Chapter Text
The vast expanse of Westeros unfolded beneath her gaze, illuminated by the dim, haunting light of candles that cast their quivering shadows across the carved map on the ancient table. This piece of history, dating back to the Age of Conquest, bore the marks of past battles and decisions that had shaped the realm. Opponents were signified by the bronze figures, while her supporters were denoted by exquisitely carved wooden pawns. Despite the apparent support, a tight knot of unease coiled in her stomach.
The room itself bore the weight of history, its stone walls and high vaulted ceilings echoing with over a century of decisions, power struggles, and conquest. Shadows danced ominously across the walls, adding to the tension that permeated the chamber. The flickering candlelight cast elongated figures that seemed to reach out, as if grasping for control over the continent laid bare on the table.
This charged atmosphere enveloped Rhaenyra, a prelude to a storm of decisions yet to come, weighing heavily upon her. Her fingertips lingered on the map at the name ‘King’s Landing’–where her daughter remained imprisoned, and her rightful throne had been unjustly seized. Gwayne Hightower’s arrival had brought not peace offerings, but demands cloaked as terms, dictated by his sister and his father.
“It is no easy thing for a man to be a dragonslayer,” Daemon asserted, his voice carrying the weight of authority and the conviction of a seasoned warrior. “But dragons can kill dragons. And they have. The simple truth is this; we have more dragon’s than Aegon.”
Rhaenyra interrupted, raising her eyes from the map. “Viserys spoke often of the Valyrian histories. I know them well. When dragons flew to war… everything burned. I do not wish to rule over a kingdom of ash and bone.”
Lord Bartimos, unable to hide his apprehension, inquired,“Are you considering the Hightowers’ terms, Your Grace?”
The palpable tension that filled the air seemed to thicken with shared apprehension as all eyes settled upon her, awaiting a response from the Queen. The collective gazes upon her felt as prickling as needles, an attempt to dissect her every thought and intention–to lay her heart bare for their scrutiny. Yet, amidst this invasive assessment, she preserved her poise, shouldering their gazes with unwavering steadiness.
With a voice edged with a commanding clarity, she addressed the room. “As Queen, what is my true duty to the realm, Lord Bartimos?”
Weariness clung to her body, an oppressive shroud of exhaustion that seemed to transform her bones into lead, her every movement met with silent protest from her weary muscles. The constant, dull ache that pervaded her being served as a relentless keepsake of the agony she had withstood, coupled with the painful reminder that her crown had already cost her one daughter.
Within the council chamber, the air was thick with the clamor for war, each lord more eager than the last to see the skies alight with dragonfire against their foes. Yet, amidst this clamor for war, Rhaenyra found herself adrift in the sea of weariness. Her heart was fraught with apprehension, not for the crown she might lose, but for the daughter who still remained within the grasp of her adversaries–and for the lives of those around her.
Her voice carried a steely resolve as she posed her question, “Is it to ensure the peace and unity of the realm? Or that I sit the Iron throne at any cost?”
With an exasperated roll of his eyes, Daemon uttered something that was close to a sneer, “That is your father talking.”
With his patience visibly fraying, Daemon let out an exasperated sigh and rolled his eyes. His voice, tinged with a dismissive sneer, carried his frustration as he spat, “That is your father talking.”
If Daemon had meant to rile her, he had succeeded. Her eyes sharpened into a focused glare, following him as he moved around the painted table, and she snapped back at him, “My father is dead.”
Daemon paced around the council table to its far end, the sound of his boots scraping against the stone floor marking his path. A wave of irritation washed over her, yet she maintained her composure, her eyes locked onto him with unwavering intensity. She sharpened her own words, knowing how they would land. “And he chose me as his successor, to defend the realm, not plunge it headlong into war.”
Seemingly unable to contain his vexation, Daemon let his voice climb in provocation. “Well, the enemy has declared war! What are you going to do about it?”
Rhaenyra understood his fury as intimately as she understood her own, yet a sense of unease still clung to her. Daemon thisted for war, a fact she couldn’t simply disregard. Given the chance, he would have them march on King’s Landing immediately, regardless of the consequences. While his desire for conflict was unmistakable, she did not share this eagerness for it. She knew all too well how men would rush into war, blinded by pride or vengeance, without fully weighing the consequences of such actions. She stood firm in her resolve not to let the realm bleed unnecessarily for her ascent to power. The thought of blood being shed so freely under her command was a burden she refused to bear lightly.
Rhaenyra sensed the weight of every gaze in the room settle on her, feeling them like a tangible pressure against her skin. The sting of her husband’s public challenge lingered sharply in the air, each word resonating with an intensity that tugged at her resolve. Her posture remained composed, yet beneath her calm exterior, a storm of emotions brewed, fueled by Daemon’s confrontational words.
“Clear the room,” she commanded, her eyes never leaving her husband.
As the chamber gradually emptied of lords and advisors, Rhaenyra felt her own frustration colliding with Daemon’s simmering rage. He moved with a restless energy, finally stopping in front of the heart. There, the firelight bathed his face in a warm orange hue, momentarily softening his features before deeping the shadows in his eyes–his eyes seemed to burn darkly.
“Does the promise of war excite you?” Rhaenyra inquired sharply, an indictment in her tone. Her voice cut through the silence of the room–almost heavy with emptiness, only the two of them remaining. Her inquiry hung in the air, accompanied only by the sporadic crackles from the hearth and the somber howl of the wind outside. The elements themselves seemed to echo the tension and the foreboding sense of conflict.
Daemon’s response was charged with exasperation, yet controlled, “You cannot bend the knee to the Hightowers–they stole your birthright.”
His intense gaze fixed on her, searing and unyielding, igniting a sensation that felt akin to an itch beneath her skin that she couldn’t quite reach–it only served to further add to her frustration.
“If you could take the Iron Throne without putting Otto Hightower’s head on a spike, would you?” Rhaenyra countered, her steps measured as she closed the distance between them. She was acutely aware of his deep-seated resentment towards Otto Hightower, yet she harbored no desire to ignite war over a personal grudge. The warmth from the hearth caressed her chilled fingers, offering a semblance of comfort while simultaneously serving as a reminder of the danger of getting too close. Daemon was much the same as the fire in the hearth, his fiery passion a potential for destruction–his essence bore the latent capacity to either illuminate the darkest corners of existence or, in a turn as swift as a spark in dry wind, lay waste to all within his reach. He was dragonfire made flesh, and that in itself was dangerous.
“Are you not angry?” His question was laced with an implicit challenge, designed to pierce her defenses and stir the embers of her own anger.
“I should declare war because I’m angry?” Rhaenyra retorted, her voice laced with incredulity.
Daemon’s response was immediate, his patience faying as he bridged the gap between them. Illuminated by the hearth’s fiery glow, he appeared almost at one with the element, a living embodiment of the flames that danced behind him.
“No,” he asserted sharply. “Because it’s your duty as Queen to crush rebellion.”
The intensity of his gaze remained unyielding–unforgiving, a blaze that refused to be tamed.
“We can extinguish this treachery swiftly, before the moon’s turn, if we act now,” Daemon pressed on, each word infused with a palpable sense of urgency and conviction–his hunger for war remained steadfast, and it seemed nothing would satiate it save for bloodshed. “With our dragonriders and the support of our allies, we can secure the throne with minimal loss of life–but only if we do not delay any further. We’ve already allowed them ample time to prepare and rally their own allies. We must act now.”
As he stepped closer, the space between them diminished to mere inches, their breaths intertwining. “I understand your hesitance to engage in bloodshed, especially as we nurse our own losses…”
Rhaenyra’s head tilted slightly, her jaw clenched in a silent warning. She would not allow their daughter’s death to be weaponized in an attempt to force her hand–especially not force her into a war that she wasn’t sure would be worth it.
Daemon’s hand came to rest gently against her cheek, his thumb caressing her skin with a firmness that spoke of his intent. “I am committed to defend your claim. I will protect our family, and the legacy of House Targaryen, with steel and blood.” Each word was spoken as though cleaved from stone, firm and biting. “Our house, our lineage, and your sovereignty are under threat, and I stand resolute in their defense.” The warmth of his touch seeped into her, burned against her skin. “Grand me your command, and I will see to the rest.”
The sincerity and desperation in his words clashed into a resonant urgency–almost a plea.
“Should we act against King’s Landing, there’s a risk they may harm my daughter, Daemon. My only daughter,” Rhaenyra asserted, clutching his wrist tightly, her thumb caressing against the beat of his heart. “The thought of losing her too is something I cannot endure–do not ask it of me.”
Daemon pulled away slightly, eyes remaining locked with hers, as though attempting to read her thoughts. “Otto Hightower is cunning, not reckless. He’s well aware of her significance to us. He knows it’s in his best interest to keep her alive and well.”
The weight of their situation seemed to curl around them like the flicker of the flames, the heat radiating onto both of them. Rhaenyra’s gaze remained intense, burning. “And yet, we are both aware that in the face of defeat, they would not hesitate to sacrifice her out of spite just to wound us further.”
Rhaenyra could see it lurking in Daemon’s eyes, the unsaid belief that Daenera would understand her sacrifice, just as she had been prepared to make it herself. Yet, these thoughts remained unspoken, cloaked in the silent communication between them–lingering in the shadows of their minds.
Daemon shifted his stance, a determined glint in his eyes as he laid out his strategy, “If we act swiftly, encircle King’s landing, and lay siege, showing our undeniable strength, they will have to reconsider. They won’t dare harm her if she becomes their last bargaining chip–the only thing keeping their heads on their shoulders.”
He paused, taking a deep breath, as if weighing his own words, contemplating the risks and stakes involved. “Give me the order, and I will ensure that we get Daenera back. Alive and well.”
Rhaenyra fixed her gaze on Daemon, her heart pounding furiously. “There’s no certainty in that strategy. If we march on King’s Landing, the risk is too great…”
Her voice trembled slightly with the weight of the decision, the fear of unintended consequences lurking in her words.
“Maybe we should consider a different strategy–let us negotiate with a currency they understand. A life for a life,” Daemon suggested, already considering the tactical implications. “I could detain Gwayne Hightower before his return to King’s Landing. They wouldn’t have gotten far.”
Rhaenyra’s expression darkened with concern, and she instinctively took a step back, distancing herself from Daemon. Her fingers restlessly fiddled with a ring, the gesture betraying her inner turmoil–a sliver of annoyance burning within her chest as he once again spoke of breaking convention. “I cannot in good conscience defy convention, Daemon. We cannot detain an envoy. Such an act would be a declaration of war.”
Daemon’s impatience was evident as he scoffed, his exasperation clear. “We are already at war! It is your duty to respond to the treachery of usurpation with fire and blood!”
Rhaenyra softened her tone, seeking to remind him of their higher responsibilities. “You know my oath reaches beyond our personal ambitions. If the path of saving my daughter and preventing the realm from being consumed by war is to kneel, then I must consider it–the realm mustn’t be divided when the war against the darkness comes upon us.”
At her words, Daemon’s frame shifted, his gaze sharp with disbelief and irritation. “What?”
“A Song of Ice and Fire,” Rhaenyra drawled, her voice low, a confused frown settling upon her own features–almost a mirror to the one on her husband’s face. “The Conqueror’s Dream…”
His head tilted, the disbelief starting to burn brighter in his eyes as he stared at her incredulously.
“The war against the darkness descending from the North…” She elaborated, trying to convey the gravity of the prophecy–to spark some sort of recognition with Daemon, but there was none to be found, and the realization slowly dawned on her.
Daemon’s glare was unyielding, his visage as if carved from the same ancient stones of the castle itself. Every line and contour of his face was marked with disbelief, and within his eyes, something dark and dangerous seemed to bare its teeth at her. “You speak of dreams now?”
“The Conqueror’s Dream,” Rhaenyra reiterated, her voice tinged with slight frustration. “Viserys confided in me about the prophecy the night I was named his heir… It foretells of a great threat coming from the North.”
“The Starks have always stuck to their oaths.”
“No, not the Starks,” she clarified, her voice laced with a growing urgency. “This threat comes from beyond the Wall. Should we stand divided, the ensuing darkness will spell doom for all, heralding a winter so severe, so devoid of light, that no living thing would endure…”
The realization dawned fully on her then–the realization that Daemon knew nothing of what she was speaking of. And this only seemed to intensify his disbelief and exasperation.
“He never told you, did he?” Her voice was softer then, and she felt her heart feel both a sliver of relief and a stab of pity.
“Tell me what, to heed fanciful old wive’s tales?” Daemon’s response was laden with a thick layer of incredulous sarcasm, his face twisting into a grimace of disdain as if the mere suggestion was a betrayal. Yet, it wasn’t the proposition itself that felt like a stab of betrayal, she knew–it was the realization that his brother, Viserys, had withheld such crucial information from him, even if he wouldn’t believe it. This revelation seemed to stir a deep, bitter resentment within him, a sense of betrayal that went beyond the words spoken, cutting into the very core of his bond with his brother.
“My brother,” Daemon sneered with a certain amount of resentment in his tone, “was a slave to his omens and portents. He would clutch at anything that lend any semblance of meaning to his weak rule.”
“Daemon…” Rhaenyra extended a hand, a gesture of conciliation, but he retreated further, frustration tensing his shoulders. She wondered whether Viserys had withheld the prophecy because he anticipated Daemon’s skepticism or if it was because he never truly regarded him as his successor.
On the very night Viserys had made her his heir, he had confided in her, entrusting her with the knowledge of Aegon the Conqueror's dream. He had told her. He had never told Daemon, not even during the years as he was considered the heir apparent. But he had told her. She was his chosen heir, the sole recipient of this prophecy, a distinction that held a profound significance for her, perhaps more than it rightfully should.
Standing at the precipice of war that could fracture the realm, Rhaenyra felt the weight of the crown more oppressively than ever. Her father’s words echoed within her, branding the crown not as a symbol of power, but as a heavy burden–and it was.
Daemon had withdrawn towards the hearth, where he leaned heavily against the mantle with his head bowed, staring into the flames. His hand was clenched tight, and she saw the rage in his posture–the hurt. He turned his face towards her again as she approached, an unpredictable storm in his fiery eyes, reflecting the orange tongues of the fire.
“Surrendering your rightful claim over mere stories is f*cking insanity,” Daemon bit out and Rhaenyra felt the sharp sting of his bite.
“If surrendering is what is best for the realm–” Rhaenyra began but was swiftly cut off by a derisive scoff.
“Do you truly believe that that drunken usurper c*nt and his council of Hightowers would be more capable of uniting and safeguarding the realm from this… this threat from the North?” Daemon argued sharply. “When my brother imparted this prophecy, did he specify when the threat would descend upon us? Will it be within our lifetime?” He faced her directly, his presence imposing as he loomed over her. Yet, his voice softened, if only a little as he murmured. “Or was it as vague as all dreams and prophecies tend to be.”
“Daemon,” Rhaenyra cautioned lowly.
“I’m merely seeking clarity,” he persisted, his skepticism remaining. "Because it seems you’re willing to wager your legacy, your claim to the throne, and the future of your sons on the premise that this threat from the North is both real and immediate.”
Rhaenyra found herself wrestling with the gravity of her father’s prophecy and her husband’s pointed disbelief, each word a testament to the chasm between belief and skepticism, between duty and destiny.
The silence between them stretched as she found herself bereft of words that could possibly bridge the chasm of disbelief between them. She had nothing tangible to offer but the words given, and those words would not stand unchallenged in his eyes. Doubt crept into her thoughts, a seed of uncertainty threatening to take root and grow unchecked unless she managed to dispel it swiftly. Her hesitation didn’t stem from a lack of faith in her father’s words or the prophecy of the Conqueror; rather, it was the inherent ambiguity of the prophecy that cast a pall over her convictions.
The prophecy resonated within her, a truth she still keenly felt. It had manifested as an icy shiver trailing down her spine, a cold that penetrated deep into her marrow. And in that moment, as she gazed into the cavernous eye sockets of Balerion The Black Dread’s skull, she could have sworn she heard the distinct cracking of ice. This eerie sensation had solidified her belief in the prophecy.
But Daemon’s disbelief remained, underscored by a deeper, more personal wound. His words were laden with a blend of entreaty and reprimand, as he closed the distance between them, his hands gently framing her face. “To wager everything on the premise of a dream is folly, and an even greater folly to let the realm languish under the Hightowers.” His thumb caressed her cheek, calloused and hardened. “My brother named you as his heir. He imparted this prophecy to you.” A note of bitterness made it into his voice, even as she saw his attempt to quell it. “He believed in your ability to protect the realm. He didn’t pass the burden onto his sons; he didn’t share this vision with them. Surrender now, and all that we’ve endeavored to achieve will crumble to naught.”
Tears gathered in Rhaenyra’s eyes, lending a glassy sheen to her gaze as she said, “You have no faith in the prophecy, but it is for that and the stability of the realm that I must consider surrendering.”
Daemon let out a weary, disappointed sigh, a gesture of resignation rather than agreement, and gently shook his head. His frustration was obvious, even as he closed the distance between them, pressing his forehead to hers, a moment of intimacy amidst the storm of contention.
“Dreams didn’t make us kings. Dragons did,” he murmured, then withdrew, leaving the room with a finality that felt like a cold gust, scattering the remnants of Rhaenyra’s determination like ashes in his departure.
Rhaenyra closed her eyes momentarily, turning her face towards the crackling fire. She let the weariness of the day wash over her, soaking in the comforting warmth that radiated from the hearth. The heat seeped into her bones, providing a brief respite and fortifying her resolve. Gathering her strength, she stood a little straighter, taking a deep, steadying breath before turning to leave the room.
She left The Hall of the Painted Table and waved off the assembly gathered outside, her voice firm yet fatigued. “We will continue in the morning, once we have all rested and I have reached a decision.”
As she traversed the halls of Dragonstone, the weight of her physical and emotional exertion was palpable. Her joints creaked with each step, her muscles tense and sore. A persistent ache throbbed between her legs, a constant reminder of the difficult birth she had endured, pulsing in time with her heartbeat. Despite the discomfort, she pressed forward, her path illuminated by the flickering orange light of torches and braziers that cast eerie shadows against the ancient stone walls–these walls, hewn from the same rock that formed the formidable Dragonmont, seemed to echo the labyrinthine caves beneath, adding a sense of deep, primordial continuity to her surroundings.
Rhaenyra tiptoed quietly into her youngest son’s bedchamber, gently pushing the door open and closed. Inside, the fire crackled softly, its warm glow battling the chill from the howling wind outside. Lady Sheran, seated in a rocking chair, was knitting quietly, keeping a watch over the two young princes as they slept. Her eyes lifted as Rhaenyra entered the room. She started to rise, but Rhaenyra gestured for her to remain seated.
“How are they?” Rhaenyra whispered, her gaze tenderly settling on the two boys in the bed.
“They are well, Your Grace,” Lady Sheran replied softly, her eyes affectionately observing the boys. “They sense that something is amiss, though they can’t grasp the full extent of what's happening–only that things are different.
Nodding understandingly, Rhaenyra sat down on the edge of the bed. Aegon was sprawled on his stomach, one arm thrown over his brother as if to shield him, his blond curls tousled around his head. And Viserys lay on his back, his head turned towards Aegon, clutching tightly to the blanket their sister had crafted for him. Aegon’s own blanket, that his sister made him, was tugged beside him, crumpled under his head as a pillow, a dark pool of drool slowly growing on the blue fabric.
As Rhaenyra gently brushed her hand through the soft curls of her youngest sons, a welling of tears blurred her vision. She leaned down to kiss each of them tenderly, feeling the steady rhythm of their hearts before pulling back. Watching them sleep peacefully, she couldn’t help but wonder about their sister Visenya. Would she have shared the same wild curls, or would her hair have been straighter? Would her eyes mirror the same pale blue? And her cheeks, would they have been as round and rosy?
Rhaenyra wondered if Visenya would have been as inseparable from her brothers as Aegon and Viserys were now. The boys had been so eager to embrace the role of older brother’s, just as Jace, Luke, and Joffrey had for them. Would they understand that Visenya was gone–never to be?
At their tender age, the concept of death remained elusive and abstract–hardly distinguishable from a prolonged absence. Rhaenyra harbored a deep-seated fear that as Daenera remained away, the memories of her might start to fade from the young princes’ minds. Yet, hope flickered as their elder brothers kept Daenera alive in their minds. Jace, Luke, and Joffrrey consistently reminded the younger boys of their sister, recounting stories and weaving her presence into their daily lives, ensuring she remained, even as she wasn’t here.
They would remember Daenera, unlike Visenya–who had never really graced their lives in the first place. Visenya’s absence marked a silent void, her quiet passing at birth slipping into the shadows of oblivion rather than leaving behind the palpable scar of loss on their young minds, the ache of missing someone dearly loved.
Only Rhaenyra and Daemon would truly carry Visenya within them as a deep, enduring scar–a poignant reminder of what could have been.
And perhaps, to a lesser but still significant degree, Jace, Luke, and Daenera too would beare some traces of this loss. The older siblings, more aware of the world’s harsh truths, might not feel the sting of her absence as acutely as their parents, but they too understood the weight of the sister they never got to meet.
Rhaenyra longed for Daenera’s presence as she leaned down to kiss her sons once more, savoring the sweet, innocent scent of their slumber. Rising from the bed, she sighed softly, “One day they’ll understand all of this, but for now, it’s best we shield them from our worries.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Lady Sheran replied, her voice a soft echo in the quiet room.”
With a heavy heart, Rhaenyra left the room and made her way down the hall to Joffre’s chambers, seeking to check on her other children. As she entered, she found Luke awake, sitting up in bed with his dark hair around him. He glanced up at her, his expression somber. Beside him, young Joffrey lay deep in sleep, clutching a wooden dragon toy that hung precariously over the edge of the bed, as if ready to take flight in his dreams.
Rhaenyra stepped forward, gently retrieving the wooden dragon from Joffrey’s loose grip and placing it on the bedside table. Her gaze then met Luke’s with a silent question.
“He couldn’t fall asleep,” Luke whispered, intuiting her thoughts. “He asked for a story…”
Rhaenyra’s lips curved into a tender smile, and she leaned down to kiss Joffrey’s forehead. “He’s found his rest now, and you should too.”
With a gentle gesture, she signaled for Luke to follow her out. He quietly slid from the bed, his movements almost ghostlike as they exited into the hallway together. They proceeded to his room, where Rhaenyra assisted him with his doublet, stepping back as he changed into his nightclothes. The soft tap of his bare feet against the floor followed as he slipped under his covers.
Rhaenyra settled beside him on the bed, mirroring the close moment they had shared just days before when the world was different. She pushed his hair back from his forehead, her smile soft but tinged with concern as she noticed his furrowed brow. “What is on your mind, sweet boy?”
“Are we going to war?” He asked in a hushed tone, his eyes searching hers for answers. “Jace says we’re going to war.”
Rhaenyra inhaled deeply, the weight of her role as both a mother and a queen pressing upon her. “If it’s within my power, I hope that we may avoid it.”
“What will happen to Daenera if we go to war?” He pressed, his voice laced with worry.
The question pierced her heart, twisting with her own fears. She found herself grappling with the right words to reassure her son while confronting the stark realities they faced.
“I don’t know,” Rhaenyra admitted with heartfelt honesty as she reached for the blanket Daenera had crafted–the same one Luke had brought to her for comfort during her struggle with giving birth. The very same blanket she had tenderly wrapped around Visenya, cradling her in her arms. With a gentle touch, she carefully draped it over him, placing a hand on his chest, caressing the fabric and the boy beneath. “But I assure you, I will do everything in my power to bring her home.”
Luke nodded, his voice raspy as he spoke. “I miss her.”
“I miss her too, my sweet boy,” Rhaenyra replied, her voice thick with emotion. She leaned down and kissed his forehead, as she had with her other sons. “We’ll bring her back, I promise. Now, try to rest. We have challenging days ahead.”
Luke nodded again, his young face resolute as he snuggled deeper into his bedding.
Rhaenyra rose from the bed and made her way towards the doors, but Luke’s voice halted her.
“You can rely on us, you know…” He said, his tone sincere. “Jace, Joff, and I. We’ll protect and fight for you…”
She paused, turning back to face him, a tender smile breaking through her worries. “I know… Sleep, sweet boy.”
Rhaenyra softly shut the door behind her, lingering in the silent corridor as a sharp pang of sorrow blossomed in her chest, her heart caught in a bittersweet tangle of grief and determination. She inhaled deeply, a breath meant to steel herself, and moved towards Jace’s room, drawn by the subdued voices dissecting the day’s events.
As she neared the door, the familiar voices of Jace, Baela, and Rhaena filled the air, their conversation intense and animated. They were deep in a passionate exchange, evidently holding a council of their own, strategizing and reflecting in the same manner as the real council had. A hint of a smile touched her lips, amusem*nt flickering within her. She decided to let them continue uninterrupted.
Turning away, she made her way back to her own chambers, her steps slow and measured. Upon entering, she found the maester waiting, as anticipated, with a cup of dreamwine prepared. This small comfort was a necessary solace to ease the edges of her day’s burdens and help her find rest in a night that promised little peace.
Often as she slept, Rhaenys found herself chasing the echo of her children. She roamed the corridors of Driftmark, pursuing their elusive shadows, guided by the merry peals of their giggles that seemed to bounce off the ancient walls. The chase was a game for them, their voice whispers and echoes, warning one another of her approach. She would chase after them, seeking to grasp them, as she once did in days filled with joy, yearning to envelop them in her embrace, to incite laughter with gentle tickles that made them plead for respite.
But in the realm of dreams, her efforts were in vain; the moment her fingers nearly brushed against them, they dissipated into mere wisps of smoke and ash. Such dreams were a cruel torment, yet Rhaenys harbored a hope that, someday, she would finally catch them, hold them close, and vow never to release them.
Even as time blurred their features and the years stretched on, she clung to this hope, her only defense against the creeping shadow that loomed over her children, a shadow as boundless and malevolent as the darkest night, threatening to consume them and leave her with nothing.
As frequently as her dreams offered a haunting glimpse of her children, Rhaenys found herself awakening to a world in which they remained just as elusive–mere ghosts and echoes.
The timber of a voice shattered the remnants of her dream, causing her to startle awake. She had been so close to capturing that fleeting sense of connection with her children–so agonizingly close. Her eyes, heavy with sleep and sorrow, adjusted to focus on the figure of her husband. His dark complexion was glossed with a sheen of sweat, evidence of the fever he’d been battling for days now. The maesters had harbored doubts about his chances of survival, and now, observing him, breathing and alert, Rhaenys couldn’t help but feel a surge of relief and frustration.
“I’ve had men whipped for falling asleep on their watch,” he had remarked, and then continued, “You are no man.”
A wry smile played on his lips, followed by a chuckle that suggested he found humor in the situation.
The irony of his jest did little to lighten her mood, serving instead as a reminder of her sex–how could she ever forget?
Rhaenys’s amusem*nt was absent; instead, a deep-seated anger smoldered within her, scorching any relief she might have felt at his survival into bitter resentment.
“You abandoned me,” she murmured, the whisper sharp and laden with the profound bitterness of desertion. Her words carried the weight of years spent watching his ship’s sails shrink on the horizon until they vanished entirely–an accusation steeped in the sense of abandonment she had harbored silently since he took to the horizon.
Her statement was not just a declaration but an indictment, punctuated by the pain and resentment that had festered within her as the years stretched on. Even their brief encounter during Daenera’s wedding had not provided an opportunity to voice her anguish.
“You abandoned me when I most needed you,” she stated, her voice icy with accusation. “Both our children stolen from us. I needed you. Baela and Rhaena needed you, and you abandoned us for more adventures at sea…”
Her words hung heavily in the air, a cold echo of the pain and betrayal that had accumulated over the lonely years.
Rhaenys’s anger was not the blazing sort; it had cooled over time into something more glacial and piercing. Gone were the days when her fury might erupt like a wild inferno or a raging sea. What remained now was a cold, deliberate wrath–a slow, creeping frost that threatened a quiet death.
Corlys had left her to endure her grief alone, left her to wander the silent, echoing halls of Driftmark. He had always chased the horizon, his spirit as restless and uncontainable as the sea. She had known this about him when they wed, had even loved him for his insatiable thirst for adventure and his ambition. She had accepted his nature, even as it led him to wars and quests in distant lands.
Yet, she had never envisioned that he would leave her so utterly abandoned.
“...As has always been your way,” she said, her voice carrying a cool edge as she leaned forward to dip a cloth into the basin next to her bed, wringing it out meticulously.
“I had no other place to turn,” Corlys replied, his voice a low, scratchy echo of its usual resonant timber. He seemed taken aback by her coldness, and his response was feeble, almost desperate. “I lost everything.”
Her eyes narrowed, a sharp intensity flashing through them as she felt a fissure in her usually composed demeanor. With a voice laced with icy reproach, she corrected him sharply, “We lost, Corlys. We.”
Her words seemed to strike him with the weight of solemn truth, settling on his shoulders like an irrefutable indictment. They had both suffered immense losses–not just him alone. The pain registered clearly on his face, a visible manifestation of his inner turmoil, and he averted his gaze as she approached in an attempt to mask the emotions brimming in his eyes.
Rhaenys sat beside him on the bed, her movements gentle and deliberate–despite her cold fury. She took his hand in hers, soothingly running a damp cloth over his skin, washing away the grime and sweat of illness. The room was enveloped in a heavy silence, dense with the weight of unspoken words–echoes of past arguments mindled with threads of relief and memories that lingered in the air like ghosts.
His eyes wandered around the room, a subtle shift in his demeanor, a slight easing of tension. “Dragonstone?”
“They brought you in last night,” she replied, carefully dabbing the cloth on his wrist, where his pulse beat a steady rhythm under her fingers, still noticeably warm.
Corlys responded with a wry chuckle, a faint smile touching his lips as he spoke, “Clinging to life like a half-drowned sailor to a piece of driftwood, no doubt.”
In that moment, with his attempt at humor, there was a brief respite from the gravity of their situation, a shared understanding that, despite everything, they remained tethered to each other.
“The maesters were doubtful of your survival,” Rhaenys murmured, gently turning his hand to cleanse the underside of his palm. As she tended to him, the profound silence continued to envelop the room, thick and heavy. She allowed it to linger.
Corlys’s gaze followed her movements, his expression reflective. Seemingly seeking to divert the topic, he ventured, “I understand we have a new king.”
Rhaenys paused, her hands methodically cleaning between his fingers, although the skin was already clean. It was a deliberate action, a distraction from the raw edges of her emotions.
“The Stranger cast a long shadow over this family,” she responded, her voice low and steady. She moved the cloth up to his brow, gently wiping away any vestiges of discomfort. Corlys’s eyes softened, searching her face as if he were a desperate wanderer seeking a sign of live in a landscape of desolation. Yet, life was not what she could offer him now.
“Your brother is also dead,” she said quietly, locking eyes with him as she broke the heavy news.
The impact of her words were immediate. Confusion and pain knitted her husband’s brows together, his face a canvas of shock and anguish. He made an effort to sit up, a groan escaping him as pain seemed to shoot through his body. He managed only a slight elevation before the effort proved too much, and he sank back onto the pillows, a hand clutching at his chest. His breathing became labored, his eyes wide and searching hers for answers. How?
As she provided context for the staggering loss he was grappling with, Rhaenys’s voice carried a solemnity that resonated in the quiet room. “In his haste to bury you and claim your seat, he stood before the King and denounced Laenor’s sons as illegitimate.”
Corlys exhaled a weary sigh, his head skating in disbelief as the range of emotions played across his features–disbelief, anger, betrayal, sadness, and loss.
“Daemon took his head for it,” Rhaenys stated, her voice carrying a detached flatness as she relayed the grim outcome.
Corlys’s reaction was a humorless scoff. “Heedless ambition has always been a Velaryon weakness.”
“That heedless ambition won us all that we now possess,” Rhaenys countered softly, her hand gently pressing against his chest to encourage him to lie back comfortably. She returned to dabbing at the seat on his brow, her touch tender yet fraught with apprehension.
His brows knitted together, the furrows deepening as he reflected on her words. “Heedless ambition has cost us everything that we love.”
The admission wrapped around Rhaenys’s aching heart like a cold shroud, settling heavily among the fragments of her shattered spirit. Her eyes fluttered shut momentarily as she absorbed the sign and strange solace of his words–an acknowledgement of their shared burden of loss due to their ambition.
“You were right, Rhaenys,” Corlys finally admitted, his voice tinged with a bitterness that betrayed his inner turmoil. “I reached too far. And for nothing.”
Rhaenys had waited years to hear these words, yet their arrival brought no comfort, only slicing deeper into her wounds. They had once had everything, yet it had never been enough.
“Why did you leave me?” The question escaped her lips, laden with hurt and weariness that she couldn’t disguise.
Corlys’s gaze met hers, fraught with pain as he clasped her hand. His confession was raw, his voice barely above a whisper, revealing his wounds to her. “After Laenor was slain… I couldn’t bear to face you.” His eyes held hers, reflecting a torment born of grief and self-reproach. “I fled to the Stepstones, seeking my own death.”
The honesty in his admission laid bare the depth of his despair, offering Rhaenys a glimpse into the dark abyss he had been grappling with–a man haunted by loss, driven to the brink of self-destruction. Her fingers tightened around his, clasping them firmly. It was something she understood well, a mirror to her own abyss, though she never afforded herself to seek it–without their children, what indeed remained for them? Yet, she had glimpses of hope, echoes of their lineage in their granddaughters–Baela, Rhaena, and even Daenera. Death might seem a merciful release for themselves, but it would abandon those who still lived and remembered them. Her grip intensified, as if to convey her resolve through their intertwined hands.
A solitary tear rolled down her cheek, marking the first she had shed in years.
“I am relieved that you failed,” she whispered, her voice soft and laden with deep emotions. Unspoken words hung between them, a plea for him not to leave her in solitude–she could not, would not be able to bear that.
The slight upturn of his lips, fragile yet genuine, eased the sharp edges of her bitterness. His smile, though faint, was a balm to her aching heart. He exhaled slowly, his resignation palpable in the quiet of the room.
“Our pursuit of the Iron Throne…is at an end,” Corlys declared, squeezing her hand as if to solidify their mutual decision. The warmth of his touch seemed to seep into her skin, mingling with her own. “We shall declare for no one. We will retire to High Tide to be content… with our grandchildren and whatever else remains to us.”
Rhaenys stared at her husband, her eyes searching his for an understanding she felt slipping away. While she might have once yeared to hear him speak of withdrawing from the political fray, the words seemed to only jolt her now. Corlys, who had sailed restless and untamable as the sea, now spoke of retreating inward, and it left her unsettled.
“It is the thought of those children that now rob me of sleep,” Rhaenys confessed, her voice tinged with fatigue. “Jace, Luke and Joff are all claimants to the throne. Those boys will not be safe so long as Aegon is king. And they hold Daenera as a hostage in King’s Landing…”
“Rhaenyra was complicit in our son’s death,” Corlys stated flatly, voice carrying a bitter edge. His expression hardened with resentment. “That girl destroys everything she touches–”
“That ‘girl,’” Rhaenys interjected sharply, “is holding the realm together at present.”
Corlys paused, seemingly taken aback by the conviction in her voice. The room fell into a tense silence, the weight of their years and losses between them, mingling with the cool draft that flickered the nearby candle. Rhaenys’s gaze did not waver, holding onto the thread of duty that had defined so much of their lives.
Rhaenys had once harbored the same harsh feelings as Corlys, her soul steeped in bitterness from the loss of their son and the resentment that Rhaenyra would have a hand in his murder–and part of her had resented Rhaenyra that it was she, not her, that would ascend to the throne–the very throne that had been denied her all those years ago Yet, living with such bitterness proved to be a cold companion, sapping her spirit day by day. She couldn’t cling to that hatred any longer; while the resentment lingered and forgiveness was beyond her, the burden of hatred was too heavy to bear any further. Baela had wisely pointed out that if they didnøt stand by and fight for the loved ones they still had, all that remained was a hollow emptiness.
“Every man standing around the Painted Table urges her to plunge the realm into war,” Rhaenys said, her voice steady despite the weight of the topic. “Rhaenyra is the one who’s demonstrated restraint.”
Corlys observed her intently, taking in her words.
“We’ve lost our children,” she whispered, her voice cracking slightly. “Our resentment will bring us nothing but empty halls. Retreat might spare us, but it will not spare those we leave behind.”
He shifted, the rustle of his beeding a soft sound in the quiet of the chamber. His eyes, usually so sharp and commanding, now reflected a weariness that matched her own.
“Rhaenyra shows restraint because she understands the cost of war,” Rhaenys pressed on, her hands clasped tightly around his hands. “She is willing to consider ceding the throne for the sake of the realm and her children–and for that same reason, she must fight for them. We both know what war does and what it can take from us. We’ve buried our children, Corlys. I can’t–and I won’t–stand by while our grandchildren risk their lives for their legacy.”
The Sea Snake studied his wife, his face etched with marks of a thousand sea voyages and just as many regrets. Slowly, he rested his free hand on top of hers, his touch tentative yet seeking. He gave her a small, contemplative nod.
Rhaenyra stirred from her bed with the dawn, despite the maester’s dreamwine, which was supposed to grant her a respite from her relentless thoughts. Yet, the sleep had been anything but restorative. She rose feeling as if a shroud of weariness still clung to her, a dense fog that muddled her senses as though she hadn’t slept at all–or perhaps had slept for centuries, waking to a realm unfamiliar and altered.
But nothing had been altered from the day before, not yet.
As her handmaids attended her, dressing her in garments befitting a queen, each movement felt laborious, each fabric heavier than it should. Her hair was brushed until it was silky smooth, then carefully braided. The crown remained on the dressing table, its presence enough to feel its weight on her brow.
Rhaenyra had taken a deep breath, attempting to shake off the cobwebs of sleep and the vestiges of wine that clouded her thoughts. She needed clarity, now more than ever, as she prepared to make her decision. Today, like every day, demanded her to be fully present, to wield her authority with the same efficiency as those who came before her–calm, calculated, and above all, clear-headed.
She lingered at the edge of the landing, her eyes drawn by the vigorous training session unfolding below. Daemon’s form was a blur of motion, each movement executed with the savage grace of a seasoned warrior. His expression was one of raw, unbridled intensity, a permanent sneer twisting his features as he dominated each opponent with the relentless determination of a storm sweeping across the sea. The sound of his boot connecting with Clarrik Plunder echoed sharply through the courtyard, the guard’s body hitting the ground with a heavy thud that resonated against the ancient stones of the castle walls.
Shifting her focus away from the brutal display, Rhaenyra turned her attention to the letter in her hand. With a steady inhale, she steeled herself for the words she was about to read. The red wax, embossed with the Hand of the King’s sigil, gave away beneath her fingers, fragments falling softly to the ground, even as the seal had already been opened–presumably by Daemon at some point during her sleep.
The warmth of the nearby brazier caressed her face, its flames licking lively, casting a glow that played across her features, lighting up her determined eyes. The soft crackles and pops of the wood burning punctuated the moment, filling the space around her with the sounds of the fire’s restless dance–restless as the man growling in the courtyard for his opponent to come at him.
As she unfolded the letter, the words began to reveal themselves, her pulse quickened with a sharp sense of trepidation. She scanned the words rapidly, each sentence amplifying the beat of her heart as a storm of emotions welled up inside her. Apprehension mingled with a steeling determination as she disgusted the contents of the message, the gravity of each word weighing heavily upon her. The missive’s implications for her rule and the realm reverberated through her, setting the course for decisions that would shape their fates. Her fingers tightened around the parchment, the crisp rustle of paper echoing softly in the mostly quiet of the morning.
Mother,
It is with a heavy heart and a sense of duty that I write to you to urge you to bend the knee to Aegon Targaryen, Second of His Name, as the legitimate sovereign of the Seven Kingdoms.
Rhaenyra paused, granting herself a moment of respite amidst the turmoil. She closed her eyes and placed a hand over the slight curve of her abdomen, where a dull ache lingered, a cruel reminder of the life that had once thrived within her–a life cruelly snatched away. The sensation of her unborn child’s movements, once a delight filled with promise and hope, now only underscored the profound emptiness that gnawed at her core.
The gods were truly cruel in their mockery.
Despite her expectations, the contents of the letter sliced through her anew, stirring a fresh wave of despair. A naive part of her had still clung to the sliver of hope for a different message, a different outcome. But the harsh reality offered no such solace.
Taking a deep breath, Rhaenyra steadied herself, opening her eyes to the unyielding light of morning. She swallowed hard against the lump forming in her throat, her resolve hardening.
Upon his deathbed, Viserys amended his wishes for the succession, naming Aegon as his heir. I understand that this revelation may be difficult for you to accept, but it is the truth, and one we should accept.
Aegon now justly assumes the crown and occupies the Iron Throne, fulfilling the last wishes of his father. The kingdom has acknowledged his rightful ascendancy, and it is incumbent upon us, following the late King’s desires, to do likewise. Hence, I implore you to consider the proposed terms of your surrender with openness.
Rhaenyra’s heart sank as a strangled, pained noise escaped her lips, a futile effort to stifle the sop that lodged in her throat, threatening to burst forth. She cast her eyes skyward, desperately trying to hold back the tears that prickled at the back of her eyes, as the words on the parchment cut into her like a finely honed dagger.
She stared at the letter, her gaze intense and unwavering, as if sheer willpower might somehow rewrite the devastating information it delivered. Disbelief and a profound sense of betrayal surged through her, clashing violently with everything she knew about the man who had supported her claim until the very end.
As she grappled with the contents of the letter, questions swirled through her mind, each echoing with increasing intensity. Did her father genuinely have a change of heart? Could it be that he altered the succession with his final breath, as the letter suggested? Had he revealed the prophecy to Aegon as he had done her?
With each unanswered question, doubt seeped into her thoughts, and then, a fiery anger began to kindle within her chest.
Her father had always been resolute that she was his heir, coming out of the seclusion of his illness specifically to reaffirm her and her children’s rights. The notion that he would change his mind and designate Aegon as his successor was unimaginable. What sense was there in affirming her as his chosen successor, defending her right to rule, only to revoke it in a cruel twist?
She dismissed the possibility outright. She couldn’t accept that her father, if truly intent on changing the succession, would have waited until his female moments to do so. He would have taken action years earlier, she reasoned. He would have yielded to the Hightower’s efforts instead of standing firm as he always had. It was inconceivable that he would use his dying breath to sow discord and chaos within the realm.
Rhaenyra clenched the letter tighter, her knuckles whitening as the fire of her resolve grew stronger. She would not accept these claims.
I understand that my safety and well-being may be a source of worry for you. Please be reassured, I am well cared for. The King extends his kindness towards me, and it is with a sense of joy that I inform you of my betrothal to the King’s brother, Aemond Targaryen. I hope this news brings you some measure of solace, knowing that my decision was made freely. Our forthcoming marriage aims to strengthen the bonds within our House, ensuring the stability of the realm.
In light of these developments, I extend an earnest invitation for you and our family to attend our wedding. My deepest desire is for your presence there, demonstrating to the realm the united front of House Targaryen.
I fully comprehend the immense burden of the choices before you, along with the sacrifices and concessions they necessitate. Nevertheless, I implore you to consider what a war would mean for the realm and our house should you refuse to accept Aegon Targaryen as the legitimate and undisputed King of the Seven Kingdoms.
For the prosperity and stability of the realm, and for the safety of our family, I beseech you, publicly acknowledge Aegon Targaryen as your sovereign and submit to his rule.
Sincerely,
Your Daughter,
Daenera Velaryon.
Rhaenyra exhaled slowly, her hand instinctively soothing the persistent ache in her abdomen, the throb made worse by the emotional turmoil stirred by the letter. It offered no comfort, only another sharp tool for the Hightowers to wield, a means to stir doubt and remind her that they hold the life and well-being of her daughter within their grasp. The desire to embrace her daughter, to feel her safe and close, gnawed at her restlessly. Yet, the letter brought her no closer to her daughter; it was just a cold expanse of ink on parchment.
As the implications of her potential decisions hung heavily in the air, a dark shadow seemed to stretch across her spirit, suffusing her thoughts with uncertainty. Was her rightful claim to the throne worth risking the stability and prosperity of the realm? Could she justify the risk to her children’s lives and happiness? What would remain for her, for them, if she capitulated to the Hightowers’ demands?
Each thought circled in her mind, restless and unyielding, like a tide crashing against the castle’s foundations–each wave a reminder of the heavy weight of the responsibility of the crown.
Below her, Daemon’s commanding voice cut through the metallic clatter of steel, his taunts sharp as the edge of his blade. He gripped a guard by the doublet and shoved him back with a forceful gesture–a clear challenge to come at him again.
Two knights advanced on Daemon simultaneously, attempting a coordinated assault. With a masterful parry, Daemon redirected one knight’s blade, skillfully cursing him to stumble into the path of his comrade. This disruption broke their attack’s rhythm and allowed Daemon to focus on a third knight. Their swords clashed in a harsh symphony of steel, he grabbed the doublet of the knight, twisting and pushing him back into his fellow knights, causing them both to collapse in a heap of clattering steel and intertwined limbs.
He barked out a challenge, frustration lacing his tone, “Get up! Fight me!”
Rhaenyra watched Daemon from above, his gaze catching hers with a fierce intensity that made her pulse quicken. Once again, she grasped the full depths of his desires–a deep, insatiable thirst for war and glory. It was evident in every aspect of his demeanor, from his aggressive stance to the relentless determination in his actions. For Daemon, war was not merely a possibility; it was an inevitability. He craved it, and from the fiery determination in his eyes, Rhaenyra knew he would drive them towards it by any means necessary.
As the skirmish unfolded below, Rhaenyra’s fingers absently traced the edges of the letter she held. Each movement of Daemon, each clash of steel, stirred a tumult of thoughts within her–his words echoing in her mind, urging her to take action, to declare war, to spill blood. His fervor stirred a knot of apprehension in her chest as she contemplated the potential aftermath of the war he so fervently longed for. The possibility of devastation loomed large, casting shadows over the future of her family and the realm.
Daemon’s desire for war was a path fraught with uncertainty, one that could lead to ruin as much as victory. It was a path as fickle as flames, threatening to devour everything in its path and leave nothing but ashes behind.
Beside her, Jace’s voice broke through her reverie.
“Daemon wants to fight for us,” Jace observed, coming to stand next to her. Together they watched the chaotic training below, a physical manifestation of his frustration and readiness for war.
Rhaenyra responded to her son’s observation with a cautious murmur, her voice tinged with weariness. “I will always fight for our family, but this is not as simple as one or the other.”
Jace’s posture shifted as he countered, “It could not be simpler. If you concede to Aegon’s terms, you will forfeit my life. And Luke’s and Joff’s.”
At her son’s assertion, a sense of resignation swept through Rhaenyra. She briefly closed her eyes, gathering her strength against the force of his argument. Upon opening them, she turned her eyes upon her son, watching him closely. “Are these truly your words, or are they echoed from another?”
“These are my words, Mother. And I stand by them,” Jace answered, facing her intense scrutiny with firm resolve, his expression marked by an unshakable determination. “If you relinquish your claim to the throne, we will be taken hostage, or sent to the wall, or put to the sword. I do not know which fate will await us, but I do know that they will call us ‘bastards’ first.”
Rhaenyra spoke, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the edges of the letter as though the paper itself could offer comfort in the storm of her thoughts. “Alicent has promised that you would be treated kindly.”
“The word of a usurper means little and less,” Jace countered sharply, his words carrying a wisdom beyond his years. His dismissal of Alicent’s promise resonated deeply within Rhaenyra, echoing the doubts that haunted her heart. If it had been only Alicent they dealt with, then perhaps they would have found common ground, but it was not solely Alicent they were to contend with.
“They have Daenera,” she said gravely, getting to the heart of the matter. “Should we choose the path of war, her fate becomes uncertain.”
Handing over the letter to him, Rhaenyra watched her sons’ expression transition from a worried determination to utter disbelief, his eyes flickered over the writing, widening slightly, and the frown that had settled upon his face turned into a scowl of incredulity.
“This is her hand, but these words… they’re not hers,” he asserted, his voice tinged with anger. “You mustn’t lend any weight to the lies of usurpers–they’ll say anything to justify putting Aegon on the throne.”
“It’s not the deceit and fabrications that concern me,” Rhaenyra said with a note of solemnity. The unspoken concern as to whether her father had truly changed the succession hovered in the air, unacknowledged yet palpable. “It’s the threat to Daenera–what they might do to her if I refuse to surrender the throne.”
Jace’s eyes met hers, brimming with a blend of determination and understanding. “And if you surrender, you risk losing all of us.”
Rhaenyra watched her son, her gaze studying him intently. When had the shift occurred? When had he become a man? He was no longer a boy intent on living up his title as her heir, but a man that understood what it was he was saying–understood the implications and consequences. He knew what he stood for and he was willing to fight for it. And for a moment, she saw his father in him; strong and honorable, committed to defend what he believed was right.
“I love Daenera as deeply as you,” Jace pressed on, his voice earnest, his presence commanding attention. “And I am certain she would say the same as I do. She would never want you to abandon your claim. She’d urge you to fight, to stand firm.”
As Jace clenched the parchment, the letter crumbled in his tight grasp, his voice infused with conviction. “Surrendering to their demands won’t bring Daenera back to us. She’ll remain a hostage, trapped by her marriage to Aemond. The only way to secure her freedom is by action–by asserting your right to the throne and taking her back in the process.”
He waved the crumpled letter. “Don’t let the Hightowers’ lies waver your resolve–you are the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, the protector of the realm and they are usurpers. It is your responsibility to defend it against people like them. Burn the letter, summon the council and show the Hightowers that you stand firm as the rightful Queen, that you will not bend the knee.”
Rhaenyra listened, the strength and certainty in Jace’s words infusing a new resolve within her. Her son, her once little boy, now stood before her as a man, his counsel not just comforting but wise. His words were not just spoken; they were declared, a fervent call to arms.
Below her, Daemon dominated the training grounds, his movements predatory as he paced back and forth like a shadowcat protecting its den. His commands boomed across the courtyard, challenging and taunting as he urged a knight sprawled on the ground to stand and engage him once more. His stance was that of an unyielding warrior, every movement sharp and decisive–his blood seemed to run hot this morning as he kicked at the knight struggling to get up, jeering at him.
Engrossed in her contemplations, Rhaenyra remained silent, absorbing her son’s words. It was only after Jace’s footsteps began to echo away, leaving a resonant silence behind, that she found her voice.
“Convene the council,” she commanded, her voice carrying a newfound determination. “And have the master prepare a raven. King’s Landing will have my decision.”
Jace did not answer, but she felt his agreement nonetheless.
The command to gather the council quickly spread through the courtyard, delivered by a knight whose voice cut through the clanging of swords, stealing away the members of her Queensguard, leaving Daemon only with a handful of knights.
For a brief moment, Rhaenyra’s eyes met Daemon’s. His gaze burned with a fierce longing for battle–for war. It sparked a flame of apprehension within her. Turning from the landing, she retreated into the castle.
As the council meeting descended into chaos, the lords clashed vehemently, their voices rising in dissonance. No consensus was reached, and the lack of unity among her advisors left Rhaenyra weary. She sank back into her chair, her gaze drifting over the assembled lords who continued to bicker, their arguments blending into a background hum of contention.
Daemon’s absence was palpable; without his strategic insights, the council lacked a decisive voice on matters of war, leaving the discussions to lords who were inexperienced with anything beyond petty skirmishes. Had he been present, she knew he would have opposed her inclination towards diplomacy over direct conflict. His presence would have brought a palpable tension as he pushed for more decisive actions.
Instead, there were only the lords and their petty arguing.
Lord Staunton stood slightly bent at the shoulders as he argued, “We must consider the long-term stability of the realm. An outright war could devastate the lands we strive to protect.”
“Stability?” Lord Bartimos barked, his jaw bristling with contempt. “There’s no stability when usurpers sit upon the throne! We must act, and act swiftly, to show that treachery against the rightful queen will not be tolerated.”
“If we rush into battle, we are like to fill the graveyards!” Lord Staunton frowned, the lines on his face deepening.
Rhaenyra’s thoughts wandered as she considered the gravity of declaring war. The weight of such a decision hung heavily upon her, filling her with trepidation. She had only just sent a letter to King’s Landing, refusing the offer of surrender and instead bringing them the terms of theirs. The room echoed with the sounds of disagreement, but beneath that noise, the silent burden of leadership pressed down on her. With no clear path laid before her, and the council proving more divisive than supportive, the queen felt the isolation of her position acutely. Her mind churned with potential consequences, the lives that hung in the balance, and the stability of the realm that teetered on the edge of her decision.
“The purpose of war is to fill graveyards, my dear Lord Staunton,” Lord Batimos said, his tone dripping with condescension. “The trick is to put more of their men in the ground than our own.”
Rhaenyra’s heart sank a little more with each word. She wouldn’t want to put any men in the ground if she could avoid it, she thought somberly, keeping her gaze fixed on the dust swirling in the beams of sunlight that cut through the room.
Lord Staunton bristled at Bartimos’ remark. “Easy words for a lord who commands from the safety of his castle.”
“Doesn’t make it any less true,” Bartimos waved dismissively, unaffected by the jab.
Before the argument could spiral further, Ser Erryk Cargyll’s voice cut through the discussion. “Lord of the Tides!”
All heads turned to the arrivals.
“Lord Corlys Velaryon,” Ser Erryk continued, “And his wife, the Princess Rhaenys Targaryen.”
Rhaenyra rose swiftly from her seat, despite the lingering weariness in her muscles and the dull ache that resonated from the recent childbirth. Her hands clasped before her, restlessly twisting one of the rings on her fingers as her gaze fixed on the approaching figures of Corlys Velaryon and Rhaenys Targaryen.
As Lord Corlys descended the steps into the council chamber, he leaned heavily on his cane. Each tap echoed crisply in the hushed room, his silver-white hair swaying around his shoulders with each deliberate step. The only other sound was the distant whir of the wind outside.
The seasoned lord moved with deliberate care towards the Painted Table, his keen eyes scanning the room before finally resting on Rhaenyra. His presence, as always, commanded attention, bringing with it a gravitas that was both reassuring and daunting.
Rhaenyra offered a slight nod, her gaze briefly touching on Lord Corlys as she addressed him. “Lord Corlys. It brings much relief to see you hale and healthy again.”
“I am very sorry about your father, Princess. He was a good man,” Corlys said, his voice rich with sincerity. The use of her former title momentarily unsettled Rhaenyra, but she masked any emotional stir quickly, her fingers tightening briefly around the ring on her hand. Her eyes drifted to where her step-daughters, Baela and Rhaena, joined their respective betrotheds, their presence reinforcing the ties that bound the family together–and her sons, seeing their betrotheds, seemed unable to keep the smile from their lips.
Corlys gaze swept the room once more before settling back on her. “Where is Daemon?”
“There were other concerns which demanded the Prince’s attention,” Rhaenyra replied, her voice even, choosing her words carefully to avoid delving into the personal strife that lingered between them. Daemon could be anywhere–training his frustration out in the courtyard, patrolling the battlements to ensure the guards remained vigilant, or even delving into the depths of the Dragonmont in search of unclaimed dragons to bolster their ranks. Whatever task he had set himself, it was enough to keep him from her side, advising her in these uncertain times.
Corlys responded with a reproachful hum, clearly disagreeing with Daemon’s decision to remain away. He moved closer to the Painted Table, his cane clicking against the stone floor with each step. His eyes carefully studied the map of Westeros spread out before them, taking in the wooden and brass pieces that represented their forces and alliances.
“Your declared allies?” Corlys asked, gesturing towards the pieces on the map.
“Yes,” Rhaenyra confirmed, her voice steady as she followed his gaze.
“Too few to win a war for the throne.” Corlys’s observation was a blunt instrument, striking at the core of Rhaenyra’s political position. The ripple of his words through the chamber underscored the gravity of their situation, reflecting the doubt and concern lurking beneath the surface of their precarious alliances.
Rhaenyra, feeling a deepening pit in her stomach, continued to fidget with the ring on her finger, a nervous tick that betrayed her growing anxiety. “Well… we would also hope for the support of Houses Arryn, Baratheon, and Stark.”
“Hope,” Corlys repeated, his voice a low and resonant timber that commanded respect, “is a fool’s ally.”
This remark stung, as it was intended to. Rhaenyra straightened, her eyes locking with those of Corlys. “Both Arryn and Baratheon share blood with my house–but all of them swore oaths to me.”
“As did House Hightower… if my memory serves,” Corlys remarked, his tone laced with a deliberate provocation seemingly aimed to unsettle her. The tension in the council chamber thickened as his words lingered in the air.
Unmoved, though slightly rattled by the challenge, Rhaenyra fixed her hardened gaze upon him. “As did you, Lord Corlys.”
It was both a challenge and a reminder of the alliance he swore all those years ago, along with the other lords of the realm, and it carried a certain undercurrent of a threat that he would not take kindly to him usurping his vows.
Lord Corlys met her stare, the lines of his weathered face deepening as the silence stretched on. The room was heavy with the silence, the earlier tapping of his cane now replaced by a subtle rustle of his garments as he adjusted his posture. His dark eyes briefly shifted to his wife, Princess Rhaenys, standing just behind Rhaenyra, seemingly exchanging a silent, significant glance before turning his gaze upon his grandchildren. The silence stretched, laded with anticipation, none daring to break it.
Rhaenyra’s eyes instinctively drifted towards her sons and their betrotheds, each embodying a distinct reaction to the unfolding scene. Baela’s expression held a resolute determination, her jaw set as if bracing for the storm of politics. Jace met his grandfather’s gaze with an equally steadfast look, his posture rigid, a silent vow to uphold his family’s honor no matter the challenger. Rhaena watched the proceedings with expectant eyes, her anticipation palpable.
Meanwhile, Luke bore a subtle smile, his eyes sparkling with relief and a touch of joy at seeing his grandsire robust and commanding, defying the fears that had shadowed his recent thoughts–relieved that he would not be made the Lord of the Tides on this morn.
Each sibling, in their way, recognized the gravity of the discussion, understood the fragile thread that had been pulled taut.
Corlys’s gaze eventually shifted from his grandchildren back to the council at large. He lowered his head slightly, a gesture indicating deep contemplation. When his eyes lifted to meet Rhaenyra’s once more, they were sharp and determined.
“Your father’s realm,” Corlys finally continued, his deep voice carried through the chamber, every word resonating with authority, drawing the rapt attention of all present, “was one of justice and honor…”
Hope swelled within Rhaenyra, a delicate bud unfurling in her chest with each breath. The allegiance of House Velaryon and their fleet was crucial should the winds of war stir.
“Our houses are bound by common blood and common cause. This Hightower treason cannot stand,” Corlys declared. The underlying message was clear: their alliance was pivotal, and any betrayal against it was unacceptable. The air was charged with the weight of his words. “You have the full support of our fleet and house.”
The Sea Snake bent his head to his Queen. “Your Grace.”
“You honor me, Lord Corlys,” Rhaenyra responded, her voice carrying a tremble of emotion stirred by the gravity of his pledge–and what it meant for her cause. She then nodded towards Princess Rhaenys with a respectful acknowledgement before turning back to the Painted Table. Her gaze swept over the intricate landscape, each ally marked by wooden pawns and each pivotal place marked by brass towers.
“But, as I said to my bannermen, I made a promise to my father to hold the realm strong and united,” Rhaenyra declared. “If war’s first stroke is to fall, it will not be by my hand.”
Corlys’s eyebrows arched, his face etched with a mix of surprise and caution. “You do not mean to act?”
The question lingered in the hushed council chamber, a reminder of the delicate balance between aggression and diplomacy. Rhaenyra stood resolute, her stance a clear reflection of her intentions. She was determined not to be the instigator of war if it could be avoided. Her resolve was not only born out of fear but of wisdom; she understood the heavy ghosts associated with such conflicts, not just in therms of lives lost, but in the lasting scars they would leave on the realm. She had promised her father to protect the realm and its unity–to be prepared for the threat from the North.
“Taking caution does not mean standing fast,” Rhaenyra clarified, her tone firm yet contemplative. “I wish to know who my allies are before I send them to war.”
As Corlys approached the Painted Table, the measured tap of his cane resonated through the council chamber, each step a deliberate echo in the tense atmosphere. He paused, eyes narrowing over the map at the depiction of the Gullet and its strategic surroundings. Drawing a deep breath, his voice carried a trace of wryness as he shared his own news. “The consequences of my… near-demise in the Stepstones is that we now control them.
Rhaenyra’s expression flickered with surprise, her gaze darting briefly to her councilors before returning to Corlys, her interest piqued by the implications of his revelation.
“I took care to fully garrison the territory this time,” Corlys asserted, his voice resolute, bearing the seasoned confidence of a commander who had twice claimed victory there. “A total blockade of shipping lanes will be in place in days, if not already. The Triarchy have been routed. The Narrow Sea is ours.”
Extending his hand to hover above the section of the map depicting the Gullet, Corlys proposed a strategic play. “If we further seal the Gullet, we can cut off all seaborne travel and trade to King’s Landing.”
At this juncture, Princess Rhaenys decided to finally add her voice, “I shall take Meleys and patrol the Gullet myself.”
Rhaenyra’s gaze met Rhaenys’s with a palpable connection; in her eyes, she found neither resentment nor hatred, only support. A hopeful feeling blossomed within her, vibrant and fortifying.
Lord Bartimos Celtigar, unable to contain his fervor, leaned eagerly over the map. “When we drain the Narrow Sea, we can surround King’s Landing, lay siege to the Red Keep, and force the Greens’ surrender.”
Rhaenyra, placing her palms firmly on the table and leaning forward, scanned the map thoughtfully. She didn’t want them to get ahead of themselves. “If we are to have enough swords to surround King’s Landing, we must first secure the support of Winterfell, the Eyrie, and Storm's End.”
Her eyes traced the locations of each house on the map, considering the strategic implications. By isolating King’s Landing and halting its trade, they could force a siege. The Greens, stripped of options and resources, would face a stark choice: surrender or endure starvation. They would have no choice but to negotiate if they wished to survive, Rhaenyra mused. She knew well the leverage they held with Daenera–she would be used to bargain their surrender and survival. More importantly, this tactic would seizure the safe return of her daughter. Rhaenyra was determined to use every advantage at her disposal not just to win, but to bring her daughter back unharmed, keeping the bloodshed to a minimum and maintaining the dignity of the crown.
If they were able to lay siege to King’s Landing, it might not come to war.
Maester Gerardys, seeming to sense the gravity of the moment and need for swift communication, said, “I’ll prepare the ravens.”
“We should bear those messages,” Jace suggested, his tone low and imbued with a confident resolve. “Dragons can fly faster than ravens and they’re more convincing.”
Standing before her, Rhaenyra saw her eldest son not just as a boy, but as a man. He mirrored the suggestion she had once made to her own father. She had been just a girl then, no older than Lucerys was now, imploring her father to let her serve as a messenger. The memory of the council’s chuckle and their condescending dismissal resurfaced in her mind–how they advised her to stay silent, to not overstep her bounds as a young princess, as a girl, that those were the matters of men.
“Send us,” Jace pressed, his words resonating deeply within Rhaenyra, intertwining with her own youthful voice from the past. Send us. See us. Trust us.
Rhaenyra’s gaze swept over her sons. She could see the understanding of the danger in Jace’s eyes, a maturity that belied his age. Luke, by his side, looked slightly unsure, his face tinged with anxiety as he tried to emulate his brother’s confidence, to stand equally resolute. On Jace’s other side, Baela’s expression was one of pride as she looked at her betrothed, her future husband and king, her smile reflecting admiration of his bravery.
“The Prince is right, Your Grace,” Corlys voiced his support, pulling the focus back to Rhaenyra.
Luke nodded, supporting his brother’s idea.
“Very well,” Rhaenyra consented, feeling her heart throb with a mix of anxiety and pride. “Prince Jacaerys will fly North–first to the Eyrie to see my mother’s cousin, the Lady Jeyne Arryn, and then to Winterfell to treat with Lord Cregan Stark for the support of the North.”
Jace nodded, embodying the stature and dignity expected of a prince and the heir apparent, his demeanor firm and purposeful. He had always embodied the quintessential heir–determined, steadfast in his duties, and relentless in his efforts to live up to the expectations set before him. And proud she was as she observed him now, ready to undertake this mission.
Rhaenyra then turned her attention to her younger son, who appeared less assured but no less determined. “Prince Lucerys will fly to Storm’s End and treat with Lord Borros Baratheon.”
As the strategy unfurled, a wave of shared anticipation and determination swept through the council chambers. Sensing the momentum, Rhaenyra allowed a slight smile to grace her features. “We must remind these lords of the oaths they swore. And… the cost of breaking them.”
