Chapter Text
Council meetings with my father, the King, could end in only two ways: tension or peace. The former was by far the more common of the pair. Peace was brief, fragile—an agreement spoken carefully, as if the wrong breath might shatter it.
Tension, however, was what the Red Keep knew best.
One topic would spark it. Another would feed it. And before long my father would rise without another word, abandoning the chamber to its silence, leaving the rest of them to either follow or pretend they had not been dismissed at all. Nothing productive ever survived those moments. Yet they called it governance.
The Small Council of King’s Landing gathered in that same chamber as always, beneath high stone ceilings and banners that watched more than they listened.
There was the King himself, Viserys I Targaryen, seated at the head of the table like a man slowly being worn down by his own crown.
To his right sat Lord Otto Hightower, Hand of the King—shrewd, unyielding, and perpetually composed in a way that made me trust him less the longer I looked at him.
Opposite him, Lord Corlys Velaryon, Master of Ships, carried the sea even into a room without windows. A noble lord, and one of the few men here who spoke like he expected to be questioned rather than obeyed.
Lyonel Strong, Master of Laws, sat with quiet patience, the kind that suggested he had already judged everyone in the room and simply waited for them to prove him right.
Tyland Lannister, Master of Coin, wore charm like armour. He smiled often, spoke carefully, and somehow still managed to make every word feel like it had already been accounted for in a ledger.
Grand Maester Mellos sat slightly apart, bald head gleaming faintly beneath the torchlight, as though even wisdom had been drained from him slowly over the years.
And then there was the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard—Prince Daemon Targaryen, who looked as though he would rather be anywhere else in the world than this room, and made no effort to hide it.
He despised them. I suspected the feeling was mutual.
And then there was me. The King’s heir. His daughter. His cupbearer.
My place in the room was simple enough: pour wine, stand quietly, and wait for the inevitable moment when someone said something foolish enough to ignite another argument between my father and Lyonel Strong.
Today, however, felt different.
I noticed it the moment I stepped inside. The silence was too arranged. Too deliberate. Even Daemon’s usual disdain seemed sharper, more focused.
My eyes swept the table as I moved toward the wine pitcher. Otto Hightower’s gaze tracked me like a calculation. Corlys Velaryon watched more thoughtfully, as though he were measuring the weight of my presence rather than simply acknowledging it.
Then my father coughed.
“Rhaenyra,” he said.
I stopped.
The room did not move with me.
“We have something to discuss.”
My fingers stilled against the ring I always turned when I was uneasy. A habit from childhood that I had never quite managed to rid myself of.
I forced my voice to remain even. “Something to discuss, Father?”
His eyes flicked briefly to my hand, then away again. “Come. Sit.”
That alone told me everything I needed to know.
I obeyed, crossing the length of the table and lowering myself into the empty chair he indicated. Every man in the room watched me do it. I could feel it—judgment, curiosity, anticipation.
A performance I had not agreed to give.
“My daughter,” Viserys began, voice heavier than usual, “the matter before us concerns your future.”
There it was. Not subtle. Not gentle. Simply delivered, like a decree already carved into stone.
I tilted my head slightly. “My future is already spoken for.”
“Not entirely,” Otto Hightower said smoothly.
Of course.
A small, humourless breath left me. “That depends on who you ask.”
The King’s hand tightened faintly on the armrest of his chair. “Rhaenyra. Listen.”
I did.
Against my better judgement, I always did.
“The matter I wish to discuss,” he continued, “is your betrothal to Ser Gwayne Hightower.”
For a moment, I thought I had misheard him. The name settled into the space between us like something foreign and unpleasant.
“Ser Gwayne?” The word left me sharper than intended.
A sound broke the tension.
Daemon.
He leaned back in his chair, laughter spilling out of him like he had been waiting all morning for something precisely this entertaining.
“Oh, Seven be good to me,” he said between breaths, one hand pressed to the table as if to steady himself. “This is rich.”
“What is so amusing?” I demanded, my voice rising before I could stop it.
He wiped at the corner of his eye, still grinning. “Nothing at all, niece. Only that the realm continues to demonstrate its sense of humour.”
“This is not a jest,” Otto said coldly.
“It never is with you,” Daemon replied.
Heat crawled up my neck. My gaze snapped back to the table.
“You cannot be serious,” I said.
Viserys’s expression tightened. “I am.”
The single word fell like a verdict.
My hands curled against the armrest. “You are betrothing me to a man I barely know.”
“You know of him,” Otto corrected.
“I know enough,” I shot back. “He is a Hightower pup with more pride than sense.”
“Rhaenyra,” my father warned.
I ignored him. “Ser Gwayne Hightower thinks himself a knight of exceptional standing, yet I have never seen him do anything exceptional.”
Daemon chuckled again, quieter this time, as if savouring the unfolding disaster.
Viserys rose.
The chair scraped against stone.
That alone silenced the room.
“This is not a matter for debate,” he said, voice roughened by restraint. “It is decided. You will be wed within half a year.”
The words struck harder than I expected.
Half a year.
A life rearranged in half a year.
“I do not wish to marry him,” I said, slower now, carefully controlled.
“You are fifteen,” Viserys replied. “It is time you understood your duty to this realm.”
“My duty is not to be traded like—”
“Enough.”
The command cracked through the chamber.
I fell silent, jaw tight.
For a moment, only the faint sound of the torches filled the room.
My father’s gaze held mine, weary and unyielding all at once. “This is final.”
Final.
The word tasted like iron.
I stood. No one stopped me. I did not bow. I did not speak. I turned sharply and left the chamber, the weight of every watching eye burning into my back. Behind me, Daemon’s laughter followed like a blade drawn too slowly.
Outside the council chamber, the corridor felt too quiet after the weight of it. That was when I saw him.
Baelon.
My younger brother stood waiting near the archway, small hands clasped in front of him, white hair falling into his eyes as he looked up at me.
“Rhaenyra,” he said softly. “Are you alright?”
The sight of him softened something in my chest before I could stop it. I exhaled slowly and knelt just enough to draw him into my arms.
“I am fine,” I told him.
It was a lie, but not one he needed to know yet. He wrapped his arms around me without hesitation. And for a moment, I let myself hold onto him as if the world outside the corridor did not exist at all.