the Watch barracks, word had already flown ahead of him: Daemon was returned.

The yard erupted at the sight. Spears clattered against shields, boots stamped, rough voices raised in a roar that rolled through the stone like thunder. Torchlight flickered over mail and helm, and men cheered as though a king had come among them.

Daemon let them howl, his smile sharp as a blade. He had made them once, raising beggars and brawlers into gold-cloaked soldiers, and they had not forgotten.

Through the crowd came two figures, cutting a path to him.

The first was a mountain of a man, shoulders as broad as a barn door, a scar running down one cheek like a white river. Ser Luthor Largent bent his knee in mock ceremony, grinning up like a boy before his hero. “Your lads missed you, my prince. Near starved without a scrap of blood.”

The second, slighter but with an easy strength in the way he carried himself, inclined his head more formally. Ser Harwin Strong, son of the Master of Laws, had his father’s blunt features but a quicker smile. “We’ve kept the watchfires lit, but it has not been easy. The Hand would have had us bow to Oldtown.”

Daemon’s eyes narrowed. “Spies?”

“Half the yard sniffed with Hightower stench by the end,” Harwin said. “Clerks in the pay ledgers, stewards planted to watch our stores. Men set to report every loose word back to the Hand’s tower. All swept out now.”

“And his son?” Daemon asked.

Luthor spat into the dirt. “Ser Gwayne, they would have made him our commander. Green boy. Never dirtied his sword but in practice. Thought to ride in here and command men who’ve bled in the alleys. Didn’t last a week.”

Harwin’s smile thinned. “The Watch knows its commander, my prince. My father spoke it plainly at council—Otto tried, but the king would not move him against you. We stand with you.”

Daemon’s smirk tugged wider. “As well you should.”

Inside, the captain’s chamber was stacked with ledgers and rolls of parchment. Daemon thumbed through them quickly, his jaw tightening with every page. No new recruits. Rusting helms. Pay shorted, drills left untended. The Watch had been bled to stagnation.

“So Otto starves the dog, then wonders when it forgets how to bite,” Daemon muttered, snapping a ledger shut.

Harwin leaned over the table. “Funds siphoned. Coin cut off. We had no chance to grow.”

Daemon drew a pouch from his belt and tossed it on the table. The sound of heavy gold filled the room. “My coin, then. New steel, new helms. Armourers and fletchers will work through the night. The Watch wears gold, not rust.”

That very night, he chose a dozen sharp-eyed men and sent them into the city’s bowels—dockside taverns, market stalls, brothels, and septs. “Bring me whispers,” he told them. “From highborn halls to gutter alleys. The law wears gold. The city is ours to guard.”

Within days the yard was alive again. Men marched until their boots split, sparred until knuckles split, drilled until they dropped. Daemon strode among them in his gold cloak, the red dragon bright across his back, striking with the flat of Dark Sister, cursing, laughing, goading them harder.

Two weeks later, the yard blazed with torchlight. Rows of gold cloaks stood in formation, helms polished, spears straight, the crimson dragon blazing on their commander’s back. They had drilled till their arms shook, run until their lungs burned. Now they were leaner, harder, sharper—and waiting.

Daemon stepped forward. Silence rippled through the ranks. His voice carried across the yard, iron-strong.

“They call us curs. They call us brutes. Perhaps we are. But every cur has teeth, and every brute a fist. You are more than that. You are the Watch. The gold cloak is no license to swagger, no excuse for theft. It is duty. To your city. To your brothers. To your wives and children who walk these streets by night.”

The men’s spines stiffened, eyes fixed on him.

“You will not drink for free in alehouses. You will not shake down fishwives. You will not shame your cloak with petty theft. The butcher who cheats a widow, the knight who thinks himself above the law, the priest who sins behind closed doors—you will drag them all before me. No man, highborn or baseborn, is above the gold.”

He paused, letting the words settle, then raised his voice to a roar.

“You will be feared, aye. Let them quake when gold cloaks march. But let them respect you too. Let them know the Watch is iron in defense, fire in battle, and justice in the dark. This city is ours, and we shall make it worthy of a king!”

The roar that answered shook the rafters, spears hammering against shields in thunderous rhythm.

Daemon smiled, crimson dragon blazing on his back. The city would remember this night.

The yard still trembled from the echo of spears against shields, the rafters ringing with the thunderous roar of men bound together in gold and iron. Daemon did not dismiss them. Instead, he mounted his black courser, gold cloak gleaming in torchlight, Dark Sister steady at his hip.

“Tonight,” he said, his voice cutting through the silence like a drawn blade, “you march.”

King’s Landing had always stank, but that night the stench changed. Not piss, nor wine, nor the butcher’s refuse, but the smell of fear. The gold cloaks poured from the barracks like molten metal, torches flickering against the dark. Windows slammed shut along the Street of Seeds, prayers whispered in septs, mothers clutching children to their breasts. Word spread faster than their boots: the Prince of the City was loosed.

They struck first at the Sept of Sweet Mercy in Cobbler’s Square. What they found shamed the very stones. Septon Othric, plump from feasting, kept children in filth—bellies bloated, bones sharp beneath skin. Boys and girls bore bruises no septon should ever leave. A cellar of strongwine stood where bread should have been. Chains closed on Othric’s wrists as he shrieked to the Seven, but no god came to answer.

From there, Daemon led them to Muddy Way, to the manse of Ser Benys Flowers, bastard nephew to House Footly. Below his hearth lay cages. Children with hollow eyes clutched rusted bars, some too weak even to cry. Shackles and racks told the rest of the tale. Benys was dragged into the street naked save for his shame, while his cousins were beaten senseless for raising blades in his defense.

On Iron Key Lane, the sons of Ser Raymund Bulwer, drunk and laughing in a winesink, were seized by the cloaks. Their ledgers lay open at home: lists of orphans sold to Tyroshi slavers, tallied neat as cattle. Silver from Lys lay stacked in coffers beside them. The cloaks kicked the coffers into the street, where the coins spilled like blood.

Nor was the rot confined to men of noble blood. At the hospice on Candle Lane, Maester Arrant withheld milk of the poppy and feverfew from the sick unless silver crossed his palm. His apprentices had learned well, charging for even willowbark water. When the cloaks overturned his chest, coin clattered across the flagstones, bought with the suffering of the poor.

Further down the Street of Sisters, Ser Tyland Roxton of a cadet Reach branch kept women chained in his cellar, their backs scored by whips, their tongues cut to silence their screams. In his study lay ledgers of flesh—names crossed out as though they were no more than debts paid.

On Fishmonger’s Square, Ser Harlon Cuy, heir to a lesser branch of House Cuy, was taken from his hall with two bodies rotting in his midden: servants slain for daring to flee his lusts.

In the alleys of Pisswater Bend, they found darker still. A butcher’s shop, shuttered by night, reeked of rot. Inside hung not swine but children, skinned like carcasses, their flesh salted and stored in barrels. The butcher, a hedge knight named Symond Slake, confessed under the lash that he had sold pies of man’s flesh in Flea Bottom, “for coin, and for sport.” His head was struck off before the crowd.

On Ratcatcher’s Wynd, the cloaks seized a band of rapers still slick with their prey’s blood. Daemon gave no word but gesture—steel took their manhoods, torches cauterized the stumps. Their screams echoed up the hill, loud enough for the Red Keep itself to hear.

By dawn, King’s Landing reeled. Two carts creaked up the Hill of Rhaenys, piled high with severed hands, gelded flesh, and heads dangling by hair. Blood dripped from the axles onto the cobbles. Behind came another train: nobles, septons, and maesters shackled and chained, their names enough to rattle the court though not great enough to be untouchable.

The common folk whispered that the gods themselves had walked the city, scourging wickedness from its bones. Others swore it was the Devil’s son, cloaked in gold and crimson, whose fire cleansed with blood.

Daemon Targaryen only called it justice.

The first light of dawn spilled pale over the city when the reports came to the Tower of the Hand. Messengers near breathless, spattered with mud, spoke of a night of blood — of bodies hauled in carts, of the gold cloaks dragging highborn heirs and septons from their beds, of Dark Sister flashing crimson in the torchlight.

“Judge, jury, and executioner,” Otto muttered, the words sour and hot on his tongue. A reckless brother made the easiest enemy. If Daemon had truly slain noble sons and holy men without trial, the king would have no choice but to cast him down. The Seven themselves could not shield such excess.

He wasted no time dressing for dignity, striding instead in his night-robe toward Maegor’s Holdfast, where the king’s chambers lay. At the guarded doors, Ser Harrold Westerling crossed his sword to bar the way.

“The king still sleeps, Lord Hand.” The Lord Commander’s voice was calm, steady as stone. “If your tidings are grave, they will be graver still when His Grace wakes refreshed.”

Otto’s temper flared. “Refreshed? Daemon has butchered half the city in the king’s name. Noble heirs, men sworn to the cloth, even learned maesters — their blood stains the gutters. Will you stand idle while treason crowns itself in the dark?”

Ser Harrold’s jaw tightened, but he did not yield. “The Kingsguard serves the king, not his Hand. I hear no horns of treason, see no banners raised. If you mean to rouse His Grace, do it with words, not by shoving past his sworn shield.”

“You speak of duty as if it were a shield against consequence,” Otto snapped. “But if Daemon now rules the streets with sword and gallows, how long before he rules the throne? Will you guard a sleeping king while his crown is usurped?”

The White Bull’s eyes narrowed. “If Daemon Targaryen aims at usurpation, he will first have to walk through my steel — and through every white cloak sworn. But I’ll not break my oath to spare you a wait.”

Otto trembled with frustration, but before he could retort, the door creaked open. A sleepy page peeked through. “His Grace is risen.”

Otto swept past at once, cloak snapping.

Within, Viserys sat at table, hair uncombed, robe half-fastened, staring dully into a cup of watered wine. Queen Aemma was nearby, pale but smiling faintly as she touched the swell of her belly.

Otto bent low, speaking quick and sharp. “Your Grace — the city ran red last night. Prince Daemon set himself judge and executioner. Noble heirs of the Reach, septons sworn to the Mother’s mercy, and even maesters of the Citadel — all cut down, butchered without trial. He stains the crown with blood and calls it justice.”

Viserys blinked, weariness creasing into a frown. “Butchered…? Daemon is my brother, not some butcher of Flea Bottom.”

“He is both, this morning,” Otto pressed, voice rising. “The realm will not suffer a king who cannot rule his own blood. You must denounce him — now — before the court.”

Viserys set the cup down hard. “The council may hear it. We’ll settle this matter as lords and counselors, not with spectacle.”

“That will not suffice,” Otto cut in, seizing the moment. “Word spreads faster than truth. Already they whisper that the crown slays noble sons in their beds. If you do not summon him before all — openly, in the sight of lords and smallfolk alike — it will be said you conspired in his murders. The people will not be soothed by closed doors. They must see you stand apart from this savagery.”

Viserys’s hand hovered over the table, torn between outrage and doubt. Aemma shifted uneasily, but said nothing.

At last, the king sighed, deep and heavy. “Very well. Call a court. Let my brother answer these charges in the sight of all.”

Otto bowed, satisfaction flashing in his eyes before he could school his face. “As you command, Your Grace.”

The wind of her flight still clung to her when Rhaenyra returned to her chambers. Syrax’s heat lingered on her skin, her hair tangling from the rush of sky. She had just stripped off her flying leathers when a heavy rap struck her door.

A Kingsguard in white stood there, helm tucked beneath his arm, his face so like his brother’s it made her pause.

“Princess,” he said with a bow. “You are summoned to court.”

She arched a brow. “Which of you are you? Erryk, or Arryk?”

“Erryk, Your Grace.” His tone carried the faintest trace of weariness, as if he’d answered that question more times than he wished.

“Hmm,” she mused, not wholly convinced. How is one meant to tell them apart? Perhaps they swap duties for sport.

Rhaenyra inclined her head. “Please tell His Grace I shall be ready at once, ser. Wait outside.” The knight bowed and withdrew, leaving her to the quiet of her chambers. She stripped the dust of flight from her skin and donned courtly finery instead — deep crimson silk with a fall of black, her hair bound in a braid of gold and silver thread. No sooner had she fastened her girdle than she stepped out, where the white knight stood waiting, helm in hand. Only then did she follow him into the winding halls of the Red Keep, her thoughts turning. A summons at dawn… this is no wedding pact, no frivolous hearing. Something festers, and Father means to lance it before it rots further.

The throne room was already filling when she arrived. Nobles pressed in from every quarter: Blackwoods and Brackens, Stokeworths and Rosbys, even the sons and nephews of greater lords sent as envoys to keep watch on the king’s peace. Yet why gather them here? This is no matter of border disputes or feudal squabbles. Why should they be made to witness?

Rhaenyra slipped past the crowd, climbing the steps of the dais where the Iron Throne loomed like a black mountain of blades. At its side sat her mother, Queen Aemma, pale but steady, and Rhaenyra took her place beside her. Below them, ranged across the lower steps, the small council had assembled in their appointed chairs. Beneath them still, at the foot of the hall, the press of courtiers and kin of lords filled the floor — a tiered sea of eyes waiting for justice to be shown.

The herald’s voice rang out, cutting the murmurs.

“Viserys of House Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.”

The king entered slowly, climbing to the twisted sprawl of iron above. His crown gleamed, his face weary but proud.

As soon as he was seated, Otto Hightower stepped forth, bowing shallowly. His voice rose sharp and sure, pitched for scandal.

“Your Grace, I come bearing tidings most foul. Last night your brother, Prince Daemon, acting as judge, jury, and executioner, slew noble heirs, men of the Citadel, and septons of the Faith — butchered in alleys and dragged from cloisters, denied trial, denied judgment by crown or council. He has made himself tyrant beneath your very nose.”

A ripple of shock coursed through the hall. Rhaenyra felt her jaw tighten. Always the same. Otto’s tongue, quick as a lash. Does he salivate at every chance to drag Daemon down?

The doors groaned open, and Daemon entered at last, clad in his golden cloak trimmed with crimson, Dark Sister at his hip. He did not bow low, but dipped his head toward his brother on the throne. His eyes, though, found Otto first.

“You speak boldly, Ser Otto,” he said, voice smooth as oil. The faint stress on Ser drew gasps. “But you mistake me. I did not butcher. I dispensed justice.”

“You dare—” Otto began, but Daemon’s gaze cut him short.

“In my station as Lord Commander of the City Watch,” Daemon said, his voice measured but unbending, “and as a prince of the blood, I acted within my rights. Ask any maester or man learned in law, and they will tell you the same.”

Lord Lyonel Strong inclined his heavy head. “The ordinances of King Jaehaerys grant the Watch commander authority near equal to a justicar of the crown. He is within his rights to judge and dispense justice upon common crimes — theft, murder, and rape. Yet such rights do not extend to the highborn, nor to the sworn servants of Faith or Citadel.”

Otto seized the pause. “Yet he slew them all! Nobles, septons, maesters — butchered without trial, their corpses stinking in the gutters!”

“Not so, my lord Hand,” Lyonel answered gravely, turning to the king. “For though a commander may not claim right over highborn blood, a prince of the blood royal may dispose of any who threaten the king’s peace. In this, Prince Daemon stands doubly cloaked in law.”

Daemon’s lips curved faintly. “Yes. And even if I had taken their heads, I would stand within my rights, as the lord Hand himself has said — a prince of the blood defending his king’s peace. Yet I did not. They live still, rotting not in gutters but in cells, awaiting trial. And since this court is summoned, and as the King himself sits the Iron Throne, let the matter be settled here and now. Let me bring them forth, and let proof of their crimes be heard, so that true justice may be done.”

Whispers surged through the court. Rhaenyra caught her mother’s tight glance — and felt her pulse quicken. There it is. He’s saved the sword’s edge for last — the blow that will undo Otto’s venom.

Otto spat, “Lies. They are corpses rotting in Flea Bottom, and you stand here smug on the blood.”

Daemon’s voice dropped to a blade’s edge. “Ser Otto, I will suffer no further slander upon my station, nor upon my blood. If you name me murderer, bring proof — or hold your tongue.”

The storm of voices rose — shock, outrage, disbelief — until Viserys raised a hand. “Then let us have done with whispers. Bring forth the accused.”

The great doors groaned open, and the first shackled figures were dragged into the hall. Chains clinked against the marble floor, and the hush that fell was thick enough to smother breath.

Daemon stepped forward, cloak blazing crimson and gold, his voice cutting the silence.

“Septon Othric,” Daemon called, voice like a herald of doom. “Sworn to the Mother’s mercy, yet you wielded chains upon children. Witnesses found the orphans beaten, broken, and worse.” He gestured, and two ragged boys were pushed forward by goldcloaks, their scars plain. Murmurs swelled in the hall. “Here are his charges, written in the ledgers of his own sept. Grain and wine gifted for the poor—diverted to his cellars.”

The High Septon paled, then slowly raised a trembling hand. “I renounce him. No man of the Faith may walk so foul.” Gasps followed.

The next, a thin man with rheumy eyes, Prior Aleric of the Lantern Sept, shuffled forward. Daemon unrolled a parchment. “Relics of the Seven, sold for coin. False bones of saints, false blessings, coin demanded for confession, for marriage, for burial of the dead. Even the poorest widow robbed of her last copper.”

Witnesses cried out from the benches—wives and tradesmen who had paid dearly for their kin’s rites. “A priest of lanterns,” Daemon spat, “but his light was always coin.”

“Sister Maela of the Mother’s Grace Hospice”, the woman came, pinched and gray, but her silence was broken by Daemon’s voice, ringing. “Children starved under your charge, their stipends stolen into your chests. Ten wards wasted away while you dined.” A goldcloak set a coffer before the throne, heavy with coins. “Here lies her mercy.” The Queen stirred, pale with anger.

Daemon’s tone grew colder. “Here is Ser Benys Flowers. No septon this time, no healer, but sworn knight. A manse beneath the Hill of Rhaenys was found filled with cages. Children shackled like hounds, sold across the Narrow Sea. Hear their cries, if you’ve ears.”
A girl, no older than seven, was brought trembling into the court. The nobles flinched; Rhaenyra bit her lip hard enough to taste blood.

Next was Harwyn & Torric Bulwer, two young men stood defiant, though fear flickered in their eyes. Daemon lifted a ledger, its pages marked with tallies. “Here, my lords, their cattle. Not oxen, not sheep—children. Bought, sold, marked for slavers. I need not speak more.” The court rustled like dry leaves.

Dragged forward next was Ser Tyland Roxton, from cadet branch of House Roxton, his eyes darting. Daemon’s words were fire. “Beneath his halls, dungeons of torment. Women shackled, mutilated, broken for his sport. I would name him beast, but beasts show more mercy.” He gestured, and a torn garment, bloodied, was cast upon the steps.

Ser Harlon Cuy, Heir to the Cadet branch of House Cuy, was the last noble staggered forward,  wrists bound. Daemon’s voice rang high. “Servants of his house, slain in the night, their corpses flung in midden heaps. A knight’s honor, smeared in filth and murder.” The silence that followed was poisoned, heavy with judgment.

A robed man, bald and sweating, was thrust forth. Daemon’s eyes glittered. “Maester Arrant, sworn to heal. Yet he hoarded the Crown’s own supplies, bribed the poor for medicine, let men die for lack of coin. Here are the stores seized, and here the names of the dead who might have lived.” The ledger was cast down, a slap upon stone.

Finally came Rennic, pale and shivering. “His apprentice, Rennic, guilty of falsifying records, extorting coin, and bleeding the sick. A fledgling vulture beneath his master’s wing.”

Daemon turned back to the throne, his voice unyielding.
“These are the men and women whom Ser Otto would have you believe lie slain in gutters. Yet they stand, alive, their crimes plain. The question is not whether I killed them, but whether the Crown will stomach what they have done.”

The hall boiled with whispers, the lords shifting in unease. Rhaenyra’s heart hammered. Otto’s face… gods, he looks as though he swallows nettles whole. And Father—he shines, proud as if Daemon were his sword made flesh.

The murmurs filled the hall like a rising tide until Viserys lifted a hand. The herald’s staff cracked upon the floor. Silence fell. Daemon stepped back, folding his arms, eyes glittering. “The crimes are laid bare. Let those sworn to Faith, Citadel, and Crown speak, that the realm may know justice.”

The High Septon, swaddled in white and gold, rose trembling. His face was ashen, his voice thin but resolute.

“These… these men and women shamed the Seven. The Faith casts them out. Septon Othric, Prior Aleric, Sister Maela—no longer servants of the gods, but blasphemers. They shall find no sanctuary in sept or holy ground.” Gasps rustled through the court like wind in dry grass.

Rhaenyra’s lips twitched. So even the High Septon abandons them. Otto’s mask cracks. He had hoped the Faith would stand his ground, yet here he is, alone in his fury.

Grand Maester Mellos rose slowly, fingers fussing with his chain, sweat shining upon his bald pate.

“Your Grace… it is true that excesses may have occurred. But the Citadel teaches us healing is costly. Supplies, trained hands, medicines rare… without coin, how can a maester serve? Surely there is—”

“Surely there is corruption,” Daemon cut in, his voice cold iron. “Their ledgers speak louder than your excuses.”

A murmur of agreement rippled. Mellos sank back, his words choked in his throat.

Rhaenyra leaned closer to her mother. Even Mellos, ever Otto’s creature, cannot defend them. He looks as though he swallowed sour milk.

The minor lords in attendance shifted uneasily, whispers flaring as the names of their kin were dragged through muck.

Lord Bracken muttered darkly; Lady Stokeworth looked near to fainting. But none stood to defend Bulwer, Cuy, or Roxton. Their silence was damning.

Viserys rose to his feet, his crown gleaming in torchlight. “Enough. Their crimes are plain. My brother brought proof and witness, and neither Faith, nor Citadel, nor nobility denies it. Then judgment is mine.”

The hall hushed as Viserys rose, the weight of the Iron Throne glinting behind him. His voice, usually soft, carried across the chamber like struck bronze.

“Septon Othric, Prior Aleric, Sister Maela—once sworn to the Seven, now proven false. You are stripped of holy station, no longer servants of gods but servants of your own corruption. You shall rot in my dungeons until the Crone’s light finds you fit for death, or the Stranger takes you.”

His gaze moved to the nobles, cold and steady. “Ser Benys Flowers, bastard of Footly blood—you caged children like dogs and sold them for coin. For this, you shall kneel beneath the headsman’s sword at dawn, your blood spilt as payment for theirs.”

“Harwyn and Torric Bulwer,” Viserys said, his voice hardening, “you, sons of a noble house, sought to turn orphans into cattle for slavers. Your father’s honor is not yours to blacken further. His lands remain, but his heirs are forfeit. Your heads shall crown the Gate of the Gods, a warning to all who would sell the realm’s children.”

“Ser Tyland Roxton,” the king continued, each name striking like a lash, “you filled dungeons with women and called it sport. You shall be gelded, your line ended by your own wickedness. Then you will be sent to the Wall, to serve in black till death.”

“Ser Harlon Cuy,” he thundered, “heir though you be, you slew servants who trusted your bread and board. There will be no mercy. You shall hang by the neck in the market square, that the smallfolk may see that no lordling is beyond justice.”

Finally, Viserys turned his gaze upon the Citadel’s disgraced. “Maester Arrant, Apprentice Rennic—you wore the chain of knowledge yet chained healing to coin. You shall be stripped of your chains, broken from your order, and cast into my black cells to learn the taste of hunger and want you so freely dealt. The Citadel will hear of your shame, but your punishment is the Crown’s.”

When he was done, silence clung to the hall, heavy and complete. Viserys lowered himself onto the Iron Throne, the steel whispering beneath him.

That same evening, while the bells of the city tolled and gossip spread like wildfire, a quieter chamber within the Sept of Rememberance glowed with candlelight.

Otto Hightower stood stiff as an iron rod, hands clasped behind his back, his face pale with fury. Across from him sat the High Septon, draped in cloth-of-silver, rings heavy on his swollen fingers.

“You let them be dragged through the muck,” Otto hissed, his voice low so the septons beyond could not hear. “Men of the Faith, chained like thieves before the king’s court. You raised no protest, no defense.”

The High Septon folded his hands, his expression a mask of weary patience. “Would you have me stain the Starry Sept itself with their filth? They were guilty, Hightower. The whole city knows it now. To shield them would be to share their corruption.”

Otto’s jaw clenched. “You speak of corruption. I speak of power. If a prince may lay hands upon godsworn, then what is sacred? If the Crown may scourge the Faith unchallenged, where does your authority lie?”

For the first time, the High Septon’s eyes sharpened, the softness falling away. “Perhaps, my lord Hand, our authority lies where it always has—among the smallfolk. They look to us for the Seven’s mercy. But if the Crown humbles the Faith too often, they may look elsewhere. Do you understand?”

A thin silence stretched between them, broken only by the faint rustle of candles guttering in their cups.

Otto inclined his head at last, though his eyes were cold as winter rain. “I understand all too well.”

Thus, in the cloistered dark, seeds were sown: of resentment, of alliance, of shadowed schemes between Oldtown’s blood and the Faith’s hand.

That night, Daemon rode down to the barracks once more. The gold cloaks gathered in the yard, torches flaring against their polished helms and new-forged mail. He walked their ranks, Dark Sister at his hip, crimson dragon blazing across his back.

“You’ve done what no one thought you could,” he told them, voice carrying across the yard. “You’ve cut rot from this city’s bones. Do not falter now. Keep your eyes sharp, your hands steady, and your cloaks clean. When they see gold, they will know order follows.”

The men roared in answer, spears thundering against the flagstones. Daemon’s smile was wolfish, and when he rode back to the Red Keep for supper, the sound still echoed in his ears.

The royal table was more crowded than usual. Queen Aemma, round with child and glowing despite her discomfort, leaned back in her chair as platters of spiced boar and roasted quail were set down. Viserys himself poured her wine, though she refused it with a laugh.

“I’ll take the roast, but not the cup,” she said, laying a hand upon her swollen belly. “This one wriggles enough without strongwine to stir him further.”

“You will give me another son,” Viserys declared, eyes alight, as if he had already seen it written.

“Or another daughter to vex you twice over,” Aemma teased, earning laughter from the table.

Daemon lifted his cup. “A girl would suit. The realm needs fewer soft-bellied princes and more dragons with fire in their bellies.”

“Like yourself?” Aemma said archly, raising a brow.

Rhaenyra nearly choked on her bread. “Mother, don’t flatter him.”

Viserys chuckled as he carved the boar. “Let him preen. The whole city sings of his purge already. Half with fear, half with pride.”

“Fear and pride often share a bed,” Daemon said lightly, spearing a slice of meat. He winked at Rhaenyra. “Your turn will come, niece. I hope you bite harder than your tutors.”

“I bite harder than you,” she shot back, grinning.

The table burst into laughter, even Aemma clutching her side as the babe kicked. For a moment, there was no court, no Hand, no Faith — only family, jest and warmth in the candlelight. Viserys looked on them all with an almost boyish joy, pride bright in his eyes.

When the dishes were cleared and Aemma was helped to her rest, the hall broke apart with kisses and promises of tomorrow. Daemon slung Dark Sister at his hip and swept away in his crimson cloak; her father’s hand lingered on her shoulder, warm with pride.

Rhaenyra walked the corridors alone, the night air cool against her cheeks. She passed beneath high windows where moonlight fell across stone, silvering the banners and casting long shadows. Laughter still clung to her ears, but in her breast a heaviness stirred — a flutter of unease she could not name.

From a balcony she looked down upon King’s Landing. The city sprawled dark and restless below, its streets coiling like veins through the sleeping heart of the realm. For an instant she thought she heard the faint clang of steel carry on the night wind, though perhaps it was only her fancy.

A shiver touched her, light as a breath, gone before she could grasp it. She pulled her cloak tighter and turned back inside, but the feeling lingered still: as though something vast and unseen watched from beyond the walls, waiting.