Chapter Text
The Dragon Pit stood before Rhaenyra, its ancient stone walls enclosing the momentous occasion. The crowd, a mix of onlookers, watched as the thirteen-year-old heir, Rhaenyra Targaryen, strode through their midst. Her silver hair shimmered in the sunlight, contrasting with her pale complexion, as she wore a black Targaryen jack, black pants, and sturdy leather boots. Her hip carried the weight of Blackfyre, the legendary Valyrian steel sword, and her father's dagger.
Approaching the High Septon, Rhaenyra observed Westerling, a loyal knight and ally, standing beside the spiritual leader. Also present were Otto Hightower, her Hand of the Queen, and other council members, displaying duty and loyalty in their expressions.
The murmurs of the crowd ceased as Rhaenyra reached the center of the Dragon Pit. The High Septon, dressed in his flowing white robes, raised his hands, beckoning for silence. His voice carried authority as he addressed the gathered crowd.
"People of Westeros, today we witness the coronation of Rhaenyra Targaryen, the heir to the Iron Throne," declared the High Septon, his words resonating through the air.
Rhaenyra met the High Septon's gaze, her unwavering eyes reflecting her understanding of the solemnity of the moment. She held her head high, ready to assume the responsibilities that awaited her.
After the High Septon's prayers and blessings, he turned to Rhaenyra and spoke with unwavering conviction. "Rhaenyra Targaryen, do you swear to uphold the laws and customs of the Seven Kingdoms, to protect and defend the realm, and to rule with justice and fairness?"
Rhaenyra's voice carried determination as she responded firmly, "I swear."
Rhaenyra then knelt before the High Septon, her small frame trying its best not to tremble under the weight of the large crowd that watched her intently.
"May the Warrior grant her courage and protect her in these perilous times. May the Smith grant her strength to bear this heavy burden. And may the Crone, she who knows the fate of all men, show her the path she must walk and guide her through the dark places that lie ahead," the High Septon pronounced solemnly. "In the light of the Seven, I now proclaim Rhaenyra of House Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, and Lady of the Seven Kingdoms."
With gentle hands, the High Septon placed her late father's golden crown upon her head, symbolizing her ascent to the throne. "Long may she reign!" he declared, his voice echoing through the Dragon Pit.
The crowd erupted into cheers and shouts of jubilation as Rhaenyra turned to face them. Their fervor filled the air, drowning out any doubts or fears that lingered within her young heart. "Long may she reign!" they chanted in unison, their voices rising like a tidal wave of support and loyalty.
The title of "Young Queen" was bestowed upon Rhaenyra, a mere thirteen years old when her mother's life slipped away, claimed by the complications of childbirth. Soon after, her father also departed, his passing shrouded in mystery as the maesters failed to determine the cause, though Rhaenyra held her own belief: his heart had simply broken.
As the young girl gazed out at the sea of smiling faces, the weight of their expectations bore down upon her. While they rejoiced, Rhaenyra felt a wave of dizziness threatening to engulf her. The crown upon her head felt burdensome, and the sword in her hand equally heavy. The transition from princess to queen had thrust her into a position for which she was ill-prepared, lacking knowledge on how to govern a realm.
In that moment, amidst the cheer of the crowd, Rhaenyra yearned for her mother's embrace, longing for the reassurance that everything would be alright. She craved her father's comforting whispers, assuring her of his pride in her. But she was left alone, confronted with the weighty responsibility of leadership, her terror mounting.
Otto Hightower, ever loyal and supportive, placed a gentle hand on Rhaenyra's shoulder, offering a reassuring presence in her moment of uncertainty. Taking a deep breath, she drew Blackfyre from its sheath, raising the sword high into the air. The crowd responded with a resounding roar of approval, their cheers reaching a crescendo. Their voices filled the air, shouting her name with words of love and adoration, their collective adulation echoing throughout the Dragon Pit.
Despite feeling alone, Rhaenyra found some comfort in the crowd's cheers. Their enthusiastic support gave her a glimmer of hope and made her think that being Queen might not be so bad after all.
For a decade, Rhaenyra had reigned as Queen, no longer the frightened and trembling girl who had knelt in the Grand Sept. Thus far, her rule had been marked by peace, without any pressing matters demanding her immediate attention. Rhaenyra felt a deep sense of gratitude for this tranquility, often reflecting on how her thirteen-year-old self would have coped with the challenges of war.
"So, I said to him, ‘Well, I believe you might be looking up the wrong end," Rhaenyra said, eliciting laughter from her council members.
Corlys cleared his throat. "My lords and lady, there is a growing alliance among the Free Cities that has taken to calling itself 'the Triarchy.' They have gathered on Bloodstone and are currently eliminating the pirate presence in the Stepstones."
"Well, that does sound remarkably like good news, Lord Corlys," Rhaenyra remarked, taking a sip of her wine.
"A man by the name of Craghas Drahar has declared himself the prince-admiral of this Triarchy," Corlys responded.
Rhaenyra raised an eyebrow in the direction of the Sea Snake. "And are we supposed to shed tears for dead pirates?" she asked, her tone laced with skepticism.
The man visibly shrank back in his seat. "No, Your Grace," he stammered.
"Good," Rhaenyra replied, her gaze shifting towards the members of her council. "Is there anything else that needs to be discussed?"
Lyman interjected, his voice breaking the momentary silence. "Your Grace, at Prince Daemon's insistence, the Crown has invested considerable resources in retraining and equipping the City Watch," he informed. "I thought you might encourage your uncle to take his seat on the council and provide an assessment of his progress as the Watch's commander."
Rhaenyra's eyes turned to the empty chair beside her, where her uncle should have been seated. The man seemed to vanish every other day, leaving her questioning his commitments.
Clearing her throat, Rhaenyra addressed the question at hand. "Do you believe that Daemon is preoccupied with his current tasks? That his thoughts and energies are elsewhere?"
Corlys, not letting go of his previous point, spoke up once more. "Your Grace, I strongly advise against granting the Triarchy too much freedom in the Stepstones. If we lose control over those shipping lanes, our ports will suffer greatly."
Otto, acting as the voice of the Queen, replied, "The crown has duly noted your report, Lord Corlys, and will take it into careful consideration."
A brief moment of silence settled in the room as Corlys appeared to concede, his concerns acknowledged.
Otto cleared his throat, breaking the tense silence. "Shall we discuss the Heir's Tournament, Your Grace?" he inquired.
Rhaenyra nodded, directing her gaze towards the Maester. "I would be delighted. Mellos, will the maesters' prediction for the name day hold true?"
Mellos let out a sigh. "You must understand, my Queen, that these prognostications are mere estimations. However, we have thoroughly studied the moon charts, and we believe our forecast is as accurate as can be expected."
Lyman interjected, raising a valid concern. "The cost of the tournament is not insignificant. Perhaps it would be wise to postpone it until the child is safely delivered?"
Lyonal shook his head, expressing his disagreement. "Many of the nobles and knights are already en route to King's Landing. It would be difficult to turn them back at this point..."
Rhaenyra interrupted, asserting her decision. "The tourney will span the better part of a week. By the time the games conclude, my child will have been born, and the entire realm will join in the celebration."
Years ago, Rhaenyra had entered into a marriage contract with Abagal Strong, the daughter of Lyonel Strong's late brother. Despite the initial arrangement, their closeness and affection grew over time, blossoming into a genuine love. Being just a year apart in age, they found solace and companionship in each other's presence.
Rhaenyra scanned the faces around the table, waiting to see if any of the lords had additional matters to discuss. "Is that all?" she inquired, her tone firm yet expectant.
The men exchanged brief glances and nodded in agreement.
"Excellent," Rhaenyra declared, rising from her seat. "I will take my leave then. I shall see you all later." With that, she made her way to the exit, leaving the council chambers behind.
Harrold pushed open the grand doors of the throne room, their heavy weight creaking in protest. The vast hall stretched before them, and at its distant end sat Daemon, perched upon the imposing Iron Throne.
Harrold muttered under his breath, his words barely audible, "Gods be good."
Rhaenyra couldn't help but laugh at her uncle's audacity. "It's all right, Ser," she reassured him with a playful tone.
With confidence and determination, Rhaenyra advanced toward Daemon, her footsteps echoing through the spacious chamber. Harrold, now assuming his role as the dutiful guard, positioned himself at the open doorway, keeping a watchful eye on their surroundings.
"What do you think you're doing, Uncle?" Rhaenyra inquired, her tone a mix of curiosity and caution.
Daemon, wearing a mischievous smile, leaned back in the throne and casually replied, "Sitting. This could well be my chair one day."
Rhaenyra met his remark with a stern reminder, her voice laced with a hint of warning, "Not if you find yourself facing execution for treason. You have been absent from court for far too long."
Daemon's response carried a nonchalant air, as if courtly matters were mere trifles to him. "Aye... Court can be dreadfully boring," he conceded.
Shaking her head, Rhaenyra pressed further, her eyes fixed on him. "Then why have you bothered returning at all?"
Pausing for a moment, Rhaenyra stood at the edge of the stairs leading up to the throne, her gaze steady. Daemon, sensing her presence, leaned forward with intrigue, his eyes gleaming with curiosity.
"I heard you're hosting a tournament in my honor," he stated, a glimmer of amusement dancing in his voice.
A warm smile spread across Rhaenyra's face, her response filled with pride, "The tournament is held in honor of my heir."
Daemon's smirk widened, his self-assuredness evident. "Just as I said," he remarked.
Refusing to be overshadowed, Rhaenyra stood tall, her voice firm, "My new heir."
With a sense of intrigue, Daemon rose from the Iron Throne, closing the distance between himself and Rhaenyra. As he approached, the weight of his presence filled the space between them.
"Until your wife brings forth an alpha heir, you are all cursed with me," Daemon quipped, his words carrying a playful edge.
Rhaenyra responded with a smile, "Then let us hope for a swift birth."
Daemon and Rhaenyra faced each other, their eyes locking, before Daemon broke the silence by pulling his niece into a tight embrace.
"I have missed you," he stated, his voice filled with genuine warmth.
Rhaenyra, slightly taken aback by his display of affection, couldn't help but voice her skepticism. "Is that why you disappear every other month?" she questioned, her tone tinged with a mix of curiosity and reproach.
Daemon shrugged, a playful glint in his eyes. "Our blood makes us restless," he replied, as if offering an explanation for his intermittent absences.
Rhaenyra shook her head, a hint of exasperation in her voice. "So, does this mean you'll be staying now?" she inquired, seeking clarity.
He wrapped his arm around her shoulder, drawing her closer, and began to guide her out of the throne room. "And miss a tournament? You know I have to show all those other alphas their place," Daemon retorted.
Rhaenyra entered the bathing chambers with a gentle smile, her eyes filled with affection as they fell upon her wife, who reclined in the tub. Her wife, Abagal, possessed long brown hair, light blue eyes, and a sprinkle of freckles across her skin, which only enhanced her natural beauty.
"You spend more time in that bath than I do on the throne," Rhaenyra remarked playfully, her voice laced with adoration.
Abagal chuckled softly, her hand gliding over her rounded stomach. "This is the only place I can find some comfort these days," she replied, a hint of weariness in her tone.
Taking a seat beside the bath, Rhaenyra dipped her hands into the water, testing its temperature. "It's tepid," she noted, a touch of disappointment evident.
Abagal shrugged lightly. "It's as warm as the maesters will allow," she explained.
Rhaenyra shook her head, a playful glint in her eyes, as she caressed her wife's stomach. "Don't they know dragons prefer heat?" she mused.
Abagal hummed in agreement. "Hm. After this miserable pregnancy, I wouldn't be surprised if I hatched an actual dragon," she quipped, a trace of exhaustion mingled with humor in her words.
Rhaenyra's smile widened, and she leaned in to plant a tender kiss on her wife's hand. "If that happens, our little dragons will be loved and cherished," she assured her, her voice filled with unwavering affection.
"How was your uncle?" Abagal inquired, concern etched on her face.
Rhaenyra released a weary sigh, her shoulders slumping. "A perpetual menace, as always," she replied, her voice tinged with a hint of exasperation.
"He was never one to miss a tourney," Abagal observed, a note of amusement lacing her words.
Rhaenyra couldn't help but laugh, a hint of fondness in her eyes. "He claimed that the tourney was held in his honor, rather than for the arrival of our child," she shared, shaking her head at her uncle's audacity.
Abagal let out a soft sigh, her hand gently gliding over her growing bump. "I apologize for the delay in producing an heir. I know it is my duty..." she trailed off, a trace of sadness in her voice.
Rhaenyra's expression softened, and she reached out to gently touch her wife's cheek. "It does not matter," she reassured her, her voice filled with love and gratitude. "You have been more than a dutiful wife. You have been my rock, my support, and my companion. That is all I have ever needed."
Abagal managed a sad smile, the weight of their previous struggles evident in her eyes. They had faced years of disappointment and frustration in their attempts to conceive an heir, but now, finally, they were blessed with the current pregnancy.
"I hope the birth is swift," Abagal murmured, her voice filled with a mix of anticipation and apprehension.
Rhaenyra's hand gently caressed her wife's stomach once more, her touch filled with love and hope. "I hope for that as well," she whispered, her eyes shining with tender affection.
Rhaenyra planted a tender kiss on her wife's forehead, a mix of affection and concern in her eyes. "I must go now. Lord Beesbury wants to discuss the finances for the upcoming tourney."
Abagal let out a weary sigh, her brows furrowing. "I still don't understand why we need to have a tourney."
Rhaenyra's expression softened, her fingers gently brushing against Abagal's cheek. "Otto suggested it as a means to alleviate concerns about succession," she explained, her voice filled with reassurance. "But I promise you, my love, if you ever need me, just send for me, and I will be by your side in an instant."
A small smile graced Abagal's lips, tinged with a hint of amusement. "Labor is my battlefield, my love. Enjoy the tourney for both of us."
Rhaenyra let out a soft chuckle, her hand entwining with Abagal's as she leaned in to steal a quick kiss. "I know," she murmured, her voice filled with fondness.
Rhaenyra and Otto strolled side by side, making their way towards the council chambers. Otto recounted the disturbing spectacle that her uncle had caused.
"I heard they had to use a two-horse cart to remove the dismembered bodies afterward," he informed her.
Rhaenyra shook her head in disbelief. "Gods be good."
"The Prince cannot continue to act with such unchecked impunity," Otto declared firmly.
As they entered the small council chamber, Rhaenyra and Otto noticed Daemon already seated in his designated spot, while the other councilors rose to acknowledge the Queen's presence.
"Niece," Daemon greeted her with a nod.
Rhaenyra exchanged a cool glance with her uncle, who appeared as if he had just returned from a fierce battle. "Daemon."
Daemon shifted his gaze to Otto, gesturing with a dismissive hand. "Continue. You were mentioning something about my supposed impunity."
Otto cast a disapproving glance at the prince. "You are expected to explain your actions concerning the City Watch."
Rhaenyra and Otto took their seats, placing large marbles into the plates in front of them.
Seated comfortably, Rhaenyra glanced over at her uncle. "Your new 'gold cloaks' certainly made a memorable impression last night, didn't they?"
Daemon feigned confusion. "Did they?"
Otto shook his head disapprovingly. "The City Watch is not a tool to be wielded at your whim. They are meant to serve as an extension of the crown."
Daemon began to speak, his eyes drifting towards Lyonel. "The Watch was merely enforcing the crown's laws, wouldn't you agree, Lord Strong?"
Lyonel cleared his throat, hesitant to speak against the prince. "My Prince, I don't think—"
Interrupting Lyonel, Otto interjected sternly, "Turning public order into a display of wanton brutality is hardly in line with our laws."
Daemon's gaze lingered on Lyonel before returning to Otto. "Nobles from every corner of the realm are descending upon King's Landing for my brother's tourney. Would you prefer them to be mugged, raped, or murdered?" He paused, expecting a response. When none came, he continued, "Unless you venture beyond the safety of the Red Keep, you may not be aware that much of King's Landing is viewed by the smallfolk as lawless and terrifying. Our city should be a haven of safety for all its people."
"I agree," Rhaenyra spoke up. "But I hope we can achieve that without resorting to maiming half the city."
Daemon offered her a small smile. "Only time will tell."
Corlys interjected, seeking to contribute to the discussion. "We appointed Prince Daemon as commander to ensure law and order. The criminal element should fear the City Watch."
Daemon nodded appreciatively at Corlys. "Thank you for your support, Lord Corlys."
Otto's glare intensified as he addressed the prince. "If only His Grace showed the same devotion to his lady wife as he does to his work. You've been absent from the Vale and Runestone for quite some time."
Daemon shrugged nonchalantly. "I believe my bronze bitch is happier without me."
Otto's disbelief was evident as he shook his head. "Lady Rhea is your wife—a good and honorable lady of the Vale."
Daemon chuckled, his words laced with provocation. "In the Vale, they say men prefer to fuck sheep over women. I assure you, the sheep are prettier."
Lyman reacted with shock. "Good gods."
Otto's patience wore thin as he grew increasingly infuriated with the prince. "You took a solemn vow before the Seven to honor your wife in marriage."
Daemon, never one to shy away from provocation, interjected. "Well, if you're in need of a woman to warm your bed, Lord Hightower, I would gladly offer you my bronze bitch." He paused momentarily, his tone biting. "After all, your own lady wife passed away recently, did she not?"
Enraged, Otto abruptly stood up from his seat, his anger palpable.
Rhaenyra swiftly turned her attention to The Hand, calling him by name. "Otto."
Daemon persisted, taunting the man further. "Perhaps you're not quite ready to move on just yet."
Rhaenyra implored The Hand. "You know how my uncle delights in provoking you. Must you indulge him?"
Reluctantly, Otto resumed his seat, still glaring at the prince. "My apologies, Your Grace," he muttered, his gaze fixed on Daemon.
Rhaenyra fixed her uncle with a stern gaze, her voice carrying a clear warning. "This council has spared no expense in improving the City Watch to meet your exacting standards. While I expect you to enforce my laws, let it be known that any further displays like last night's will not go unanswered."
Daemon responded with a mischievous smile. "Message received, Your Grace."
He rose from his seat and made his exit from the council chamber.
Shaking her head in resignation, Rhaenyra let out a sigh. "King's Landing has been on a steady decline since the passing of my great-grandmother." She contemplated the situation, considering the potential benefits of the newly revamped City Watch. "Perhaps, in the end, this reformed force might prove to be a positive change for the city."
The tourney was a grand spectacle, captivating the senses and igniting the spirit of revelry. The air was filled with anticipation as nobles, knights, and common folk alike gathered from far and wide, their colorful attire adding vibrant splashes to the scene.
The tournament grounds were a sprawling expanse, meticulously prepared for the festivities. Stands and pavilions lined the perimeter, displaying the banners and sigils of the participating houses. Vibrant pennants fluttered in the breeze, showcasing the rich tapestry of noble houses, each vying for recognition and glory.
The sun bathed the field in golden light, casting a radiant glow upon the bustling crowds. The excited murmurs and cheers of onlookers blended harmoniously with the lively melodies played by minstrels stationed throughout the grounds. The tantalizing aroma of sizzling meat and freshly baked pastries wafted through the air, enticing the appetites of those in attendance.
Rhaenyra stood from her seat, commanding the entire crowd to hush. Her voice echoed through the grand tournament grounds as she addressed the eager spectators. "Be welcome!" she yelled, her voice carrying across the expanse. "I know many of you have traveled long leagues to be at these games. But I promise, you will not be disappointed."
Her eyes scanned the field, taking in the sight of the noble knights standing ready for the joust. "When I look at the fine knights in these lists, I see a group without equal in our histories," Rhaenyra declared, her voice filled with admiration. "And this great day has been made more auspicious by the news that I am happy to share: Queen Abagal has begun her labors!"
The crowd erupted into cheers and applause, their excitement reverberating through the air. Rhaenyra raised her hand, a signal for silence, and gradually the jubilant noise subsided. The audience eagerly awaited her next words.
"May the luck of the Seven shine upon all combatants!" Rhaenyra announced, her voice carrying a tone of hope and blessing. The crowd absorbed her words, their collective enthusiasm growing.
With a regal presence, Rhaenyra raised her hand, the gesture signifying the commencement of the joust. The atmosphere crackled with anticipation as the knights prepared themselves for the challenge ahead. The clash of armor, the thundering hooves, and the cheers of the crowd created a symphony of excitement and exhilaration.
The joust began, and the spectacle unfolded before the enthralled spectators. The knights charged at each other with unwavering determination, their lance strikes resounding in a clash of steel. The crowd watched in awe as the skilled combatants displayed their bravery and prowess, their hearts pounding with every thrilling moment.
Boremund Baratheon rode his horse towards the balcony, catching the attention of the spectators and causing a murmur of anticipation to ripple through the crowd.
"Princess Rhaenys Targaryen!" Boremund called out, his voice projecting with a hint of admiration and respect. "I would humbly ask for the favor of 'The Queen Who Never Was.'"
Rhaenys gracefully made her way towards Boremund, her steps purposeful and regal. She held a wreath in her hands, ready to bestow it upon his lance.
"Good fortune to you, cousin," Rhaenys greeted him as she placed the wreath on Boremund's awaiting lance.
"I would gladly take it if I thought I needed it." He replied.
Otto leaned over and whispered into Rhaenyra's ear.
"You could have Baratheon's tongue for that," Otto cautioned in a hushed tone, a hint of disapproval evident in his words
Rhaenyra chuckled, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "If he wins, he shall lose his tongue."
They observed the joust unfold before them, the clash of lances and the thunderous sound of hooves resonating through the air. Boremund's initial charge ended abruptly as he was unseated from his horse, tumbling to the ground. He was swiftly assisted off the field, his hopes for victory dashed in an instant.
Rhaenyra couldn't help but laugh, finding amusement in the unexpected turn of events. She raised her goblet, taking a sip of wine, her amusement evident in her voice. "Well, it seems like he gets to keep his tongue after all."
Their eyes remained fixed on the ongoing tournament, the crowd's excitement unabated by Boremund's swift defeat. The joust continued, each clash of arms and display of skill eliciting cheers and applause from the enthralled spectators.
The Master of Revels announced with a flourish, "Prince Daemon of House Targaryen, Prince of the City, will now choose his first opponent!"
Prince Daemon rode forward, his gaze sweeping over the assembled jousters, searching for a worthy adversary. After a careful assessment, he singled out a jouster bearing the sigil of House Hightower. Rhaenyra and Otto exchanged knowing glances, sensing the significance of the choice.
The Master of Revels proclaimed, "For his first challenge, Prince Daemon Targaryen selects Ser Gwayne Hightower of Oldtown, eldest son of the Hand of the King."
Otto shook his head, concern shining in his eyes. Lord Corlys appeared mildly amused by the unfolding spectacle. Meanwhile, Lyman took the opportunity to place a wager, exchanging some coin with an attendant.
Lyman casually remarked, "Five dragons on Daemon."
Daemon glanced briefly at the crowd, his gaze meeting Otto's before charging forward. The clash of lances echoed through the field as Daemon's strike hit its mark, causing him to lose his own lance but managing to stay mounted.
Both riders swiftly acquired new lances and prepared for another pass. As they charged once more, a daring move unfolded. At the last moment, Daemon skillfully maneuvered his lance, positioning it in front of the charging horse of Gwayne. The unexpected maneuver caused a collision, sending the Hightower tumbling to the ground.
Daemon rode triumphantly before the balcony, his eyes meeting Rhaenyra's with a glint of satisfaction.
“Nicely done, Uncle,” Rhaenyra called out, her voice carrying across the field.
Daemon smirked, acknowledging her praise. “Thank you, my Queen,” he replied, a touch of pride evident in his tone. With his sights set on Otto Hightower's only daughter, he rode over to where Alicent was seated, seeking her favor.
"Now, I'm fairly certain I can win these games, Lady Alicent. Having your favor would all but assure it," Daemon proposed with a confident smile.
Alicent, sharing an unsure glance with her father, reached for a wreath and dropped it onto Daemon's lance. "Good luck, my Prince," she whispered.
Rhaenyra shook her head at her uncle's audacious actions, finding them both amusing and slightly exasperating. She leaned in and whispered an apology to Otto, acknowledging the unconventional behavior of her uncle.
Otto shook his head. "My son is strong. He will be fine. At most, it's just a bruised ego," he reassured her.
Rhaenyra chuckled softly, her gaze shifting towards Alicent, who was elegantly dressed in a beautiful blue gown. "How old is your daughter now?" she inquired, genuinely curious.
"Ten and six, Your Grace," Otto replied.
Rhaenyra hummed thoughtfully, contemplating the future. "She should be married soon," she remarked.
Otto sighed. "When I find the right match for her. For now, I am content with her remaining in the tower by my side.”
"I understand," she replied softly.
The jousting continued for some time, captivating the crowd with its exhilarating displays of skill and bravery. However, the atmosphere shifted abruptly when a servant approached Otto and whispered something urgent into his ear. Otto's expression turned grave, and without delay, he made his way towards Rhaenyra, leaning in to whisper the news to her.
As Rhaenyra listened intently, a flicker of worry passed across her features. The urgency in Otto's voice and the gravity of the situation were evident. Without uttering a word, she rose swiftly from her seat, her mind racing with concern. The Queen knew she had to return to the castle immediately.
Rhaenyra stood solemnly on the rocky shores, her gaze fixed upon the expansive green field where a multitude of people had gathered to pay their final respects to Abagal and Rhaegar. The deceased were laid upon pyres, shrouded in cloth, ready to be consumed by the flames. Syrax sat perched atop a nearby hill, a silent sentinel overseeing the mournful scene.
A profound sorrow etched across Rhaenyra's face as she struggled to contain her grief. The loss of her wife and their child weighed heavily upon her heart, casting a somber shadow over the otherwise serene surroundings. The sound of crashing waves served as a poignant backdrop to the gathering, amplifying the sense of melancholy that permeated the air.
"They're waiting for you," Daemon whispered softly, his voice filled with sympathy, as he placed a comforting hand on Rhaenyra's shoulder.
Rhaenyra's heart ached with grief as she shook her head, her voice heavy with sorrow. "I have no one now," she murmured, her words carrying the weight of the immense loss she had endured. Her wife had fought valiantly to bring their child into the world, but the arduous labor had taken a toll, draining Abagal of too much blood. Tragically, their long-awaited babe had been stillborn, robbing Rhaenyra of the joy she had anticipated.
Tears welled up in Rhaenyra's eyes as she recalled the harrowing ordeal, her voice trembling with a mixture of anguish and emptiness. The bond she had shared with Abagal, their dreams of a future together, and the joy that should have filled their halls now lay shattered, leaving her feeling utterly alone in her grief.
"I am sorry, Rhaenyra," Daemon muttered, his voice filled with genuine remorse. "So sorry."
Rhaenyra closed her eyes briefly, drawing strength from within as she took a deep, steadying breath. She knew that the pain would not easily fade, but she had to find a way to gather herself in the face of this overwhelming loss. With a determined resolve, she gently wiped away the tears that stained her cheeks.
Turning her gaze from her wife and child, shrouded in their final resting places, Rhaenyra's eyes shifted toward her loyal dragon.
Rhaenyra took a deep breath, trying to steady herself amidst the overwhelming grief. She wiped away her tears and looked at her wife and child one last time before turning her attention to Syrax.
"Dra-" Rhaenyra's voice faltered, choked by the weight of her sorrow. She took a moment to compose herself, gathering her strength. With a resolute determination in her eyes, she finally spoke the word she had been struggling to utter. "Dracarys."
Syrax, sensing her rider's command and understanding the depth of her pain, gracefully descended from the hill. With a breath of fire, she ignited the pyres that held the bodies of Abagal and their stillborn child, turning their mortal remains into ash.
It had been a week since the tragic deaths of Rhaenyra's wife and child, and the weight of grief still hung heavily upon her. She had little desire to be confined within the council chambers, discussing matters of succession when her heart was filled with sorrow.
Otto Hightower wore a somber expression as he addressed Rhaenyra. "Your Grace, this is a conversation none of us wish to have during such a dark time, but it is an urgent matter."
Rhaenyra glanced at him, her eyes tired and filled with pain. "What matter do you speak of?"
Otto sighed heavily. "The matter of your succession. The recent tragedies have left you without an obvious heir."
Corlys Velaryon turned away from the wine table, his voice filled with conviction. "The Queen does have an heir, my Lord Hand."
Otto continued, determined to press his point. "Despite the difficulties we face, Your Grace, it is crucial that the succession be firmly established for the stability of the realm."
Lyonel Strong looked at the Hand with skepticism. "The succession is already set, based on precedent and law."
Corlys took his seat at the end of the table. "Shall we speak his name then? Daemon Targaryen."
Mellos cleared his throat, speaking with caution. "Allowing Daemon to remain as the uncontested heir could potentially destabilize the realm."
Corlys glanced around the table, his gaze firm. "The realm? Or perhaps this council?"
Otto shook his head, his voice filled with concern. "None of us can truly know what Daemon would do if he were to ascend the throne, but we cannot ignore his ambition. Look at what he has accomplished with the gold cloaks. The City Watch is fiercely loyal to him. A force of two thousand."
Rhaenyra's frustration flared, her voice tinged with anger. "An army you granted him, Otto. I appointed Daemon as Master of Laws, but you claimed he was a tyrant. As Master of Coin, you accused him of extravagant spending that would bankrupt the realm. Appointing him to command the City Watch was your proposed solution!"
Otto let out a weary sigh. "A compromise, Your Grace. The truth is, Daemon should be kept far away from this court."
Rhaenyra shook her head vehemently. "Daemon is my uncle, my blood. He has his place at my court."
Mellos spoke up, his tone cautious. "Let him keep his place at court, Your Grace, but if the gods should bring further tragedy upon you, whether by design or accident-"
Rhaenyra looked at him in disbelief, her voice laced with anger. "Design? What are you suggesting? That my uncle would murder me and seize the crown? Is that what you insinuate?" Rhaenyra shook her head, frustration etched on her face. "Please, Daemon has ambition, yes, but not for the throne. He lacks the patience for it."
Otto stroked his beard thoughtfully. "The gods have yet to create a man who lacks the patience for absolute power, Your Grace."
Mellos directed his gaze at the Queen. "Under such circumstances, it would not be unprecedented for the Queen to name a successor... or perhaps consider remarrying."
"Remarry?" Rhaenyra exclaimed, her anger flaring.
Corlys interjected firmly. "You need not remarry, Your Grace. There are others who could make legitimate claims."
Lyonel scoffed, his tone laced with sarcasm. "Like your own wife, Lord Corlys? 'The Queen Who Never Was'?"
Corlys glared at Lyonel, his voice sharp. "Rhaenys was the sole child of Jaehaerys' eldest son. She had a strong claim during the Great Council, and she already has two heirs."
Otto looked at Corlys with disbelief. "Moments ago, you declared your support for Daemon!"
Lyonel shook his head, his tone measured. "If we cannot agree on an heir, perhaps marriage-"
Rhaenyra slammed her fist on the table, capturing the attention of everyone in the room. "My wife and son are dead!" she yelled, her voice filled with anguish. "I will not sit here and endure the vultures who come to feast on their corpses!"
The Queen rose abruptly, and the others followed suit, their expressions a mix of understanding and resignation. Otto sighed heavily as he took his seat once again.
Otto sat behind his sturdy oak desk, the flickering candlelight casting a warm glow across the room. With careful precision, he sealed a letter with a crimson wax seal, pressing the emblem of House Hightower onto the parchment.
Send a raven to Oldtown straight away," Otto commanded. He handed the sealed letter to Mellos, who nodded dutifully before departing on his mission. The heavy wooden door closed behind him, leaving Otto alone with his thoughts.
Just then, the door creaked open once again, and Alicent entered the room.
Rising from his desk, Otto approached Alicent and embraced her warmly. "My darling, how are you?" he asked, concern evident in his voice.
Alicent returned her father's hug, giving him a kind smile. "I am well, father. And how are you?" she inquired.
Otto let out a sigh, his expression somber. "I found myself thinking of your mother today," he admitted, a hint of sadness in his eyes.
"How is Her Grace?" While she didn't know the Queen well, nor did she have a close relationship with her late wife, Alicent still felt a pang of sympathy for Rhaenyra's loss.
Otto glanced at his daughter, a glimmer of determination in his eyes. "She is in a very low state. That is why I sent for you," he explained, returning to his desk and resuming his writing. "I thought you could go to her and offer her comfort."
"In her chambers…? I… I wouldn't know what to say," Alicent replied, nervously biting her nails.
"Stop that. She would be grateful for a visitor," he reassured her.
Thinking she was dismissed, Alicent turned to leave. However, Otto called out to her, causing her to pause. "You might consider wearing one of your mother's dresses," he suggested.
Alicent's breath caught in her throat at her father's suggestion, a mixture of emotions swirling within her. She felt her stomach tighten, her heart heavy with conflicting thoughts. A sense of unease settled upon her, but she chose to keep her reservations to herself, not wanting to challenge her father's intentions.
A gentle knock resonated through the room, interrupting Rhaenyra's solitary contemplation. With a weary sigh, she roused herself from her thoughts and rubbed a hand over her face, weariness etched upon her features. "Come," she announced, her voice carrying a hint of resignation.
Ryam, the ever-present knight, entered first and nodded in acknowledgment. Standing by the door, he signaled for Alicent to enter. The Hightower girl stepped forward, clutching a book to her chest, her presence evoking a sense of unfamiliarity tinged with shyness.
"The Lady Alicent Hightower, Your Grace," Ryam announced, his tone respectful.
Rhaenyra regarded Alicent with a perplexed expression. While they were acquainted in the realm of court, they had never shared personal interactions. Despite Alicent being the daughter of the Hand, their paths had rarely crossed in a more intimate setting. "What is it, Alicent?" Rhaenyra inquired, her curiosity piqued.
Alicent held the book tightly against her chest, her gaze downcast as she tried to conceal the discomfort brought on by the unfamiliar attire she wore. The dress accentuated her womanly figure, exposing more than she was accustomed to. Whispering shyly, she responded, "I thought I might come and look in on you, Your Grace. I brought a book."
Rhaenyra's perplexed expression softened, her curiosity giving way to gratitude. "That's very kind of you. Thank you," she replied, her voice laced with genuine appreciation.
Alicent approached the Queen, who was seated and engrossed in studying her father's old model of a city. It was a pastime that allowed her to feel a connection to him, a way to keep his memory alive.
"It's a favorite of mine," Alicent offered, taking a seat in a chair opposite the model city. After a few awkward minutes of silence, she finally mustered the courage to speak. "When my mother died... people only spoke to me in riddles. All I wanted was for someone to say that they were sorry for what happened to me." Her gaze locked with Rhaenyra's, their eyes meeting, their respective hues of lavender and emerald intertwining. "I'm very sorry, Your Grace."
As tears welled up in Rhaenyra's eyes, she hastily wiped them away, fighting to maintain her composure. "Thank you, my lady," she whispered, her voice laced with gratitude and vulnerability. "Why don't you read? I would love to hear your favorite," she suggested, mustering a small smile to convey her genuine interest.
Alicent's smile mirrored Rhaenyra's as she took the cue. Opening the book she had brought, she composed herself and began to read aloud, her voice filling the room with warmth and a touch of serenity.