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Chapter Text

From the moment she drew her first breath, Rhaenyra Targaryen had been a willful child, rejecting all who sought to cradle her in their arms. Not her father, Viserys, nor her mother, Aemma. Not her esteemed grandfather, Prince Baelon the Brave, nor even her great-grandparents, King Jaehaerys and Good Queen Alysanne, whose wisdom and kindness had shaped a dynasty. Even her uncle Daemon, a man whose arrogance seldom wavered in the face of rejection, found himself uncharacteristically unsettled by her wails when he so much as neared her cradle.

She was a fierce, silver-wrapped thing, her newborn cries less a plea for comfort than a battle cry. No amount of soothing words or gentle hands could ease her distress. She would thrash and scream, a storm in swaddling, as though the very touch of her kin burned her skin, as if they were strangers rather than blood. They tried in turn—her father, soft-spoken and hopeful, his large hands careful yet uncertain; her mother, desperate with a mother’s love, her lullabies turning to murmured prayers; her grandsire Baelon, laughing at first, only to frown when she shrieked in terror, his calloused hands pulling back as though scalded.

But there was one exception.

Ser Harrold Westerling, her sworn sword, the steadfast sentinel of her infancy. The moment his arms encircled her, the storm ceased. Her tiny fingers would clutch at the fabric of his cloak, her silver head would rest against the cold steel of his breastplate, and in his arms, she would surrender to sleep. He was not her blood, not a prince, nor a king, nor a man marked by the weight of a crown, and yet she turned to him as though he alone in the world could offer her peace.

It became an unspoken truth in the Red Keep—Rhaenyra Targaryen, the realm’s delight, would have none of her noble blood. She would not be coddled by kings or princes, nor rocked to sleep by hands that ruled. The laughter of her grandsire, the cooing of her aunts, the careful affection of her father—she refused it all. Only her knight, her silent guardian, could offer her comfort, and only he was allowed to hold her.

As Rhaenyra grew, it became clear that her preference for solitude was not a passing phase but an unshakable truth. She tolerated few, and beyond the ever-watchful presence of her sworn shield, Ser Harrold Westerling, she wanted for no company at all. Attempts to soften her heart, to ease her into the company of noble children, were met with defiance as cold as dragonbone, her gaze sharp and assessing, weighing and discarding those who were not worth her time.

Queen Alysanne
She stood near the great windows, gazing out into the darkness of King’s Landing, though her mind was elsewhere. The torchlight flickered against the glass, casting shifting shapes against the walls, but she barely noticed. Her hands trembled slightly as she dismissed her septas and attendants, sending them away with a clipped tone that left no room for argument.

She did not turn when the door opened again, nor did she react when she felt the familiar warmth of her husband’s presence beside her.

King Jaehaerys I Targaryen watched her for a moment, his old yet sharp gaze assessing her. He had ruled Westeros for decades, but he knew his wife better than he knew the realm itself. Something was wrong.

"Alysanne." His voice was calm, steady. The voice of a man who had comforted her through wars, through grief, through a lifetime of trials. "Tell me what troubles you."

For a long moment, she said nothing. Then, in a voice quieter than he had expected, she finally spoke.

"I have been watching our great-granddaughter."

Jaehaerys frowned. "Rhaenyra?"

Alysanne nodded, her fingers gripping the windowsill. The wind rattled the glass, and for a moment, she thought she felt the weight of eyes on her, unseen yet wholly present.

"Since Aemma lost the babe, I have kept my eye on her."

Jaehaerys sighed, his shoulders slumping. The loss had shaken them all. Aemma had suffered so many failed births. Alysanne had always been protective of the women in their family, but she had shown particular care for Aemma and her daughter, Rhaenyra.

"And what was she doing?" he asked gently.

Alysanne finally turned, her pale blue eyes filled with something he rarely saw in them.

Fear.

"Watching me."

Jaehaerys’ frown deepened. "Watching you?"

Alysanne shook her head, rubbing her arms as though suddenly cold. "Not just watching, Jaehaerys. Staring. With so much… so much hatred in her eyes that it frightened me."

Jaehaerys hesitated. "She is grieving, Alysanne. Perhaps—"

"No," Alysanne cut him off. "This was not grief. I have seen grief, I have lived with it. This was something else."

Jaehaerys pursed his lips. His mind drifted back to every time he had seen Rhaenyra, to the sharpness of her gaze, the intensity behind those Valyrian violet eyes. He had thought it was strength, the same that had burned in Aegon’s eyes when he had forged his kingdom in fire and blood. But was it truly strength? Or was it something far more dangerous?

Alysanne exhaled sharply, as though speaking of it had put a weight on her chest. "It was as though she was waiting for something. As though she was measuring me, considering me, as one might a threat."

Jaehaerys watched his wife closely, taking in the truth of her words.

He would not dismiss them.

But neither would he let this stand.

"I will speak with Viserys," he said at last. "He must guide her. Before she learns to guide herself in a direction that we cannot control."

Alysanne did not answer.

She only watched the city below, wondering if somewhere in the castle, Rhaenyra was watching her, too.

And for the first time in her life, Queen Alysanne Targaryen feared a child.

Alysanne’s Final Days
But in the end, she never spoke to Aemma of her concerns.

Alysanne and Jaehaerys quarreled soon after, a disagreement that left a wound between them that even decades of love could not mend. She left King’s Landing for Dragonstone, seeking solitude—perhaps time to think, to breathe, to decide what must be done.

She never returned.

She died the following year, in 99 AC, alone save for the sea and stone. The Red Keep mourned, but its walls held no answers. Only silence.

And by the time Rhaenyra was old enough to understand the loss—if she ever cared to—Alysanne’s fears had already begun to take root in the world she left behind. The girl had grown into the woman she was always meant to be, and the storm in swaddling had not calmed. It had merely learned to wait.

King Jaehaerys
Her family, ever hopeful, arranged playdates and feasts, urging her toward friendship. Lords and ladies of the court would watch expectantly as their children approached the princess, their faces alight with the hope of favor, of forging a bond with the great granddaughter of the king. But it always ended the same.

At first, the other children would stand in awe, for Rhaenyra was not merely the daughter of their future king—she carried herself with an air of command that seemed far beyond her years, as if she had been born to rule rather than merely exist among them. But awe quickly turned to distress when she spoke.

Her words, sharp as a Valyrian blade, cut deeper than any child could bear. She was not cruel without purpose—she simply had no patience for simpering courtesies or foolish games. When one girl dared to call her ‘Nyra’ in familiarity, Rhaenyra had scoffed, informing her that she had no right to speak her name like a servant addressing a favored pet. The girl had blinked, stunned, her lips quivering before she fled, her skirts whispering against the stone. Another boy, eager to impress, had prattled on about how he would grow up to be a great knight. Rhaenyra had fixed him with an unimpressed stare and declared, “You won’t even be able to lift a sword if you cry every time someone says something unkind.”

Tears would follow, always. The children would run back to their parents, sniffling and wailing about the terrible things the princess had said. Their mothers would cluck in sympathy, their fathers would shake their heads, and whispers would spread—Rhaenyra Targaryen was not like other girls.

But if the court expected her to change, to soften, to be what they wished her to be, they would find themselves waiting forever. Rhaenyra did not bend, nor did she crave the approval of others. She was content as she was, standing apart, with only Ser Harrold’s steadfast presence beside her—silent, unwavering, and understanding in a way no one else ever seemed to be.

When the time came for Rhaenyra’s lessons to begin, the struggle was swift and unrelenting. She recoiled from the maesters, turning her nose up at their droning voices and ink-stained hands. The septas fared no better—she had no patience for their pious lectures, their insistence on modesty and quiet obedience. She would squirm in her seat, eyes rolling with thinly veiled disdain, before ultimately refusing to attend their lessons altogether.

No amount of coaxing, commanding, or pleading could change her mind. The Red Keep’s great minds and devout instructors, so accustomed to molding young nobles into proper ladies and lords, were left flustered and helpless before the iron will of a child who simply refused to learn from them.

But there were exceptions.

The dragonkeepers, rough-spoken men with soot-streaked faces and the scent of fire clinging to their leathers, earned her fascination at once. She listened when they spoke, absorbed every tale of dragons past, every whispered secret of how to care for them. They taught her how to recognize the subtle shifts in a dragon’s mood, how to move without fear among the mighty beasts. To them, she was no delicate princess to be coddled—she was dragonkin, a Targaryen, and they treated her as such.

As she grew, two others earned her rare favor. A northern governess, stern but not unkind, who did not shrink before Rhaenyra’s defiance. She did not chide or correct with empty flattery, nor did she soften her lessons to suit a spoiled princess’s whims. She expected Rhaenyra to rise to the challenge, and so, the young Targaryen did. And then there was the foreign healer—an enigmatic woman with strange remedies and a wealth of knowledge far beyond the confines of Westerosi tradition. Rhaenyra took to her like wildfire to dry grass, eager to learn secrets of the body and mind that no maester had ever bothered to teach.

In time, her lessons became an oddity whispered about in the Red Keep. A princess who refused the wisdom of maesters and septas, yet absorbed the teachings of dragonkeepers, a northern tutor, and a foreign healer as if she had been born for it. She learned on her own terms, in her own way—unyielding, untamed, and entirely Rhaenyra.

~

The Great Hall had been filled with laughter and music, the lords and ladies of court drinking to health, to family, to legacy. Jaehaerys had watched from the head of the table as his great-granddaughter sat beside Aemma, her posture too stiff for a child of her years.

And then, in a voice clear and unwavering, she had declared—

"He is not Valyrian."

The entire court had fallen silent.

Jaehaerys had barely been able to mask his shock as he had turned to the child, his brows furrowing. "Rhaenyra, I am of Old Valyria. My blood is Targaryen. My father’s father was Aegon the Conqueror himself."

Rhaenyra had simply tilted her head, her violet eyes burning with certainty, and said—

"You are not Valyrian. You are an Andal."

The hall had erupted into murmurs, into quiet gasps, into uneasy laughter.

Jaehaerys had been left speechless, forced to compose himself quickly before addressing the court. He had explained, with measured words, that he was indeed Valyrian. That their family had ruled Westeros for nearly a century.

But Rhaenyra had shaken her head.

"You follow the Seven," she had said simply, as if that alone erased his heritage. "A Valyrian does not worship gods of men."

He had never heard a child speak with such finality—as if the world’s truths were already set in stone within her mind.

Jaehaerys exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face.

"She is young," he said to Aemma as she tried to scold her, though even as he spoke the words, he found himself doubting them.

Later in his solar, seated across from his son, he spoke more plainly.

"Her way of thinking…" He trailed off, shaking his head. "It needs to be changed."

Baelon scoffed softly, his lips pressing together. "And how do you propose to do that? Beat it out of her? Chain her to the floor of the sept and make her listen to the Septon’s droning until she swears herself to the Seven?"

Jaehaerys sighed. "Of course not. But you must see the danger in this. She is not merely questioning faith, she is denouncing it. I have worked all my life to build unity between faith and crown—to ensure the Seven Kingdoms see our family as their rulers, not as foreign conquerors. And now… she challenges it."

Baelon was quiet for a long moment.

"She is a dragon," he murmured at last. "And dragons do not bow to gods."

Jaehaerys glanced at his son sharply.

"She will bow," he said, his voice firmer now. "Or she will learn what happens when a Targaryen forgets what keeps us upon the throne."

But in the end, neither her grandfather nor great-grandfather would accomplish that goal.

Prince Baelon, her grandfather, died a moon later from a burst belly, leaving her great-grandfather scrambling to confirm the heir he wanted.

By the time attention was brought back to her, he was unable to command the changes he sought in her education.

Jaehaerys, the Old King, died at the beginning of the year in 103 AC.

And whatever hopes he had of shaping Rhaenyra into something else—into something more palatable to the realm—died with him.

Chapter Text

When her father was crowned King of the Seven Kingdoms, all of Westeros bent the knee. Lords and ladies, knights and smallfolk, the great and the humble—all lowered their heads before Viserys Targaryen, the newly anointed ruler of the realm.

All except Rhaenyra.

She stood among the gathered court, a small figure draped in Targaryen red and black, her silver hair gleaming in the torchlight. While the rest of the realm humbled themselves before their king, she merely inclined her head in acknowledgment—nothing more. No curtsy, no bow, no whispered pledge of fealty.

The murmurs rippled through the hall like a rising tide. Some whispered of childish ignorance, others of dangerous arrogance. A princess—no more than a girl—refusing to bow to the King of Westeros?

When questioned later, Rhaenyra did not shy away from the scrutiny. She met their eyes with unflinching certainty, her voice ringing through the Red Keep’s halls as she declared, “Dragons do not bow.”

And that was that.

To her, Viserys was not His Grace, King of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm. He was her father—first, last, and always. The same was true of her mother. While courtiers fawned and fretted over titles and etiquette, Rhaenyra remained steadfast. She addressed them as Father and Mother, never Your Grace, never lowering them to the pedestal the realm had placed them upon.

Some whispered that she had no respect for her parents, that she was defiant, unruly. But Rhaenyra made her stance clear more than once: “They are my parents. I will not treat them as anything else.”

And no matter the whispers, the disapproving glances from nobles, the exasperated sighs of courtly instructors—she never did.

Aemma
She had dreamed of this moment.

From the time she was a girl, Aemma Arryn had been told that a woman’s greatest duty was to give her husband children—to bring forth life, to nurture it, to raise it into something strong and whole. And though her marriage to Viserys had not been her choice, she had come to love him in her own way. If nothing else, she had always believed that together, they would create something beautiful.

And so, when Rhaenyra was placed into her arms for the first time, Aemma thought she would finally feel whole.

But the moment she held her daughter, something was wrong.

The babe squirmed and whimpered, her tiny face scrunched with displeasure, and then she screamed. Not the weak, mewling cries of a newborn adjusting to the world, but something fierce, something wretched. A sound that struck Aemma with an unease she could not name.

She whispered to her, rocked her gently, brushed her silver hair with careful fingers—yet none of it worked. Rhaenyra wailed and thrashed as if she were being burned, rejecting her mother’s warmth, her mother’s touch.

Aemma’s heart clenched.

It would pass, she told herself. Newborns were unpredictable, fussy. But as the weeks went by, the rejection remained. Rhaenyra would not be soothed by her mother’s arms, nor by her father’s, nor by anyone of their noble blood. She would scream at the softest of caresses, stiffen at lullabies, twist away from comfort.

The only one she accepted was Ser Harrold Westerling.

A knight. A sworn sword.

Aemma watched as her daughter curled into his steel-clad arms, clinging to the very man meant to protect her. She watched as Rhaenyra stilled, as her cries died down, as she let herself be rocked to sleep without resistance.

And she felt the first pangs of grief.

Had she done something wrong? Had she failed her daughter before she had even begun?

She spoke of it to Viserys in hushed whispers, confessing her fears when the corridors were empty and only candlelight bore witness to her words. He brushed them away with kind smiles, assuring her that Rhaenyra was simply strong-willed—that in time, she would grow out of this.

But she never did.

She remained distant, stubborn, resisting every lesson, every courtesy Aemma tried to instill in her. She would not sit still for her septa, nor listen to her maester. She had no interest in the ways of ladies, nor in the children Aemma tried to introduce her to. She was sharp-tongued, quick to wound with words, and utterly unwilling to learn the graces that would keep her safe in the world of lords and kings.

Aemma watched her daughter grow into something she could not understand.

At times, she was proud. How could she not be? Rhaenyra carried herself with the presence of a queen even as a child. She had the blood of dragons in her veins, and she did not shrink before the expectations placed upon her.

But more often, Aemma was afraid.

She knew what it was to be a woman in Westeros. She knew what it was to be told to endure, to swallow pain, to sacrifice for the sake of duty. She had spent years trying to give Viserys a son, had suffered miscarriage after miscarriage, had held stillborn babes in her arms and wondered if the gods were punishing her. And now, as she carried yet another child in her womb, she knew what was expected of her.

She had done her duty. And she would do it again.

But Rhaenyra?

Rhaenyra had never learned how to bow.

And though Aemma wished she could be proud of that, she could not shake the dreadful knowledge that one day, the world would demand it of her.

Viserys
Viserys had wanted a son.

Not because he did not love his daughter—no, from the moment Rhaenyra was born, she had been the very light of his life—but because he knew the world. He knew the court, the whispers of lords, the traditions of the realm, and he knew that a son would have made everything easier.

But when the maesters placed Rhaenyra in his arms, silver-haired and squalling, he had thought, What need have I for another?

She was his daughter, his firstborn, and he adored her.

Yet, from the very start, she was different.

She was his, but she was not his to hold. He saw it in the way she flinched from his hands as an infant, in the way she screamed whenever he or Aemma tried to cradle her. He had tried everything—gentle words, soft reassurances—but the moment she was placed back in her mother’s arms, or his, or even his father Baelon’s, she fought against them as if their very touch were poison.

And then came Ser Harrold Westerling.

Viserys had watched, both amused and a little wounded, as his daughter—his little dragon—took to her sworn shield as if she had been born to be a knight’s ward rather than a princess of the realm.

Rhaenyra would not be coddled.

As she grew, her defiance became something he could not ignore. The court whispered that she was arrogant, unladylike, a true dragon in the worst way—but Viserys could not bring himself to correct her.

Because deep down, he knew.

She was more like him than she would ever be like Aemma.

And if the world could not handle her, then perhaps it was the world that needed to change.

Rhaenyra
She had always known she was different.

Even before she could speak, before she had the words to define herself, she felt it—a fire burning beneath her skin, a force thrumming in her very bones. As a babe, she had screamed when they tried to hold her, recoiled from their touch as if she already understood—they had all failed her in some way.

She was not like them. Hell, she didn’t even like them.

She was not her father’s daughter—he was weak. She was not her mother’s child—she would not be useless. She was a princess, a Targaryen, born of dragon’s blood, yet all they saw was a girl, a vessel, something to be shaped and tamed.

They wanted her to be sweet. They wanted her to be soft. They wanted her to be obedient.

They wanted her to bow.

But dragons do not bow.

She had known this before she had ever stepped foot in the Dragonpit, before she had traced her fingers over the ancient scales of a beast older and greater than any man who had ever called himself king. She had known it in the hollow words of maesters who droned on about duty, in the false kindness of septas who preached piety, in the wide, eager eyes of noble children who sought her favor yet crumbled at the first bite of her tongue.

She had felt it, surging through her veins like wildfire.

And the dragonkeepers had known it too.

They had not tried to make her less. They had not treated her like something delicate, something fragile, something to be handled with caution. They saw her for what she was, and in their presence, she learned what it truly meant to be dragonborn.

It was not about being chosen. It was about being undeniable.

And so she was.

She did not seek companionship, nor did she crave the approval of lords and ladies who would never understand her. She did not flinch from her mother’s disappointment, nor did she falter beneath her father’s expectations. They wanted her to be something she was not—something lesser, something easier, something small.

Well, fuck that.

She would not change.

Not for them. Not for anyone.

Let them whisper. Let them say she was ungracious, unladylike, unfit to be the jewel of the realm. Let them clutch their pearls when she refused to bow, let them scoff when she addressed her father as Father and not Your Grace.

She was a different Rhaenyra Targaryen.

A dragon that would not kneel. A dragon that would never submit. A dragon that did not pretend to be anything other than what it was.

And if the world did not understand that?

She would make them.

This world was backwards—where she was from, people followed the strong, not the weak.

She had seen what it meant to be powerless—to be crushed beneath the weight of life, to have her fate stolen by men who thought themselves her betters. She had watched. She had suffered. She had burned with the knowledge of what had been and what should have been.

And now that she was here—now that she was living this life—

She would never allow those things to happen again.

Not now. Not ever.

Chapter Text

The warm gusts of wind whipped through the courtyard as Syrax descended in a slow, graceful arc. The golden-hued dragon stretched her wings wide before landing with a resonant thud, dust swirling in her wake. A low, guttural hum vibrated through her massive chest, as if she too could feel the weight pressing against her rider’s mind. The air trembled, thick with the scent of charred leather and warm scales.

The guards stationed along the ramparts shifted uneasily, gripping their spears with white-knuckled hands, but Ser Harrold Westerling stood firm, his cloak snapping in the wind, his gaze steady as ever.

Rhaenyra swung her leg over Syrax’s saddle and dismounted with practiced ease. The lingering warmth of dragonfire clung to her fingertips as she pressed a hand against Syrax’s scales, murmuring softly in High Valyrian.

"Sōvēs, Syrax. Ēza iā syt iā jēdar." (Fly, Syrax. Hunt for a time.)

Syrax snorted, golden eyes narrowing before she gave a low, rumbling huff of understanding. The heat of her breath curled through the air like smoke, stirring Rhaenyra’s hair. Then, with a powerful thrust of her wings, she leapt into the sky, the force of her ascent rattling the banners overhead. The sound of her departure echoed through the courtyard, sending crows scattering from the battlements as she vanished beyond the turrets of the Red Keep, soaring freely above the city.

Rhaenyra turned to Ser Harrold, who inclined his head respectfully.

"How is my mother?" she asked, her voice neutral, but a flicker of something unreadable crossed her face.

Ser Harrold, ever steady, gave a small nod. "She is well, Princess. She asked if you would join them for luncheon."

Rhaenyra exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through her windswept hair. She did not answer at once, her gaze fixed somewhere in the distance—toward the chambers where Aemma lay, weak, frail, and ever fading.

"I would rather not," she admitted at last, her voice smooth but edged with something tight, something unresolved. "She has wasted too many years trying to give my father another son. I do not wish to watch her waste away for it."

Ser Harrold said nothing—because there was nothing to say. He had watched Rhaenyra grow from a stubborn child into an even more stubborn young woman. He knew well that no force, not even her father’s wishes, would compel her to sit at that table if she did not wish to.

They passed through the Keep’s stone halls, their footfalls echoing in the vast emptiness. The great corridors were lined with tapestries of Targaryen conquest—dragons painted in red and black, their wings outstretched over broken kings and burning cities. The glow of torches flickered against the stone, the light catching in the sharp planes of Rhaenyra’s face as she walked ahead, shoulders straight, steps measured.

When Viserys refused the King’s Chambers, unwilling to sleep in the rooms Maegor the Cruel had built, Rhaenyra had claimed them for herself a few years ago. The decision had caused murmurs among the court—what would a princess need with such vast and formidable chambers?

But Rhaenyra had ignored them. If her father had no desire for them, why should they sit empty?

They were hers now.

As they reached her chambers, the door swung open before she could knock, and Aelyth, her ever-diligent attendant, greeted her with a graceful bow.

"Princess," Aelyth said warmly, stepping aside to allow her inside.

Rhaenyra shed her riding cloak with a fluid motion, letting it fall into Aelyth’s waiting hands before moving toward the great wooden desk at the center of the chamber. Maps, ledgers, and scrolls lay scattered across its surface, the weight of responsibility evident in ink-stained parchment and wax-sealed decrees.

She turned to Aelyth.

"Send word to Merek—I want to discuss the progress of my papermill. And have Cassara summoned as well. I want to hear how the ten orphanages are faring."

Aelyth nodded, already committing the requests to memory.

Rhaenyra paused, glancing toward the fire where the embers burned low, casting the room in shifting gold and shadow. Then, almost as an afterthought—or perhaps as a final rejection of expectation—she added:

"And inform my parents that I will not be attending the luncheon." Her voice left no room for negotiation. "I have duties to see too."

Aelyth bowed once more. Something flickered in her expression—perhaps disapproval, perhaps quiet amusement—but she did not question her princess’s decision.

As the doors closed behind her, Rhaenyra exhaled and allowed herself a brief moment of solitude.

There was always something to be done—always a duty, always an expectation.

But at least here, within these walls, she ruled herself.

King’s Landing Below
Rhaenyra stood by the window of her chambers, looking out over King’s Landing. The city stretched endlessly below, a restless beast of stone and filth, its streets winding like veins, pulsing with the movements of merchants, beggars, and nobles alike.

She had never loved this place. It was loud. It was filthy. It stank of sweat and rot.

But it was hers.

Or at least, it would be.

The air was thick with the scent of the harbor—salt and fish mingling with the acrid smoke from the city’s forges. In the distance, she could see the Blackwater Rush glinting under the noonday sun, its waters reflecting the ships that came and went, filling the city’s coffers.

It was changing.

Because she willed it.

She had started with the papermill, a simple endeavor to her, but one that had already begun to shift the balance of knowledge. Parchment had always been too costly, reserved for maesters and lords, but she had changed that.

Then came the glassworks. The court had scoffed at the idea—"Glass is a luxury," they had said. Fools. Glass was a necessity.

The steelmill had been her greatest success. Before, the capital relied on scattered forges, each working separately, each charging whatever they pleased. No longer.

The orphanages had not been part of her original plans, but the sight of starving children begging in the streets had gnawed at her patience.

So, she built them.

She acquired ten orphanages in Flea Bottom, along with ten crumbling buildings and ten dilapidated stacked houses. Once her construction company was firmly established, she set about transforming the district. The orphanages were restored to proper condition, while the ruined buildings were rebuilt into stable housing, offered at fair rents to the families of her workers.

As for the stacked houses, she had them reconstructed into three-story orphanages, ensuring they could shelter and care for even more of the city’s forgotten children.

The soup kitchens followed soon after. She had seen the way smallfolk suffered when winter came, how desperate men turned to crime when their bellies were empty. A starving man had no loyalty.

A well-fed one had no reason to rebel.

But it was not enough.

The streets were still filthy. The air thick with the stench of waste.

Her father’s lords scoffed. “You waste coin on those who do not matter,” they muttered—bellies full, hands soft from lifetimes of nothing.

Let them sneer.

When the time came, they would look for their own names on the tongues of the people—and find only hers.

Her fingers rested against the cool stone of the window. Below, the city stirred, trade bustling along the docks, the foundries churning, the orphanages filling, the streets beginning to clear.

Slowly. But surely.

Let the lords whisper in their halls, let her father’s court think her ambitions were folly.

Cities do not remember cowards.

But they remember the hands that built them.

And when she ruled, there would be no doubt—this city belonged to her.

Meetings
The afternoon sun slanted through the high windows of her chambers, gilding the polished floors with streaks of gold. Scrolls, ledgers, and bound books lay upon the heavy oak table where Rhaenyra sat, her fingers tapping idly against the wood. Across from her stood Merek, the overseer of her papermill—a man of sharp wit and a keen mind for trade.

She had summoned him with purpose, and Merek—wise enough to know she wasted no time on pleasantries—had come prepared.

Rhaenyra leaned forward, eyes sharp. "Let’s begin. The mill—how is production? Are the water-powered presses operating to standard?"

Merek inclined his head. "Yes, Princess. The improvements you implemented—particularly the new pressing techniques—have increased output significantly. We’ve reduced waste by nearly a third."

A satisfied nod. "And how much paper are we producing each sennight?"

"As of the last report, forty reams. We've surpassed our original estimates." He hesitated. "However, we’re running dangerously close to the limit of our material supply. If demand continues to rise, we may need to expand sourcing."

Rhaenyra crossed her arms. "We will not cut production. We have enough cotton from my fields for now, but I want reports on whether expansion is necessary. The reeds from the Neck should remain steady—House Reed continues to send shipments in exchange for the rice seeds I provided from Yi Ti and Braavos."

Merek nodded. "That trade is holding firm."

"And House Stark?" she pressed. "The timber shipments—are they consistent?"

"They are. The glass you provide in return keeps the arrangement favorable. I suspect some of their bannermen may begin inquiring about paper themselves."

"Let them," Rhaenyra murmured. "If they wish to buy, they can—but only if it benefits us in additional wood."

Merek allowed himself a faint smile. "Of course, Princess."

She shifted her focus. "Our buyers—who are purchasing in the largest quantities?"

"The Maesters still buy the most, but noble houses and merchant guilds are taking an increasing interest. Lords and ladies prefer paper for their correspondence—cheaper than vellum and easier to store."

Rhaenyra smirked. "And exports? Are we expanding to Lys, Volantis, and Braavos as planned?"

Merek hesitated. “We are… but there is a complication.” He shifted his weight slightly. “One I suspect you will not like.”

Her eyes narrowed. "Speak plainly, Merek."

He exhaled. "The Citadel has begun producing their own paper."

A silence fell over the room, heavy as stone.

Rhaenyra leaned back in her chair, fingers steepled. "They seek to compete with me?"

"It appears so. They control the flow of knowledge in Westeros, and your papermill can threaten that. If noble houses and merchants rely on you for their own paper rather than them, they can create their own written records and that weakens the Citadel’s grip.” Merek hesitated. “But they will not simply compete—they will find ways to ensure you fail.”

Her jaw tightened. "I should have expected this."

Merek inclined his head. "Do you wish to respond by shortening the amount they can purchase?"

"Not yet," she said coolly. "I will bring this to my father’s attention. The Citadel exists at the Crown’s pleasure, and they would do well to remember it."

She stood abruptly, moving toward the window that overlooked the city below. King’s Landing was growing—her influence spreading like ink across parchment.

"They may try to outmaneuver me, but they will fail. The Maesters are bound by tradition. I am not."

A beat passed before she turned back. "Financials. Have the orphanage funds been distributed?"

"Yes, Princess," Merek confirmed. "As per your orders, one-third of the profits have gone to the orphanage master of coin, one-third to our workers, and one-third remains under your name for expansion and reinvestment."

"And the workers—are they being compensated fairly?"

"They are. Your payment system keeps them loyal. No one else in the city offers better wages. We have had no shortages in labor."

Rhaenyra tapped her fingers against the window ledge. "Good. A loyal workforce is invaluable."

She turned back toward him. "One final matter—expansion. Would it be wise to invest in another mill at this time?"

Merek considered before answering. "Demand is rising, but we would be stretching our material supply thin. If we are to build another mill, I would suggest securing more resources first—either expanding your cotton fields or finding a secondary trade partner."

She nodded. It was the answer she expected. She was not reckless—her empire would not grow too fast, only to collapse under its own weight.

"Then we will hold for now," she said firmly. "But begin scouting possible locations. When the time is right, we will move quickly."

Merek bowed. "As you wish, Princess."

She rolled up one of the ledgers. "Continue to send reports every sennight. And if the Citadel continues to push against us, I want to know immediately."

"Of course."

As the door shut behind him, Rhaenyra let out a slow breath.

She had built something of her own, something beyond her father’s rule and her mother’s expectations.

But power was never freely given—it was taken, held fast, and protected.

And if the Citadel thought they could move against her, they would soon learn:

Rhaenyra Targaryen does not yield.

Cassara’s Report
Cassara, the woman who oversaw the orphanages, sat at the long oak table, waiting with quiet patience. A practical woman dressed in modest yet well-kept attire, her hands were calloused from years of work rather than luxury. Unlike the courtiers who flattered and fawned, Cassara spoke plainly.

That was why Rhaenyra trusted her.

The princess entered in a sweep of red and black, in her riding leathers still dusted from the wind, golden hair unbound from the early flight. Aelyth moved swiftly to take her cloak after she returned from her check on materials with Merek, but Rhaenyra waved her off, striding to her seat across from Cassara.

"Let’s begin," she said without preamble.

Cassara dipped her head. "As you wish, Princess."

"How are they?" Rhaenyra asked, her voice steady, but with an edge of something deeper—concern.

"They are well-fed and clothed, thanks to your grain shipments. Winter stores are stocked, and the woolens you commissioned have arrived."

Rhaenyra nodded. "Good. And their health?"

"Most are well, but sickness is always a risk. The healers say the younger ones are more vulnerable. If we had more trained midwives and physickers, we could prevent further losses."

Rhaenyra exhaled sharply. Another problem the maesters would not bother with.

"I will see to it," she said. "Since the maesters will not spare their time, I will hire more foreign healers who will."

Cassara gave a small, approving nod. "That would make a difference."

"What of their education? Are the older ones being trained for anything useful?"

"Some, yes," Cassara replied. "Older boys have been placed in apprenticeships—scribes, merchant guilds, some at your glassworks and papermill. The girls, however…"

She hesitated.

Rhaenyra’s gaze darkened. "Speak plainly, Cassara."

"Some tradesmen hesitate to take in girls. They’d rather see them married off or put to work in the kitchens."

A sharp breath. A waste. A deliberate failure of imagination.

"That will change," Rhaenyra said. "I will speak to the guilds myself. If they will not take them, then we shall start our own training programs."

Cassara allowed herself a faint smile. "They would be fortunate for such a future."

"And their safety?" Rhaenyra pressed.

Cassara’s expression grew grim. "Most orphanages are well-guarded, but there have been incidents—thieves, street gangs preying on the children. The younger ones are targeted for pickpocketing. The City Watch does little to intervene."

Rhaenyra’s jaw tightened. "Assign more guards. If I need to pay blades myself, I will."

Cassara inclined her head. "A strong hand will keep them safe."

"And the court?" Rhaenyra asked at last.

Cassara’s smile faded. "Some call it charity. Others call it a waste."

Rhaenyra scoffed. "Let them sneer. They hoard their wealth while I build something greater."

Cassara regarded her thoughtfully. "A wise ruler holds the love of the people. Kings rule over nobles, but a princess who holds the city’s heart cannot be undone."

Rhaenyra met her gaze.

"That is what I intend."

Cassara stood. "You have given these children something they never had, Princess. A future. They will not forget."

And neither would she.

Chapter Text

The air in her chambers was thick with the scent of paper and ink, the remnants of her meetings still scattered across the long table. Rhaenyra had spent the better part of the afternoon discussing the future of her orphanages and papermill, yet her mind now turned to something far greater—the Citadel’s interference.

She would not ignore it.

Rising from her chair, she turned to Aelyth, who stood by the window, ever patient. The young woman had served Rhaenyra long enough to recognize when she was deep in thought, the flicker in her violet eyes signaling determination, not indecision.

"Aelyth," Rhaenyra said, fastening the clasp of her cloak. "Send word to my father."

Aelyth nodded. "What shall I say, Princess?"

Rhaenyra paced, hands clasped behind her back. "Request an audience—not just with him, but with the Small Council as well. I will speak with them on a matter of urgency."

Aelyth’s face remained neutral, but Rhaenyra caught the unspoken question in her eyes.

"The Citadel," she clarified. "They seek to undercut me. To seize control of what is mine. If we allow them to challenge me now, what stops them from challenging my father next?"

Aelyth dipped her head. "Shall I request the meeting for this evening or the morrow?"

"This eve." Rhaenyra’s tone left no room for debate. "I will not give them more time to scheme."

Aelyth curtsied and turned to leave, but Rhaenyra called after her.

"Ensure the Lord Hand is present," she added. "I would hear what Otto Hightower has to say about the Maesters’ ambitions."

Aelyth hesitated a fraction before nodding. "As you command, Princess."

As the door shut behind her, Rhaenyra exhaled slowly.

By nightfall, she would have her answers.

And if the Citadel believed they could maneuver against her in silence, they were gravely mistaken.

She would not be ignored.

The Red Keep – The Small Council Chamber
The chamber was quiet, the only sound the soft crackling of torches lining the walls. The black marble table stretched long before them—a symbol of power, authority, and the realm’s governance.

At its head, King Viserys I Targaryen sat, fingers idly tapping against the carved arms of his chair, his expression one of mild impatience.

Seated beside him, Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, maintained his usual composed, indifferent air. Grand Maester Mellos, draped in gray robes, sat with his hands folded in careful repose. Lord Lyman Beesbury, Master of Coin, leafed through a ledger, while Lord Lyonel Strong, ever the pragmatist, observed the room with sharp, discerning eyes.

Across from them, Rhaenyra Targaryen stood.

She did not wait to be acknowledged. She did not seek permission to speak. She claimed the room as her own.

“The Citadel moves against me.”

Viserys sighed, rubbing his brow. “Daughter, this again? What does the Citadel have to do with you?”

“Everything.” Her voice was even, but sharp as Valyrian steel. “They have begun producing paper.”

A pause. A flicker in Otto’s eyes—not surprise, but knowledge.

The Grand Maester gave a light chuckle, shaking his head. “Princess, the Citadel has always been a place of scholarship and innovation. It is only natural that—”

“Natural?” Rhaenyra’s voice sliced through his words. “The Citadel has existed for centuries. Never once have they sought to control this trade. Not when the first parchment makers emerged, not when Braavosi and Lyseni scribes began exporting scrolls. But now—after I have built a papermill creating somethings new that has already been spreading its reach across Westeros—now they decide to enter the market? That is not coincidence. That is calculation.”

Viserys exhaled heavily. “Rhaenyra—”

“If I may, Your Grace.” Otto’s voice was smooth, measured, as though explaining something simple to a child. “It is hardly a matter of concern. If the Citadel has chosen to expand its resources, it does not mean they seek to undermine the Princess. Paper is merely another commodity, like grain or wool. It does not determine rule or power.”

Rhaenyra turned to him, violet eyes unblinking.

“You know that is a lie, Lord Hightower.”

A flicker of something dangerous passed through Otto’s face—there and gone in an instant.

“Princess,” Mellos said, voice carrying soft condescension, “the Citadel is a neutral institution. We do not play the games of lords and ladies. We serve knowledge. If our scribes and scholars have begun producing paper, it is merely to ensure the realm is provided for.”

Rhaenyra laughed—a cold, sharp sound.

“Provided for?” she repeated, stepping forward. “The Citadel already controls knowledge. Every history, every medical text, every doctrine taught to the lords of Westeros is penned by Maesters. They have written the past. They have shaped the present. And now, they seek to command the very medium upon which history is written.”

She turned back to her father, unwavering.

“If they control the paper, they control who writes history. They decide who may learn, and who remains in ignorance. Who has access to knowledge, and who is left in the dark. This is not about trade, Father. This is about power.”

Viserys shifted, uncomfortable.

“You are giving them too much credit, Rhaenyra,” he muttered.

“Am I?” She turned to Otto. “Tell me, my lord, would you claim the Citadel has no political influence? That they have no say in the affairs of Westeros?”

Otto’s face remained unreadable. “The Maesters advise, as they always have.”

“They shape kings,” Rhaenyra shot back. “They whisper in the ears of lords. They are placed in every noble house in Westeros, influencing decisions without ever drawing a blade. If they take control of the written word, they will no longer need to whisper. They will dictate.”

Otto let out a slow breath, shaking his head. “This is paranoia, Princess. The Citadel has always been a friend to the Crown—”

“Has it?”

The question rang through the chamber.

Her gaze did not waver from her father.

“The Citadel wields its power carefully, subtly. But make no mistake, they do wield it. They shape histories, deciding which kings are remembered with honor and which are branded as madmen. They educate every future ruler, ensuring their way of thinking aligns with their own. And now, they move against me.”

She let the words settle.

“If they seek to push me aside, it is because they believe they can. And if you allow them to take what is mine, they will not stop there.”

Viserys sighed. “And what would you have me do, daughter?”

She did not hesitate.

“Grant my papermill royal protection. Let it be decreed that no institution—noble, guild, or otherwise—shall infringe upon my trade.”

Otto leaned forward. “That would be an unwise declaration, Your Grace,” he warned. “The Citadel does not take kindly to interference.”

Rhaenyra turned on him sharply.

“Then let them take it as a warning.”

The room stilled.

Lord Lyonel Strong, silent until now, finally spoke. “The Princess is correct in one regard. If the Citadel seeks to establish a monopoly over paper production, it would give them an unprecedented level of influence over communication, trade, and knowledge. That is… concerning.”

The Master of Coin cleared his throat, nodding. “If the Citadel controls the paper, they control the price of written records. They could choose to tax knowledge itself.”

Viserys exhaled. He hated this. He hated the weight of it.

“Father,” Rhaenyra said, her voice lowering. “You are the King. Will you allow the Citadel to take what is mine? Will you allow them to dismiss your daughter, a princess of the blood?”

Viserys closed his eyes for a long moment.

Then, slowly, he looked at Otto.

“Send word to the Citadel,” he said at last. “They will not interfere in royal trade. My daughter's papermill will continue as it stands—untouched.”

Otto’s jaw tensed, but he nodded. “As you will, Your Grace.”

The Grand Maester said nothing—but Rhaenyra caught the flicker of displeasure in his eyes.

She had won.

As she turned to leave, she did not allow herself to smile.

The Citadel had underestimated her.

They would not make that mistake again.

The Red Keep – Queen Aemma’s Chambers
The corridors of the Red Keep were quiet as Rhaenyra Targaryen made her way toward her mother’s chambers. The weight of her victory in the Small Council still lingered on her shoulders, but here, in these halls, she felt something else—something heavier, quieter, more familiar.

She had not intended to visit, but duty, in its cruel way, had called her here nonetheless.

The doors to the Queen’s chambers opened at her approach, the guards stepping aside without a word. The room was warm, perfumed with fresh lavender, the scent cloying in the heavy air. The great bed, too grand for a woman who spent more time confined to it than she ever had ruling from a throne, loomed in the dim candlelight.

There, resting against embroidered pillows, lay Aemma Arryn.

Her once-vibrant beauty had dulled, her face pale, drawn with exhaustion, her once-strong figure thinned from years of failed labors and unrelenting expectation. Yet, as she turned toward her daughter, her tired eyes held the faintest flicker of warmth.

"Rhaenyra." Aemma’s voice was soft, surprised.

"Mother." Rhaenyra inclined her head, drawing a chair beside the bed. "How are you feeling? Do you need anything?"

Aemma gave a small, weary smile. "There is nothing I need, my love. Only rest."

Rhaenyra reached for her mother’s hand, careful, as if Aemma were made of glass. "Did you receive my latest gifts?"

Aemma chuckled lightly, nodding toward her bedside table, where a handheld mirror with a carved dragonbone frame rested beside a small box of sweets. A tray held a collection of glistening jewels—pearls, rubies, deep sapphires from the finest jewelers of Dragonstone.

"You spoil me, daughter," Aemma murmured. "The mirror is beautiful, and the sweets… you always remember my favorites. And the jewels—Rhaenyra, they are exquisite."

Rhaenyra gave a fleeting smile. "You deserve beautiful things, Mother."

Aemma squeezed her hand weakly, studying her daughter’s face. "Have you just returned from a flight? You smell of the wind."

Rhaenyra shook her head, leaning back. "No, I’ve just come from a meeting with the Small Council."

Aemma blinked, her smile faltering. "A meeting?"

"Yes." Rhaenyra’s voice was even. "The Citadel sought to undermine me. I corrected them."

Aemma’s expression shifted entirely—her warmth replaced by something colder, something far more troubled.

"You—" she hesitated, exhaling sharply. "You made demands of the Council?"

"I did."

Her mother’s fingers curled slightly against the sheets, her knuckles paling. "Rhaenyra, it is not a woman’s place to make demands."

The words hit like a hammer upon steel.

Rhaenyra did not flinch.

"A woman’s place," she said, her tone quiet yet unyielding, "is what she makes of it. Not all women wish for their only duty to be bearing children until they die of it."

The air in the chamber stilled.

Aemma’s breath hitched as though the words had struck her like a physical blow. Her lips parted, but whatever reply she sought died before it could take shape.

Rhaenyra watched as tears welled, then fell—silent, unrestrained.

She had wounded her. Deeply.

"I see," Aemma whispered, turning her face away, staring at nothing.

The room felt unbearably heavy, but Rhaenyra did not take back her words.

She could not.

She rose, shoulders squared as she looked down at her mother’s fragile form.

"Goodbye, Mother." Her voice was steady, final. "I will no longer visit you while you are with child. It seems to upset you too much that I do not whimper behind a man."

Aemma did not respond.

The silence that followed was not empty—but filled with all the things that would never be said between them.

Rhaenyra turned, striding toward the door, and did not look back.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra had not visited her mother in over a fortnight.

She knew she should. Everyone knew what today was.

The maesters had been muttering about it since dawn, and the halls of the Red Keep were filled with a heavy, expectant hush—as though the castle itself held its breath. Queen Aemma Arryn would give birth today, and the entire city waited for the outcome.

She should go to her mother. She should sit beside her, hold her hand, pretend she believed the maesters' reassurances.But she had done that before.She knew how this would end.

Instead, her feet carried her elsewhere.

Through the winding halls of the keep, through the passages she knew as well as the sky. When she reached the chambers prepared for her uncle, the guards stationed outside stiffened, but they did not stop her.

They knew better.

Without knocking, she pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The scent of dragon leather and Dornish wine filled the air. A single torch flickered against the far wall, casting its glow over a map strewn across the table—one of King’s Landing, marked with ink stains and sharp carvings along the docks and inner city.

Daemon Targaryen stood near the hearth, his back to her, one hand resting idly on the pommel of Dark Sister. His silver hair was unbound, falling loosely past his shoulders, and his attire was dark and casual, as though he had little interest in the day’s celebrations.

Rhaenyra crossed her arms.

"How is my glasswork’s coming along?"

Daemon did not turn to look at her. Instead, he gave a one-word answer, his tone flat.

"Good."

Rhaenyra rolled her eyes, stepping deeper into the room. "Ever the conversationalist, uncle."

Daemon huffed a breath of amusement but still did not turn toward her.

"How have you been?" she asked.

"The same as ever."

"Brooding in the shadows? Riding Caraxes in circles?"

This time, he moved. Not a full turn, but enough for her to catch the glint of amusement in his violet eyes. His fingers tapped idly against Dark Sister’s hilt, a slow, thoughtful rhythm.

"And what of you?" he countered. "Still spending your days being a thorn in the side of the court?"

Rhaenyra smirked. "I do my best."

She paused, then leaned against the table, running her fingers along the edges of the city map.

"I came to ask a favor."

Daemon arched a brow, tilting his head. "A favor? I should have known you didn’t come just to make small talk."

Rhaenyra ignored his mocking tone. "I need some of your Goldcloaks to patrol my orphanages throughout the city. I have reports that the watch has been turning a blind eye to the different gangs in Flea Bottom."

Daemon’s expression shifted, something sharper flickering across his face. His fingers stilled against his sword hilt. He stepped closer, studying her.

"Are they threatening your children?" he asked, his voice lower now—more dangerous.

"Yes, but not directly," she admitted.

Daemon didn’t hesitate. "You’ll have them."

Rhaenyra nodded, satisfied. "Good."

She turned toward the door, ready to leave, when his voice stopped her in her tracks.

"That’s it?"

She glanced over her shoulder. Daemon scoffed, arms crossing as he leaned lazily against the table. "You came all this way just to ask for my men?"

She blinked. "Yes."

He let out a sharp laugh, shaking his head.

Rhaenyra smirked at him. "I’ll speak with you later, after the tourney."

With that, she turned and strode out of the room.

As the door shut behind her, his laughter lingered, softening into something unreadable.

Daemon
Daemon had watched her from the moment she was born.

At first, she was nothing more than a wailing thing wrapped in silk, a creature of blood and breath with a scream that cut through the halls of the Red Keep like a blade. He had thought little of her then. Another babe to be fussed over, another Targaryen heir for the court to fawn over. But Rhaenyra was unlike any child he had seen before.

She rejected everyone.

Her father, her mother, even the great King Jaehaerys himself—none could quiet her. She would shriek and flail as though their very touch was poison. Even he, the Rogue Prince, who had never been unsettled by rejection, found himself watching her warily when she turned those piercing violet eyes upon him, her tiny face twisted with fury whenever he dared come too close.

Only one man had been spared her fury.

Ser Harrold Westerling.

Daemon knew the man well. He had been his mentor once, years ago, before Daemon had ever earned his spurs. A Kingsguard of great honor, a warrior forged in discipline and duty. Ser Harrold had been relentless in his training, demanding excellence in swordplay, horsemanship, and the conduct befitting a knight of the realm. Daemon had chafed under his guidance, his own nature too wild, too untamed to be easily molded, but even he had respected the man.

And now, it was his arms that Rhaenyra sought, his presence that soothed her when no one else could.

A white cloak, sworn to the realm. Not a father, not a prince, not a dragon of her own blood—but a knight.

Daemon had not known what to make of it at first. Infants were strange, fragile things, and he had little interest in them. But as the years passed, he saw that this was not a passing phase.

She did not grow out of it.

By the time she could walk and talk, she had no need for gentle words or guiding hands. She was solitary, independent in a way that was almost unnatural for a child. She did not seek approval, did not beg for attention as other noble children did. She carried herself with a certainty, an unshakable knowledge that she was different. That she was greater.

The court expected a sweet princess, a jewel for the throne, but she had given them something else entirely.

Her words were sharp, cutting through courtiers and noble children alike without a moment’s hesitation. He had heard the whispers of the mothers and fathers whose sons and daughters had left her presence in tears.

Rhaenyra Targaryen is not like other girls.

No, she was not.

He had watched as she spurned every lesson that did not interest her, rejecting the maesters and septas who tried to shape her into something softer, something proper. She was not meant for delicate courtesies or the stifling ways of Westerosi ladies. Instead, she sought knowledge elsewhere.

The dragonkeepers. The foreign healer. The northern governess.

Daemon had seen it all unfold. While others tried to force her into the mold of a dutiful princess, she carved her own path.

That had been his first mistake—thinking she was merely a child rebelling against the inevitable.

Because she did not change.

She only sharpened.

By the time she was five and ten, there was nothing left of the girl the court had hoped she would become. The fire in her had not been tamed—it had grown into something far more dangerous.

She did not merely challenge expectations. She crushed them beneath her heel.

He had seen it in the way she spoke at court, in the way she handled the lords and ladies of Westeros as though they were pieces on a cyvasse board. She did not wait for approval, nor did she seek permission. She simply was.

And the most dangerous part?

She knew it.

She had come to him today, not as a niece seeking the favor of her uncle, nor as a princess deferring to the King’s brother. She had come as an equal. As if she already understood the balance of power between them. As if she already knew that he would not deny her.

And he had not.

That should have troubled him. That she expected him to comply. That she had bypassed her father’s court and come straight to him.

It should have irritated him.

But it did not.

It pleased him.

And that was the problem.

He had once thought she would be another girl lost to duty, another daughter sacrificed to a match of power and control.

He had been wrong.

She was fire itself.

And one day, that fire would burn unchecked.

When that day came, he did not know if he would stand at her side or in her way.

And he was not yet sure which choice he would make.

Otto
Otto Hightower sat within his chambers, fingers steepled, eyes fixed on the flickering candlelight before him. The shadows danced upon the stone walls, flickering with the rise and fall of the flames, but his mind was elsewhere, weaving through the careful tapestry of plans laid over the moons. He had always been a man of patience, of precision—never one to act in haste. And now, as the game moved towards its final strokes, he allowed himself the faintest of smirks.

The princess kept her distance of her own will. She did not seek her mother’s guidance nor her father’s approval, standing apart like a lone dragon surveying the realm below. It was not Otto who had set her apart, not a carefully executed whispering campaign or a manipulation of those closest to her. No, Rhaenyra had removed herself without need for interference. And that suited Otto well. Aemma Arryn, even in her weakened state, could have been a source of strength for the girl, a guiding hand to shape her into a proper heir. But the queen would never be granted the chance. The Grand Maester, ever pliable to the Hand’s wisdom, had seen to it. Aemma had been ingesting poison in measured doses for moons uncounted, just enough to wear her body down, to dull her mind, to sap her will. The queen would not—could not—truly fight back.

And when the time came, when she was too frail to birth another child, when the final draught ensured that both mother and babe would falter—well, Viserys would grieve, but grief was a temporary thing. Kings did not dwell in sorrow forever. The child, even if it drew breath, would not last. He had been assured of that. The body could only withstand so much. And once the queen was out of the way, Otto would be there, offering guidance, stability, and the next necessary step.

Rhaenyra must be named heir. That was the path forward. She was no great prize, no pliable figure, but she was better than the alternative. Daemon Targaryen was reckless, untamed, a creature of impulse and destruction. There was no controlling him, no guiding his rule. With him upon the throne, chaos would reign, and Otto had no intention of allowing such disorder. The lords would never welcome him as king, not without struggle, but Rhaenyra—she could be shaped. She stood apart from all, uninterested in alliances, unwilling to forge bonds that could fortify her claim. That was her weakness, one Otto could exploit. She would have no choice but to turn to those who remained steadfast, those who had stood beside her father.

But having her named heir was only one step. It was a means to an end, not the end itself. Rhaenyra was still young. She was still arrogant, believing herself above the lords who would one day bend the knee to her. She saw herself as a dragon, untouchable, but she was still a girl. And girls could be placed upon paths of another’s choosing. With her mother gone, there would be no woman of strength and intelligence to mold her. She would be forced to look elsewhere, to seek guidance where she would not have before. And Otto would be waiting.

Viserys was a weak king, but he loved his daughter, and in that love lay an opening. He would want to ensure her future was secure. A good match. A husband who could balance her, could support her, could temper her impulses. A man who would ensure she ruled wisely, that she had children, that the line of Targaryens continued. And Otto knew the perfect match. His own son, Gwayne Hightower.

Gwayne was no great warrior like Daemon, nor a dragonrider, but he was steady, dutiful, and capable. He would never challenge Rhaenyra, never attempt to rule over her, but he would anchor her, would tie her to House Hightower in a way that could not be undone. If she wed him, the court would see the wisdom in it—a unification of Oldtown and King's Landing, of fire and faith. It would make her more acceptable to the lords of the realm, tempering the fear they held for a ruling queen. And in time, she would give birth to a son of both Targaryen and Hightower blood, a boy who could take the throne with no contest.

Alicent was young, but she was already skilled in the art of pleasing the king, of offering him comfort without ever overstepping her place. She would make the perfect queen, not for her own ambitions, but for what she could provide. A son. A true heir. A boy who would have the blood of Old Valyria and the wisdom of House Hightower. A boy who could one day take the throne, displacing the so-called princess.

Rhaenyra would resist at first, as all young women did, but resistance would be fleeting. She would wed whom her father chose. And if she found herself with child soon after, her mind would be too occupied to consider what else was being done around her. By the time she realized the trap closing around her, it would be too late.

Otto leaned forward, the flickering candlelight reflecting in his cold eyes. It was all falling into place, every step leading exactly where he intended. It was a slow process, but he was a patient man. Soon, the board would be set. Soon, Rhaenyra would be named heir. And soon, a son of Hightower blood would be born—one who would wipe away any foolish notion that a girl could ever sit the Iron Throne.

Alicent
Alicent stood in her father’s chambers, her hands neatly folded before her as Otto Hightower relayed his instructions in that calm, calculated tone of his.

“Sit with the princess today,” he told her, barely looking up from the parchment in his hands. “Keep her distracted.”

A simple task, or it should have been. Alicent knew better than to believe anything was simple when it came to Rhaenyra.

“She keeps to herself, father,” Alicent reminded him carefully, not wanting to sound like she was making excuses, only stating a fact.

Otto’s gaze finally lifted to meet hers, sharp as a blade. “Then make yourself useful enough that she does not turn you away,” he said, voice measured but firm.

Alicent stiffened, swallowing down her immediate frustration. She was always meant to be useful. A dutiful daughter. A quiet listener. A careful manipulator, if needed.

“She will need comfort soon enough,” Otto continued, shifting back to his writing. “The queen will not make it through this labor.”

Alicent's breath hitched slightly, but she kept her expression even. It was not truly a surprise. Her mother had died in much the same way—birthing was a woman’s battlefield, and Aemma Arryn had fought too many battles already.

“You will not say as much, of course,” Otto warned. “But spread the belief that she is too weak of body, that it is nature that will take her, not ill-intent.”

Alicent nodded stiffly. She had no love for Queen Aemma, but she was not eager to see her go either. Still, her father’s words were law. She would do as she was told.

Later, at the Tourney

The sound of clashing steel and roaring crowds filled the air as Alicent carefully made her way through the stands. She spotted Rhaenyra easily enough, sitting in a place of prominence, her silver-gold hair catching the light like a beacon. But as she approached, she slowed her steps.

The princess was not alone.

Seated beside her was Laena Velaryon, her silver-blond curls pinned back elegantly, her laughter light as she whispered something into Rhaenyra’s ear. On the other side was Laenor, speaking animatedly with his cousin, both of them engaged in an easy, natural camaraderie that made Alicent feel, as she often did in Rhaenyra’s presence, like an outsider looking in.

She hesitated, hovering on the outskirts of their circle. For a moment, she considered pushing forward, inserting herself as her father had commanded. But the words caught in her throat, her body unable to move.

Rhaenyra had never wanted her there. That had been made clear enough over the moons.

She clenched her fists at her sides, frustration bubbling beneath her skin. Another failure. Another simple task she had been unable to complete.

Alicent’s mind flickered back to a memory—one of the first times she had ever tried to befriend the princess.

She had been younger then, still naive enough to believe she could earn favor through kindness, through guidance. She had sat beside Rhaenyra in the gardens, speaking of the importance of womanly duties, of how even noble ladies must know the art of embroidery, of sewing, of presenting themselves as proper and pious women.

“The Seven frown upon girls who do not know the simplest of tasks,” she had told her, believing it to be a gentle correction, a way to steer the princess onto a more righteous path.

Rhaenyra had not looked at her kindly.

“Are you going to be a dressmaker, then?” the princess had asked, tilting her head, her violet eyes sharp with amusement.

Alicent had blinked in confusion, caught off guard. “No, of course not, I—”

“Then why waste your time on things meant for servants?” Rhaenyra had cut her off, voice cold and dismissive. “Do you think a princess of the blood is meant to make servant’s clothes?”

Alicent had floundered, unsure how to answer.

“Run along, little dressmaker,” Rhaenyra had said, already turning away from her, already moving on. “I have no time for stupid, weak girls in my circle.”

The words had burned, had left a wound far deeper than Alicent had been willing to admit.

As the memory faded, Alicent pressed her lips together, her shoulders straightening. She would not be embarrassed by Rhaenyra again. She would not chase after her approval, would not seek out the sharpness of her tongue.

With one last glance at the princess, Alicent turned and moved in the opposite direction. It was better this way.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra sat high in the royal box, her chin propped against her hand, watching as the knights clashed below. The sunlight gleamed off polished steel, the sound of swords striking shields rang through the air, and the crowd roared as another challenger was unhorsed. It was a grand show, one meant to honor her mother and the child she labored to bring forth, but Rhaenyra knew better.

She had known better from the moment she saw her father’s face tighten, from the way he had been speaking in that overly kind, overly soft way he always did when he did not want her to notice his worry. But she had noticed. She always noticed.

The summons came, as she had expected. A quiet word whispered into her father’s ear, and then Viserys was rising to his feet, his expression drawn, his movements stiff. He did not even look at her before he turned and left, a ripple of murmurs passing through the stands.

Rhaenyra exhaled slowly, staring straight ahead at the field. That was it, then. The last time she would see her mother.

For a fleeting moment, she thought of going after him, of trying to catch one last glimpse of Aemma, but what was the point? Her mother had never truly seen her. She had spent her life trying to make Rhaenyra into something she would never be.

A good girl. A proper lady. An Andal queen.

But Rhaenyra was none of those things, and Aemma had never wanted to understand that. No, her mother had chosen her own fate. She had chosen to be weak, to live a life shackled to the expectations of lords and maesters and all those who thought a woman should sit quietly and obey.

And what happened to the weak? They die.

Rhaenyra blinked once, then again, shoving away the dull ache pressing against her chest. It was not her fault Aemma had never embraced what she was—a dragon, born and bred. It was not her fault her mother had chosen to fade away rather than fight. She should have fought. She should have raged, should have defied, should have burned everything down before she let them put her in that bed to die.

But she hadn’t. She had allowed it.

So Rhaenyra simply sat there, watching the joust, feeling nothing.

A cheer rose from the crowd as another knight fell, and she tilted her head, scanning the field below just as another name was called.

Ser Fucktard Hightower.

Well, not really, but it might as well have been. She watched as Otto Hightower inclined his head slightly when summoned, his face an ever-serious mask of false piety as he left the stands to follow her father. Rhaenyra let out a quiet snort. Of course. Viserys could not even wipe his own fucking arse without Otto Hightower there to approve the decision. Both of her parents were weak as fuck. One had died because of it, and the other might as well have.

The thought amused her more than it should have, a small smirk tugging at the corner of her lips before she forced her focus back on the lists. She had little interest in watching bumbling fools wave their swords about, but then, her uncle was riding today.

Daemon Targaryen, her Kepa ever-defiant shadow, was a true dragon. She watched as he moved across the field, confidence radiating from every step, his armor dark and gleaming like freshly spilled blood. There was no hesitation in his movements, no doubt in his skill. He knew he would win.

Rhaenyra leaned forward slightly as his opponent came forward—Ser Cole or something, a Dornish nobody with a name she wouldn’t bother remembering unless he proved himself worthy of it.

The horns sounded, and the two knights charged.

Daemon struck with the precision of a warrior born, his lance finding its mark, his opponent barely able to withstand the force. Rhaenyra exhaled slowly, feeling something stir in her chest as she watched. A thrill, a heat curling low in her stomach.

Dragons take what they want.

The thought came unbidden, but she did not push it away. She only watched, eyes sharp, lips parted, as her uncle moved with the ease of a conqueror, his every action a declaration of ownership.

She wondered if he would take what he wanted today.

Before she could entertain the thought further, a voice called her name, cutting through the noise of the crowd. She turned her head slightly, gaze flicking to the Red Keep in the distance.

She was being summoned back.

Of course she was.

Viserys
Viserys sat in the dark of his chambers, staring at the empty goblet in his hand. The wine had dulled the edges of his mind, but not enough. Nothing would ever be enough.

Aemma was gone.

He had done it.

The words rang in his head like a tolling bell, over and over, drowning him in shame. He had been given a choice—his wife or his son. And he had chosen the boy. He had listened to the maesters, to Otto, to all those who told him there was no other way. He had sat beside Aemma as she cried out in agony, as she bled beneath their knives, and he had done nothing.

She had died in horror, in pain, her last moments filled with suffering. And for what?

For nothing.

His son, his Baelon, was gone. Less than a day in this world, and already the gods had taken him.

Viserys squeezed his eyes shut, swallowing back the bile rising in his throat.

He could not tell Rhaenyra.

She had shut herself in her rooms, refusing to come out, refusing to look at him. He had seen the way she had watched him at the tourney, the cold detachment in her eyes. She had known. Maybe not the details, not the horror of it, but she had known enough. Enough to turn away from him, just as she always did when she was wounded.

He had no words that would make it right.

~The Next Day~

Baelon was laid to rest beside his mother. The boy he had killed Aemma for, the son who was supposed to be his salvation, was gone before he had even begun to live.

The gods had punished him. That much was clear.

He sat through the funeral like a man in a daze, listening to the prayers, the meaningless words, the whispers of courtiers who already plotted their next moves. The realm needed an heir, they would say. The king needed another wife, they would whisper. Aemma had been gone for less than a day, and already, the vultures were circling.

And leading them all, as always, was Otto Hightower.

The Following Day
“My king,” Otto said, his voice smooth, practiced, as he sat in the small council meeting. “The realm is uncertain. It needs clarity.”

Viserys was exhausted. His limbs felt heavy, his mind fogged. He did not want to discuss matters of state. He wanted to grieve. He wanted to sleep. He wanted Aemma back.

But he could have none of those things.

“My brother is my heir,” he said, though the words rang hollow even as he spoke them.

Otto inclined his head, the picture of practiced patience. “Daemon is unfit to rule, Your Grace. You know this. The lords know this. The realm knows this.”

Viserys sighed, rubbing a hand over his face.

“With the right guidance, Rhaenyra could be prepared,” Otto continued. “She is of the blood, she has the look of Old Valyria, and the lords—while hesitant—would come to accept her in time.”

“She is young,” Viserys said, though he was not truly arguing.

“All the more reason to name her now,” Otto pressed. “To secure her place, to ensure she is given the education she will need. A girl cannot be a king, Your Grace, but a queen with the right counsel… she could be what the realm needs.”

Viserys was silent for a long moment.

Finally, he nodded. “I will speak to her on the morrow.”

Otto smiled, bowing his head. “Wise, my king. Very wise.”

On the next day the sky was overcast as Viserys stood on the balcony overlooking the Red Keep, Rhaenyra beside him. She had come when summoned, silent and still, her gaze fixed on the horizon. She had not looked at him once since her mother’s death.

He exhaled slowly, then began, “There is something you must know. Something that has been passed from king to heir since the days of Aegon the Conqueror.”

That caught her attention.

He saw her shoulders stiffen, her head tilt just slightly in his direction.

“Aegon saw what was to come,” Viserys continued. “A vision, a dream of a darkness that will sweep across Westeros. It will come from the North, from beyond the Wall. A terrible cold that will consume everything in its path.”

Rhaenyra turned to look at him fully now, her expression unreadable.

“Aegon called it the Song of Ice and Fire,” he said, watching her carefully. “It is why he conquered. Why we must always sit the Iron Throne. Because only a Targaryen can unite the realm against it.”

She studied him, her lips pressing into a thin line. “You believe this.”

“I do,” he said, firmly. “It is our duty. That is why we rule.”

He saw something shift in her gaze, something sharp and knowing.

“You said the prince who was promised,” she said slowly, her voice even.

He nodded.

She tilted her head. “In Valyrian, the word for ‘prince’ is not gendered.”

Viserys hesitated. “What?”

“There is no distinction,” she clarified. “It is simply an heir. Not a prince. Not a princess. Just the one who is promised.”

She said it plainly, without emotion, but it struck him hard. He had never considered it before.

Rhaenyra turned back toward the horizon, crossing her arms.

“I will need a day,” she said.

Viserys blinked. “A day?”

She nodded. “To think it over.”

He had not expected that.

But after a moment, he simply nodded. “Very well.”

Rhaenyra said nothing more, standing in perfect silence as she gazed toward the sea.

Rhaenyra
Rhaenyra walked through the dim corridors of the Red Keep, her steps slow and deliberate. The weight of her father’s words still lingered in her mind, but she would not let it settle as a burden. No, this was only the beginning.

She knew this moment would mark the start of everything—where her true path would begin. But she would tread carefully. She would not simply take the crown and let them dictate what came next. No, if they wanted her as heir, they would meet her demands. She would shape this to her advantage, ensuring that her claim was not just one granted but one solidified, made undeniable.

There was much to plan. If she was to rule, she would do so on her own terms. The council—those men who had whispered and schemed in the shadows for years—would come to heel. Not all at once, but over time. She would make certain of it.

By the time she reached her chambers, her mind was already spinning with the things she needed to do. She dismissed her attendants without a word, waiting until the doors were firmly shut before she called for the book of laws in secret. The old tome was heavy in her hands when it arrived, its pages filled with the statues and decrees that had shaped the realm for generations.

She moved to her desk, candlelight flickering as she carefully turned each page, scanning for what she sought. There were ways to make herself unshakable, to bind the realm to her cause. Laws and precedents she could use, history she could wield as weapons in her favor.

She made notes in the margins of her parchment, her quill moving swiftly as she wrote down points to press, obstacles she would have to maneuver around, alliances she might need to forge.

She thought of the lords who would oppose her, the ones who would hide behind tradition and whisper that no woman should sit the Iron Throne. She would need ways to bend them, to make them see that they would gain more by supporting her than by resisting her. She would need to learn everything—their weaknesses, their ambitions, their fears.

She would rule.

Not just in name. Not as a pawn.

Hours passed, the sky outside darkening until only the moon and stars cast their pale light over the Keep. The air had grown still, the castle falling into the hush of night.

Setting her quill down, Rhaenyra exhaled slowly. The morrow would be a turning point, not just for her, but for Westeros.

She rang the bell, summoning her trusted attendants to prepare her for bed. As they moved about the chambers, brushing her hair, removing the weight of her formal attire, she sat quietly, her gaze fixed on the candle’s flame.

On the morrow, she would set her course. And over time, she would make certain the realm bent to her will.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra strode into the chamber of the Small Council with her head held high, her expression composed, unreadable. The men before her had likely spent the night discussing, debating, perhaps even questioning whether she would accept the title of heir at all. Let them wonder. She would answer them now on her own terms.

She met their gazes, one by one—her father at the head of the table, Otto Hightower seated beside him, the other lords watching her with varying degrees of curiosity, wariness, and in some cases, indifference.

“Good morrow, my lords,” she greeted smoothly, her voice even but carrying through the chamber. “I have given much thought to my father’s offer, and I have decided that I will accept the position as heir to the Iron Throne.”

There was a shift in the room, some of the men exchanging glances, but she did not pause to let them speak.

“However,” she continued, “there are certain things I will require in order to fulfill my duty properly.”

Viserys sat forward, his expression wary but expectant. “Continue.”

She nodded, then took a deep breath before speaking again, this time louder, firmer.

“Alright, let’s get down to business.”

The bluntness of it startled some of the lords, a few looking outright uncomfortable, but she cared little for their reactions. She had made her decision, and she would not be cowed.

“First,” she began, “as heir, I will take my seat on the Small Council. My great-uncle Aemon was allowed to claim his seat at four and ten name days, and as I am now five and ten, I will continue that tradition.”

She said it plainly, without hesitation, leaving no room for debate.

Her eyes flickered toward Otto Hightower, who studied her for a long moment, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. He did not argue.

Of course, he didn’t. He thought himself clever. He thought he could simply ‘forget’ to summon her, exclude her from the true governance of the realm while letting her sit in name only.

She watched as his gaze flicked briefly around the chamber, as if silently taking the measure of the other council members. When none of them moved to object, he made his decision.

“That is doable, princess,” he said smoothly, cutting off Grand Maester Mellos before the old man could open his mouth.

Rhaenyra did not react outwardly, but inside, she smirked. The Hand of the King had made his first mistake.

Rhaenyra let the silence settle for a moment, letting her presence linger before she moved on. Her gaze swept across the table, meeting each lord’s eyes in turn before she spoke again.

“Next,” she announced, “all will be welcome to witness my formal recognition as heir, but I expect the Paramount Lords to be present when I swear my oath. And after, I will require each of them to swear theirs to me in turn.”

A ripple of surprise flickered through the council, though no one spoke just yet. She continued smoothly, “I would also like to greet them all personally once the oaths have been taken.”

She kept her tone casual, giving no hint to her true intentions. The council did not need to know that she planned to use those meetings to take measure of each lord, to understand their lands, their strengths, and their ambitions. It would not be enough to have their sworn words—she needed to know what truly ruled their hearts. And if their realms suffered, she would find ways to fix that too. A kingdom was only as strong as the men who served it, and she would make certain that when she took the throne, those men owed their strength to her.

“And after?” Otto asked, his voice carefully neutral.

“After, the other lords—noble and minor—will swear their oaths in one year’s time. Their heirs will follow five years after. And in the years to come, the oaths will be reaffirmed following the same process,” she explained, her voice cool and measured, as if she had given this little thought, when in truth, she had planned it down to every detail.

She could already see the council calculating.

“A process like that could take a moon’s time,” one of the lords interjected, his brow furrowed.

Mellos cleared his throat, as if preparing to add some tedious comment about the logistics of gathering so many high lords in one place.

Before he could, Rhaenyra shut it down.

“I’m not going anywhere, am I?” she said smoothly, raising a single brow.

A tense silence followed. No one had anything else to say.

Her father finally broke the quiet, nodding once. “Very well,” Viserys said, his tone final. “It will be as she says.”

Rhaenyra sat back slightly, keeping her expression composed.

Rhaenyra let the matter settle before moving to her next point, her voice unwavering as she spoke.

“The next matter concerns my mother’s belongings and dowry,” she stated, her tone firm. “As her only living child, all of it will be passed to me, starting now. I alone will have control over it.”

She did not look at her father as she spoke, but she could feel the weight of his sadness pressing down on the room. There was no protest, no hesitation. Only a long pause before he finally spoke.

“That is your right,” Viserys said quietly, his voice heavy with sorrow.

Rhaenyra did not acknowledge his grief. She had made her peace with Aemma’s death—or rather, with what her mother had chosen to be. Weak. Dutiful. Andal. She had no use for that kind of legacy, but the wealth and holdings tied to her mother’s name? Those she could use.

She did not thank her father, nor did she offer any words of comfort. Instead, she merely inclined her head slightly, as if acknowledging a formal matter that had now been settled. Then she moved on.

Rhaenyra let the previous matter rest before shifting seamlessly to the next.

“The next issue concerns Dragonstone and the oversight of all dragons moving forward,” she announced, her voice firm. “Since I will be heir over my uncle, I will not wait until I reach my majority to begin overseeing matters. That process starts now.”

Her father frowned at that, his expression shifting for the first time since she had begun making her demands. “Why not wait?” Viserys asked, his tone more weary than reprimanding. “There is time, Rhaenyra. You do not need to rush these things.”

Before she could answer, Otto Hightower spoke, his measured voice slipping into the space between them like oil on water. “Your Grace, giving her control over all dragons and their riders is a matter only a king should handle.”

Rhaenyra turned to her father, tilting her head slightly as she asked, “Do you intend to claim another dragon?”

Viserys blinked at her, clearly caught off guard by the question. “No, of course not.”

That was all she needed. Slowly, she turned to Otto, her expression unreadable. “Then that only leaves me.”

She let the words settle before adding, “Unless, of course, you would rather my uncle be the one to oversee all matters of dragons.”

Otto’s lips pressed into a thin line, his face giving away nothing, but she saw the slightest twitch in his jaw. He did not need to answer. His silence spoke loudly enough.

Rhaenyra let the quiet stretch a moment longer, then slowly looked around the table, meeting the gazes of each council member, waiting for one of them to speak against her.

No one did.

Satisfied, she gave a small nod and moved on.

“The next matter is one of advisement,” she said, her voice cool and steady. “I will be allowed to choose my own advisors now—one’s of my choosing who will shadow my father’s Small Council. This will ensure a smooth transition of power when the time comes.”

A murmur began to rise, but before anyone could interject, she turned to her father and cut through any protest before it could be voiced.

“If you are truly serious about me being your heir, then this must be done,” she said firmly. “I hope you live for a long time, Father. But some on this council might not last as long as you.”

The air in the room shifted.

No one spoke. No one even breathed.

Rhaenyra let her words settle over them, unchallenged. It was the truth, and they all knew it. This was the same Small Council that had advised her great-grandfather, Jaehaerys. Half of them were old men whose days were already numbered. They would not be here when her reign began. Why should she wait to have an advisor of her own?

Viserys let out a slow exhale, glancing around the table, but no one dared to argue.

“Very well,” he said at last.

Rhaenyra nodded, satisfied. One more step in securing her future.

“The next matter concerns the dragonseeds in my employ,” she stated, her voice unwavering. “I would like them to be granted official titles as my attendants, each assigned to assist me in different areas of the Keep.”

She watched the faces around the table, waiting for the usual pushback, for some lord to sneer at the idea of legitimizing those of uncertain parentage. But no one said a word.

Not Otto. Not Mellos. Not even the other members who had been quick to murmur about her previous requests.

She had expected resistance, but instead, she was met with silence.

Good.

Without another glance, she moved on.

Rhaenyra took a brief pause before she continued, allowing a moment for the council to collect themselves before dropping her next demand.

“As heir, I will also be choosing my own ladies-in-waiting,” she stated, her tone sharp and sure. “They will be selected from the Paramount Houses or their suggestions. In addition, there will be one from each of the major realms—two from the Crownlands, the Narrow Sea, the North, the Vale, the Riverlands, the Stormlands, the Westerlands, the Reach, the Iron Islands, and Dorne. That will bring the total to twenty.”

The reaction was immediate.

Several lords shifted uncomfortably in their seats, eyes darting toward one another in shock. She could already see the calculation in their expressions, the quiet horror at the idea that she would extend such influence to every corner of the realm.

Otto Hightower did not bother to hide his displeasure. His lips pressed into a thin line, his fingers drumming against the table before he finally spoke.

“That is too many,” he said, his tone clipped, his patience thinning. “The royal household has never needed such a large retinue for a single princess. It would be costly, unnecessary, and—”

“Am I to be queen, or am I just playing at it?” Rhaenyra interrupted, her voice cutting through the room like a blade. She didn’t give him a chance to answer before continuing. “Queen Alysanne had the same number at different parts of her reign, and if you count the septas that served her, she had twice as many. Do you mean to suggest I should be afforded less than the queen before me?”

Otto’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. He knew better than to openly dispute historical precedent when it was used against him so cleanly.

Before he could try another angle of protest, Viserys spoke up, his voice firm.

“She is right. Present the list to Otto and it will be done.”

Otto’s nostrils flared, but he inclined his head slightly, masking his irritation as best he could.

Rhaenyra simply sat back, satisfied. Let them be shocked. Let them be furious. She was not here to ask. She was here to take.

“The next matter concerns my Queensguard,” she stated, her voice steady and assured. “I will begin recruiting for my personal guard once I am officially crowned heir, and I do not want any interference when it comes to my choices.”

A murmur of surprise flickered through the council, but none dared to speak outright. She turned her gaze toward her father again, meeting his eyes directly.

“This is the same as before,” she reminded him. “I hope that those who serve now will still be here when my time comes—but time passes and waits for no man.”

Viserys exhaled, nodding slowly. He had lost too much in the past few days to argue against the logic of preparing for the future. “Very well,” he conceded, though he added, “but Ser Harold must approve your selections at the very least.”

Rhaenyra considered pushing back but knew this was a minor concession. A compromise to make her father feel as if he still held some control in the matter. She inclined her head slightly. “That is acceptable.”

With that, she moved on.

Rhaenyra exhaled lightly, knowing this next matter would stir discomfort, but she had come prepared for that.

“This will be a touchy subject,” she admitted, letting her gaze sweep over the men at the table before settling on her father. “But needs must.”

Viserys looked at her warily, but she did not give him the chance to interrupt.

“The king will allow himself a mourning period of three years before taking another wife. This will allow me time to reach my majority, to wed, and to provide an heir of my own.”

The room went still.

She could feel the tension, the unspoken weight of what she had just suggested, but she pressed on.

“The woman he weds should be a widow from a Paramount House,” she continued, keeping her voice measured and calm. “Someone who has already proven her ability to bear children and will understand that her duty is to the Crown—not to herself.”

Viserys blinked, taken aback. He looked at her as if truly seeing her for the first time, as though only now realizing how thoroughly she had considered what lay ahead.

She did not pause.

“As for myself,” she went on, “I will wed when I reach my majority in one year. I have already narrowed my options to three men, whom I will need to vet before I confirm which will best serve as my consort.”

Viserys paled slightly, shaking his head in disbelief. “Is it already time?” he muttered, half to himself. “You’re still my little girl. There is no need to rush into this. You should allow the men to court you properly, to take the time to confirm which would best suit you.”

She met his gaze head-on. “You chose me to be heir,” she reminded him, her voice firm. “I will do my duty.”

Viserys sighed, lowering his head for a moment before nodding. “Very well.”

Otto, however, was less accepting.

“The princess cannot dictate whom the king marries,” he said sharply, his tone edged with disapproval. “That is not the way of things.”

Rhaenyra did not so much as glance at him. Instead, she turned her gaze toward Lord Lyonel Strong, the Master of Laws.

“Tell me, my lord,” she asked smoothly, “as the heir to the Iron Throne, am I within my rights to suggest the future of our great dynasty?”

Lord Strong considered her for only a brief moment before nodding. “It is within her right,” he affirmed.

Otto’s lips pressed into a thin line, but before Rhaenyra could move on, Viserys leaned forward.

“Who are the men?” he asked.

She had anticipated the question but had no intention of answering before she was ready. She tilted her head slightly. “I would prefer to discuss them with you alone, Father.”

Otto immediately latched onto that, his expression sharpening. “As heir, that right should only belong to the king,” he argued.

Rhaenyra finally turned to face him, her expression neutral but unyielding. “This is a personal matter,” she said simply. “Surely, my father does not mind discussing such things with his daughter before bringing them before the council.”

Otto opened his mouth again, but before he could push further, Viserys cut him off.

“It will be discussed with her in private before it is brought before the Small Council,” he stated firmly, his tone allowing no further debate.

Rhaenyra inclined her head slightly, a small, satisfied smile playing at her lips.

“That’s all I ask, Father.”

Rhaenyra sat back slightly, letting the last matter settle before she moved to the next. This one, in particular, needed to be handled swiftly.

“Now, concerning my uncle,” she said smoothly, watching her father’s expression carefully. “Since I am to be heir, effectively usurping his claim, he will be granted an annulment. He will be allowed to choose his next bride in his own time and on his own terms.”

Viserys’ brow furrowed, his lips pressing into a thin line.

“It is cruel to keep him in a loveless marriage,” Rhaenyra continued, her voice level but firm. “All while you and my mother paraded your happiness in front of him. You have kept him bound to a woman he does not love while reminding him at every turn of what he will never have. This, despite the fact that he helped you win your crown.”

Her father’s expression flickered with hurt, but she did not regret her words. It was the truth, and she would not dress it in soft language simply to spare his feelings.

Before anyone could speak, she pressed on, her voice lightening as she added, “Perhaps this time, he will find love. Maybe with Laena Velaryon or one of the Celtigar girls.”

A quiet murmur passed through the council at that.

Grand Maester Mellos cleared his throat. “Princess, your uncle is married under the Faith of the Seven. His vows are sacred, and—”

Rhaenyra cut him off with a sharp glance. “The Faith needs to do better, then,” she said coldly. “Everyone knows that Queen Alysanne herself had to say his vows for him. The marriage was never consummated, and it should never have been allowed to stand in the first place.”

She tilted her head, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Or does the Faith make a habit of blindly allowing marriages that benefit no one? Was this truly about duty, or was there some other reason? Did they seek to keep my uncle from reproducing altogether?”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Mellos, who always had some long-winded wisdom to offer, said nothing.

Rhaenyra turned back to her father. He was watching her with narrowed eyes, the emotions on his face shifting—hurt, anger, resignation. But in the end, he exhaled slowly and nodded.

“Very well,” Viserys said, though his tone carried clear reluctance. “Daemon’s marriage will be annulled.”

Rhaenyra did not gloat. She simply inclined her head, acknowledging the decision before moving on.
Rhaenyra let her father’s agreement settle before adding, “And I will be the one to tell him.”

Viserys frowned. “Why?”

“Because news like this should not become a shouting match,” she stated simply. “You and Daemon have always had difficulty speaking without tempers flaring. This will be easier for both of you if I handle it.”

Her father’s expression was guarded, but he did not argue. He knew she was right.

Otto Hightower, however, did not look pleased. He clearly had no interest in making things easier for Daemon. But Rhaenyra did not care for what pleased Otto.

She turned back to her father. “This will give him the freedom he was never granted before. The freedom to choose for himself. It is what should have been done long ago.”

Viserys’ jaw tightened, but after a long moment, he nodded. His agreement was reluctant, but it was given nonetheless.

With that settled, Rhaenyra let the matter rest and moved on.

Rhaenyra let the weight of the previous matters settle over the council before speaking again, her tone lighter, almost casual.

“There is only one final matter,” she announced, letting her gaze sweep over the table. “And I do not think anyone here will have an issue with it.”

The lords watched her warily, no doubt expecting yet another demand, another restructuring of the traditions they held so dear.

“All of my children will be born on Dragonstone,” she declared, her voice steady and unyielding. “To ensure they receive the blessing of our ancestors.”

A ripple of surprise ran through the room, but before anyone could question it, she continued, her expression darkening slightly.

“And let it be known—anyone caught spying during my self-confinement will die by dragon fire.”

Silence. Heavy, suffocating silence.

Otto Hightower’s lips parted, as if he wished to object, but nothing came out. The other lords glanced at one another, uncertain, likely stunned by how swiftly she had taken control of the meeting, of the future.

Rhaenyra let them sit in their shock a moment longer before turning to her father. “May I be excused, Father?” she asked, her voice measured. “I have been up most of the night preparing for this.”

Viserys, still visibly overwhelmed by the sheer force of what had just transpired, nodded wordlessly.

She inclined her head toward the council, offering a polite, if distant, “Thank you, my lords.” Then she turned and strode from the chamber, leaving them all to sit in the wreckage of everything she had just dismantled and rebuilt.

Let them think, let them wonder.

She had set the course. Now, they would follow.

Chapter Text

The next day, Rhaenyra was summoned to break her fast with her father. Entering the solar, she greeted him warmly before seating herself at the long table. The servants laid out an array of delicacies: hot bread slathered with butter and honey, blackberry preserves, rashers of crisped bacon, soft-boiled eggs, a wedge of sharp white cheese, and a steaming pot of mint tea.

She ate without hurry, savoring the quiet, but before she had consumed half her meal, Viserys leaned forward, his impatience breaking through his restraint.

"Who are the three men you are considering for marriage?"

Rhaenyra set down her cup, her fingers still curled around the handle as she studied him.
"Are you truly ready to speak of this?"
His mouth pressed into a thin line. "Yes."

She did not answer at once. Her gaze lingered on his face, measuring him in a way that made him shift slightly in his seat. Then, at last, she inclined her head.

"Then we shall not speak as father and daughter—but as King and Heir. And so I will ask again: are you truly ready?"

A flicker of wariness passed through his gaze, his lips parting as if to argue. But whatever words had nearly left his tongue, he swallowed them down and gave a slow, reluctant nod. "Yes."

Without another word, Rhaenyra turned to one of his attendants. "Send for Aelyth. She has the list."

The chamber stilled. She resumed eating, unconcerned, while Viserys watched her, his fingers drumming lightly against the polished wood of the table. The measured taps filled the silence, a subtle betrayal of his unease.

It was not long before Aelyth returned, parchment in hand. She carried it with the careful reverence of one bearing something precious.

Rhaenyra glanced at her father. "Dismiss your attendants," she said.

Viserys hesitated, his brows knitting together, but after a long breath, he waved a hand. The chamber emptied, the shuffle of boots and the quiet rustle of fabric vanishing beyond the heavy door.

Only then did Rhaenyra push her plate aside.
"Let us begin."

Rhaenyra unrolled the paper, scanning the names before lifting her gaze to her father. "My first choice is Laenor Velaryon, heir to Driftmark."

Viserys nodded slowly, unsurprised. "A strong match," he murmured. "He is Rhaenys' son, a dragonrider, and his house commands the largest fleet in the realm. His inheritance would bring you wealth, ships, and Valyrian blood in your children."

"Just so," Rhaenyra agreed. "But there is a complication."

Viserys frowned, waiting.

"I do not believe I could ever love him," she admitted. "But love is a luxury. I can learn to live without it—so long as he is able to sire at least one child." She placed the paper down, her fingers pressing against the edge. "I have already chosen a dragonseed for him, one strong enough to give him a bastard."

The king's expression tightened, confusion flickering behind his eyes. "Why would he need to do that?"

She met his gaze squarely. "Because Ser Laenor has never been with a woman. Only men."

Silence fell between them, thick and unyielding. Viserys blinked, his brows drawing together in a slow, dawning realization. His mouth opened slightly, then closed, as if his mind struggled to grasp the full weight of what she had just said.

For a moment, it seemed as though he might protest—insist that she was mistaken or that it was merely court gossip. But Rhaenyra’s expression did not waver.

Viserys exhaled sharply, dragging a hand over his face. "Seven hells…" he muttered under his breath, leaning back in his chair. His fingers tapped against the armrest, his mind racing.

Laenor. A man who would not seek out his wife’s bed.

It was not the first time he had heard whispers of such things, but whispers were easy to ignore when they did not concern the future of the realm. Now, he could not afford to ignore them.

"Does Corlys know?" he asked, his voice low.

"If he does, he has chosen to say nothing."

Viserys exhaled through his nose, his thoughts circling. A Velaryon match was still the most favorable option. It bound Rhaenyra to the might of Driftmark, secured its fleet to the crown, and preserved the purity of the Valyrian line. But if Laenor would not bed his wife…

His daughter had already considered this. She had already found a solution.

He looked at her anew. "And this… dragonseed you have chosen?"

Rhaenyra merely lifted her chin, waiting.

Viserys pressed his lips together. This was not how he had imagined this conversation, nor was it a matter he wished to contemplate over his morning meal. But there was no turning away from it now.

"Tell me," he said, his voice weighty with resignation.

Rhaenyra did not hesitate. "She is one of mine," she said simply. "And she will not lie for him if he fails."

Rhaenyra let the silence settle before moving on. "The next possible choice is Qoren Martell, heir to Dorne."

Viserys’ brows lifted slightly, caught off guard by the name. "Qoren Martell?"

"He comes with the backing of Dorne," she continued, "the only kingdom that has ever brought down a dragon."

Viserys’ fingers stilled against the armrest. He had not expected this. A Martell match was… unorthodox. Dorne was not yet bound to the realm, still standing apart from the Seven Kingdoms, ruled by its own laws, its own customs. A marriage to its heir could be seen as a bold move—an attempt to finally unite Westeros in truth. But it could just as easily be viewed as a risk, one that distanced her from the Valyrian bloodline.

He studied her, searching for her intent. "You would consider this?"

Rhaenyra exhaled, her tone measured. "Yes."

Viserys nearly sagged in disbelief, but she was not finished.

"The problem is control. I do not trust him," she admitted. "I do not trust that he would not seek to rid himself of me, then place our child on the throne as a puppet to rule the Seven Kingdoms in Dorne’s name."

A muscle in Viserys' jaw tensed. His fingers curled slightly against the arm of his chair.

"That," he said, his voice sharp with finality, "is not a risk I am willing to take."

His dismissal was swift, without hesitation. If there had been any part of him that had considered it, the thought was gone now. He waved a hand as though brushing the matter from the air. "No. Not him. Tell me your last choice."

Rhaenyra took a slow breath, letting the weight of the moment settle before she spoke. "My final choice," she said, her voice steady, "is my uncle Daemon."
The words landed like a blow.
Viserys stiffened at once, his fingers curling around the arms of his chair. His lips parted, as if he meant to interrupt her then and there, but she did not allow him the chance.

"He is a dragonrider," she continued, her tone unwavering. "He is a prince of the realm, he bears the name Targaryen, and he is no beggar lord seeking power through me—he has his own wealth, his own lands, his own armies. And unlike the others, I know I can love him."

She lifted her chin. "It is in our blood to love our own."

The silence that followed was brief but heavy, thick with the storm brewing across her father's face. She had not needed to wait long for his reaction. It came swiftly and as violently as she expected.

"You cannot be serious," Viserys snapped, his voice rough with disbelief. He scoffed, shaking his head as though she had spoken utter madness. "Daemon—Daemon put this in your head, did he not? That scheming, ambitious—"

Rhaenyra’s eyes flashed. "Do not repeat Otto Hightower’s words to me, it makes you look like a trained monkey."

Viserys’ mouth shut with an audible click. His face darkened, whether in anger or something else, she could not yet tell.

She did not give him time to find his voice again. "I have heard the vile things your Hand whispers about my uncle, and I do not understand how you can sit so comfortably while a man in your service tears down the reputation of a prince of the blood. A man who has fought for you, bled for you, won you a kingdom!" Her voice did not rise, but it cut through the chamber like a blade. "And he gets away with it. Why?"

Viserys' jaw clenched, his fingers curling into a fist atop the table.
Rhaenyra leaned forward, her violet eyes burning into his. "Now that I am heir, Otto will turn his whispers upon me. He will do what he has done to Daemon—twist every word I speak, spin every act I make into treason, and if he cannot do so, he will fabricate something to serve his cause. And you will sit there and listen, just as you have done with Daemon."

Viserys shifted, discomfort flashing in his gaze, but she pressed on before he could gather himself.

"But he will not succeed," she said, her voice quiet but unshakable. "Because unlike you, I see him for what he is. Unlike you, I will not allow myself to be led around by a man who serves only himself."

Viserys exhaled sharply through his nose. "Rhaenyra—"

Her palm struck the table with a sharp crack, cutting him off. His eyes snapped to her in shock, but she did not flinch, did not waver.

"If you had not bedded my mother like a bitch in heat at Otto’s command," she said, her tone now like steel, "then I would have had a brother to wed, as our house has always done. But I do not."

Viserys' face twisted, color rising in his cheeks, but she did not relent.

"I will do what is best for the throne, not cater to the feelings of men who think they know better than me," she said. "I am the last of your line, Father. The last trueborn Targaryen of your house. I will not falter in making the decision that must be made."

A silence stretched between them, heavy and thick with all the things left unsaid.

Viserys swallowed, his expression a mixture of emotions—anger, wariness, something dangerously close to shame. He wanted to argue, she could see it in his eyes, but he could find no words that would not betray the truth she had laid bare.

He was wary of Daemon. But more than that, he was wary of her.

And perhaps, finally, he understood why he should be.

The silence between them stretched, thick with tension, thick with the unspoken truths Viserys did not want to face. His grip on the table tightened, knuckles pale against the wood. He had ruled for long enough to recognize when a battle had been lost.

Rhaenyra, for all her youth, had bested him here.

And she knew it.

Slowly, she pushed back her chair, rising to her feet with a measured grace that made it clear she was done with this conversation—whether he was or not.

"Your courtiers, your council, your Hand—none of them will decide my husband for me," she said, smoothing the skirts of her gown. "And neither will you. When I make my choice, you will stand by it. Because it will not just be mine, Father. It will be the throne’s."

Viserys stared at her, his mouth slightly open, but no argument came.

She gave him no more time to find one.

Without another word, Rhaenyra turned and strode toward the door.

The chamber was silent save for the soft rustle of her gown as she walked away, the finality of her exit settling over him like a shadow.

Viserys exhaled, slumping back in his chair. His fingers found his cup of wine, but he did not drink.

He had always thought himself the one shaping the future of the realm. But for the first time, he was forced to wonder—

Had it already slipped from his hands?

Chapter Text

A Decree
The List of Ladies-in-Waiting for the Future Queen presented to Ser Otto Hightower, Hand of the King, by Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, Heir to the Iron Throne.

As per my decree, the following noblewomen, selected from each region of the realm, will serve as my Ladies-in-Waiting:

The Narrow Sea -
Laena Velaryon of Driftmark – A daughter of House Velaryon, of pure Valyrian blood and dragonrider lineage, securing a vital bond between the heir and the Sea Snake’s formidable fleet.
Tanselle Celtigar of Claw Isle – A lady of keen intellect and refined courtly grace, from a house long intertwined with the Targaryens through wealth and unwavering loyalty.

The Crownlands -
Elinda Massey of Stonedance – A sharp-witted court strategist, representing a house with deep-rooted service to the Crown.
Mhaegen Hayford of Hayford – A noblewoman of quiet ambition, deeply interested in history and governance, with the makings of a trusted confidante.

The North -
Barbrey Bolton of the Dreadfort – A calculated choice, ensuring Northern representation while keeping a watchful eye on the realm’s more unpredictable factions.
Jocelyn Mormont of Bear Island – A fierce and unyielding warrior, serving as a reminder that a queen need not be meek.

The Vale -
Lorra Arryn of Gulltown – House Arryn’s loyalty is paramount, and ensuring their continued favor strengthens the foundation of the Crown’s rule.
Kella Borrell of Sisterton – A woman well-versed in maritime trade and diplomacy, key to maintaining influence over the Vale’s eastern coast.

The Riverlands -
Gwenys Blackwood of Raventree Hall – From a house deeply tied to House Targaryen, her presence guarantees the unwavering support of a powerful Riverlands faction.
Perriane Bracken of Stone Hedge – A necessary counterbalance, ensuring representation from both Blackwood and Bracken, preventing old rivalries from fracturing the realm.

The Stormlands -
Maris Baratheon of Storm’s End – Bold and untamed, bringing Baratheon strength and presence into the royal court.
Aelinor Tarth of Evenfall Hall – A lady of unshakable honor and martial prowess, serving as a bridge between the Stormlands and the Crown.

The Westerlands -
Tyshara Lannister of Casterly Rock – A vital presence from the wealthiest house in Westeros, reinforcing the bond between the Crown and the Rock.
Darlessa Reyne of Castamere – A deliberate choice to temper Lannister dominance, ensuring fair representation for all Westerlands nobility.

The Reach -
Helicent Tyrell of Highgarden – A key alliance, securing the wealth and influence of House Tyrell.
Alicent Hightower of Oldtown – A calculated inclusion, maintaining House Hightower’s investment in the reign while keeping her role carefully measured.

The Iron Islands -
Esgred Greyjoy of Pyke – A diplomatic gesture to the Ironborn, ensuring their loyalty and voice within the royal court.
Alannys Harlaw of the Ten Towers – A cultured and literate Ironborn lady, offering a unique perspective and a bridge between the isles and the mainland.

Dorne -
Frynne Martell of Sunspear – A crucial link between Dorne and the Crown, strengthening ties with a region not yet fully integrated into the realm.
Moriah Dayne of Starfall – A woman of noble blood from one of Dorne’s most legendary houses, reinforcing the south’s connection to the throne.

Final Decree:
Each of these women is to be brought to court within the coming moons, prepared to take their place in service to the Crown and the realm.

Rhaenyra Targaryen
Heir to the Iron Throne

~

Rhaenyra handed off one list to Otto Hightower without so much as a glance, her focus already shifting to the far more important matter before her. A second parchment lay upon her desk, its edges curling ever so slightly in the candle’s flickering glow. The names inked upon it had been chosen with precision, each one a calculated move in a game where mistakes could cost more than crowns—they could cost kingdoms.

She slid the parchment across the polished wood toward Aelyth, her most trusted attendant. The dark-haired woman took it without hesitation, her sharp eyes scanning the names even before Rhaenyra spoke.

“Review them,” Rhaenyra instructed. “Discreetly. If there is a single name that does not belong, I want to know before they ever set foot in my court.”

Aelyth nodded, unfurling the parchment fully. “As you wish, Princess.” Her gaze flickered across the list before she began reading aloud.

Ladies-in-Waiting & Their Courtly Offices
Primary Positions
Lady of the Right Hand – Lorra Arryn of Gulltown
The chief lady-in-waiting and Rhaenyra’s closest confidante. Advises her on political and personal matters, acting as her most trusted supporter.

Aelyth hummed. “House Arryn is proud and stubborn.”

Rhaenyra met her gaze evenly. “And loyal, when they choose to be.”

Lady of the Left Hand – Mhaegen Hayford of Hayford
Second only to the Lady of the Right Hand, she manages the princess’s household affairs and assists in courtly duties.

Aelyth tilted her head slightly. “She is cautious.”

“She will need to be,” Rhaenyra said.

Political & Financial Offices
Lady of Coin – Tanselle Celtigar of Claw Isle
Oversees the princess’s finances, managing allowances, trade arrangements, and expenses for her court and estates.

“Celtigar wealth is unmatched,” Aelyth noted. “But they hoard their coin like dragons hoard gold.”

“Then let her count mine,” Rhaenyra replied.

Lady of Laws – Barbrey Bolton of the Dreadfort
Maintains legal records and ensures the legitimacy of Rhaenyra’s inheritance, titles, and claims to the throne.

Aelyth exhaled softly. “A Bolton.”

Rhaenyra smirked. “They are cold, yes. But cold steel cuts just as well as fire.”

Lady Keeper of Secrets – Frynne Martell of Sunspear
Manages intelligence and espionage within the Red Keep and beyond, protecting Rhaenyra from political intrigue.

Aelyth let out a quiet laugh. “A Martell, in charge of secrets? You do enjoy playing with fire.”

Rhaenyra’s voice was smooth. “Fire and blood, Aelyth.”

Lady of Whispers – Darlessa Reyne of Castamere
Monitors courtly gossip, ambitions, and potential betrayals within the princess’s household, ensuring Rhaenyra is informed of secret plots.

“The Reynes have sharp claws,” Aelyth murmured.

Rhaenyra tapped a finger against the desk. “That’s why they are useful.”

Household & Personal Management
Lady of the Chamber – Gwenys Blackwood of Raventree Hall
Supervises the princess’s private quarters, overseeing her handmaidens and ensuring her personal comfort.

Lady Warden of the Hearth – Elinda Massey of Stonedance
Oversees the daily running of Rhaenyra’s residences, including Dragonstone and the Red Keep, managing servants and household staff.

Lady of Provisions – Perriane Bracken of Stone Hedge
Ensures that the princess’s household is supplied with food, wine, and luxuries. Manages feasts and courtly hospitality.

Aelyth’s lips curled in amusement. “Blackwood and Bracken, both under your roof? They will kill each other before the moon turns.”

Rhaenyra only smiled. “Then they’ll be too busy to plot against me.”

Lady of Hospitality – Tyshara Lannister of Casterly Rock
Oversees the reception and accommodation of noble guests, ensuring that alliances are maintained through feasts and gatherings.

Aelyth arched a brow. “A Lannister? That is bold.”

“I need their coin,” Rhaenyra said simply. “But I need their fear more.”

Keeper of the Princess’s Keys – Aelinor Tarth of Evenfall Hall
Holds the keys to Rhaenyra’s private chambers, treasury, and vaults, ensuring that only trusted individuals have access.

Wardrobe & Tradition
Lady of the Wardrobes – Helicent Tyrell of Highgarden
Ensures that Rhaenyra is dressed appropriately for all occasions. Manages seamstresses, jewelers, and fabric imports.

“She will try to influence you,” Aelyth warned.

“She will try,” Rhaenyra agreed, smirking. “I will decide if she succeeds.”

Lady Keeper of Traditions – Maris Baratheon of Storm’s End
Ensures that Valyrian customs, Targaryen family rites, and royal ceremonies are upheld. Oversees births, weddings, and name-day feasts.

Naval & Military Affairs
Lady of Ships – Esgred Greyjoy of Pyke
Oversees naval matters related to Rhaenyra’s fleet and ensures her safe passage to and from Dragonstone. Liaises with House Velaryon.

Aelyth hesitated. “The Ironborn steal more than they trade.”

Rhaenyra’s expression did not change. “She will learn to count ledgers instead of plunder.”

Lady of the Hunt – Jocelyn Mormont of Bear Island
Organizes Rhaenyra’s riding expeditions, hunting trips, and falconry, ensuring she has the finest horses and hounds.

“She will not be charmed easily,” Aelyth noted.

“Then I have chosen well.”

Knowledge & Correspondence
Lady of Letters – Alannys Harlaw of the Ten Towers
Educated in history and languages, she manages Rhaenyra’s personal correspondence, records, and diplomacy.

Lady of the Scrolls – Moriah Dayne of Starfall
Keeper of ancient texts, Valyrian tomes, and Targaryen family history. Ensures that knowledge, prophecies, and bloodline records are preserved and protected.

Health & Protection
Lady of the Blood – Kella Borrell of Sisterton
Manages Rhaenyra’s health, particularly regarding childbirth, fertility, and healing. Works with trusted maesters and midwives.

Lady of the Cup – Alicent Hightower of Oldtown
Personally responsible for tasting and serving Rhaenyra’s drinks, ensuring that no poison or tampering occurs.

Aelyth blinked. “You want her?”

Rhaenyra met her gaze with cool certainty. “I want her to know what it means to serve.”

Dragon Care
Lady of the Dragons – Laena Velaryon of Driftmark
Oversees the care of Syrax and any dragon eggs or hatchlings in Rhaenyra’s possession, working closely with the Dragonkeepers.

“Laena will serve well,” Aelyth conceded.

After her final review, Aelyth rolled up the parchment, looking at Rhaenyra carefully. “It is a bold list.”

Rhaenyra’s smirk was slow and sharp. “Would you expect any less?”

Aelyth exhaled, inclining her head. “I will have my informants investigate each of them. If any prove unfit, I will know before they step foot in court.”

Rhaenyra nodded. “Then go.”

As Aelyth left, Rhaenyra’s gaze lingered on the candle beside her, the flame casting shadows across the polished wood. These women would shape her court, her rule.

Some would serve. Some would betray.

In the end, all would bend.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra did not deliver the annulment right away. She let it sit in her chambers for a full day, letting the weight of it settle, considering every possible reaction before she acted. Daemon would not expect this. That was the point.

Only when she was ready did she set out for Dragonstone.

When she landed, Daemon was nowhere to be found. Typical. She was made to wait a full day before he finally returned from whatever mischief had occupied him.

She was waiting for him in the great hall, standing near the fire, silent and still, watching as he strode in, his leathers stained with sweat from his ride, his expression unreadable as he spotted her.

She did not waste time on pleasantries. She pulled the annulment from her sleeve and handed it to him.

Daemon took it, scanned the words, then let out a sharp, barking laugh. “Seven hells,” he muttered, rolling the parchment between his fingers. “Why?”

Rhaenyra tilted her head slightly, watching him. “Because I requested it.”

He snorted, shaking his head, clearly amused but suspicious. “And why would you do that?”

She stepped closer to him, her violet eyes piercing as she looked up at him. “Are you dumb?” she asked flatly.

Daemon blinked. Actually shocked.

A beat of silence stretched between them before he let out another laugh—softer this time, more controlled. “Careful, niece,” he warned, his tone edged with interest rather than offense.

Rhaenyra ignored the warning and stepped closer, invading his space, forcing him to acknowledge her presence in full. She could feel the heat of him, the intensity in his stare, but she did not back down.

“So you can marry me,” she said smoothly. “Since I was made heir over you.”

Daemon stilled, something flickering in his gaze—something unreadable.

She lifted a hand as if to touch his chest but paused just before making contact. “Before you fly off the handle, I need to know—are we going to have a problem with me becoming heir?” she asked. Her voice was low, controlled, dangerous.

“You never wanted it,” she reminded him.

Another beat of silence.

But before Daemon could say anything, a figure appeared at the doorway.

Rhaenyra’s head turned slowly, her expression shifting from dominance to cold calculation as she set eyes on the woman who had entered the hall.

Daemon’s latest whore.

She took a measured step back, giving the woman a long, considering look before asking simply, “How much did you hear?”

The woman hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “Nothing, if you don’t want me to.”

Rhaenyra did not look away from her. Then, after a long pause, she turned back to Daemon and said in a quiet, final tone:

“Kill her.”

The whore’s face drained of color.

Daemon stiffened beside her. “What?”

Rhaenyra’s gaze did not waver. “She’s the one selling your secrets to Otto.”

The whore took a half-step back, but it was useless. Daemon turned toward her fully, his expression darkening, his posture shifting into something deadly.

Rhaenyra didn’t stay to watch. She simply stepped away, tossing over her shoulder, “I’ll wait while you take out the trash—but be quick about it. We have much to discuss.”

And with that, she left him to it.

An hour later Daemon found her standing by the window, her silhouette cast against the flickering torchlight outside. She did not turn when he entered.

He wiped blood from his hands with a damp cloth, the scent of iron still thick in the air.

“Is it done?” she asked.

He hesitated for a fraction of a second before shaking his head.

Only then did she turn to him, stepping forward until they were close again, but this time, softer. “I only found out about her recently,” she murmured. A small apology.

Daemon studied her, something still unreadable in his gaze, but he did not push.

“Now,” she said, her tone shifting. “Back to where we left off.”

And then, without warning, she reached up, grabbed the collar of his tunic, and kissed him.

It was soft. Deliberate. Testing.

When she pulled back, she smiled slightly. “Do you want to marry me?”

Daemon was caught off guard for only a moment before his expression shifted—this time, to something certain.

He shook his head slightly, then pulled her back to him, crushing her mouth against his. His answer was clear.

When they finally broke apart, Rhaenyra was the first to regain her breath, her lips curving in satisfaction. “Now that that’s out of the way,” she murmured, “we need to talk.”

She took a step back, watching him. “Do you believe in Daenys’ dream?” she asked suddenly.

Daemon’s brow furrowed. “A dream did not make us kings—”

Before he could finish, Rhaenyra finished it for him.

“Our dragons did.”

He paused, watching her carefully now, something uncertain flashing behind his eyes. “I am not a dreamer, Rhaenyra,” he said after a moment.

She held his gaze. “I am something more,” she told him.

Something sharper, stronger, inevitable.

Daemon studied her for a long moment. “And can I handle that?” he asked.

He went to ask what she meant by “something more”, but she lifted a finger, pressing it lightly against his lips.

“I just need to know if you are with me,” she said simply, extending her hand.

Daemon looked down at it. Then, slowly, he took it.

“Yes.”

Rhaenyra exhaled softly. “Good.”

She stepped even closer, tilting her head. “Because I plan to bring the power of dragons down on the Seven Kingdoms,” she whispered, “and I need you to have my back. No matter what.”

Daemon nodded once—not hesitant, not uncertain, but committed.

Rhaenyra watched him carefully, then softened just slightly.

“I cannot completely understand what I am yet,” she admitted. “But I know that I can love you, if you let me.”

His expression flickered.

“But I will be your one and only,” she warned.

He did not hesitate. “Agreed.”

There was certainty in his voice this time.

Then, after a brief pause, he asked, “Did my brother approve this?”

Rhaenyra laughed. “Hell no.”

Daemon smirked.

“I won’t give him the chance,” she continued. “I just need you to lay low for a moon while I handle it.”

Daemon exhaled sharply, shaking his head, half in disbelief, half in amusement. But he agreed.

“Good,” she said simply, stepping forward and kissing him again—longer, deeper, taking her time.

When she finally pulled away, she smiled at him one last time before turning. “I’ll be back after I check on my glassworks and steel mill,” she told him, moving toward the door.

Daemon frowned slightly, watching her go. “That’s it?”

Rhaenyra glanced over her shoulder, smirking. “I have things to do, Uncle.”

And then she was gone, leaving him standing there, shocked in more ways than one.

Daemon
Daemon sat in the silence Rhaenyra left behind, the scent of her still lingering in the air, the ghost of her touch still on his collar where she had pulled him in like he was hers to take. And he was. That much was clear now. She had not come to ask, had not come to beg—she had come to tell.

And he had let her.

That was the part that unsettled him the most.

For all his reputation, for all the chaos he had sown across the realm, she had handled him as if she had been born knowing how. With measured words and sharper wit, with a confidence that made it clear she did not fear him, would never fear him.

And why should she? She was fire, just as he was. She did not burn beneath his touch—she thrived in it.

Daemon exhaled sharply, shaking his head. Seven hells. She had played him so well, he wasn’t even angry about it. How could he be? She was the first person to do it right.

He had spent his life being the wielder of chaos, the one who unsettled others, who pushed and pulled until they bent or broke. Yet Rhaenyra did not bend. She took his world, shook it apart, and then looked at him as if daring him to do something about it.

And instead, he had kissed her.

There was no point in denying it now—he wanted her. Wanted her mind, wanted the way she challenged him, wanted the way she knew his answer before he ever spoke it.

But this was not just about desire. She had not come here for that alone.

She had come for power.

And Daemon Targaryen had never been able to resist a woman who wanted power.

His gaze flickered to the remnants of the bloody cloth he had discarded, his thoughts turning briefly to the woman whose life had ended by his hand tonight.

Rhaenyra had known before he had. She had set the trap, had watched and waited for him to follow through, and he had. Because of course, she had been right. She had always been right.

Daemon exhaled, rolling his shoulders, feeling the weight of it all settle in. His brother would lose his mind when he found out. Viserys had already spent half his reign trying to keep him away from Rhaenyra. And now, Rhaenyra herself had torn that distance apart in a single night.

She was not just his match.

She was his reckoning.

And he was not running from it.

Chapter Text

Chapter 8: Her Ladies

One moon later, Rhaenyra welcomed the last of her ladies-in-waiting, Barbrey Bolton and Jocelyn Mormont, into her household. Once they were settled, she gathered them along with the rest of her ladies and informed them that she would be holding a meeting that evening—a formal welcome and an opportunity to discuss the role each of them would play in the moons to come.

When evening came, Rhaenyra arranged for the gathering to take place in her personal ballroom, a grand yet intimate space connected to her chambers. The tables were set, and a fine meal was served, ensuring her ladies were well attended to. As they dined, she had each of them introduce themselves, allowing conversation to flow with ease. Only once they had eaten their fill did she rise, ready to set the course for what was to come.

Once the meal had been enjoyed and the introductions made, Rhaenyra rose to address her ladies. “Now that you have all had time to settle,” she began, her gaze sweeping over them, “I would like to know—what do you hope to accomplish as a lady-in-waiting to the next heir to the throne?”

Though she knew her claim was not yet widely acknowledged, she had not expected the revelation to be so stark. As she scanned the room, it became clear—only six of them had known. Laena. Tanselle. Mhaegen. Maris. Tyshara. Alicent. The six exchanged glances, yet only Alicent found her voice.

“To serve you to the best of our ability, Princess.”

Rhaenyra held Alicent’s gaze for a moment before shifting her attention to the rest of her ladies. Then, with a knowing smile, she said simply, “No. You are all here to serve your house’s best interests—and mine.”

A ripple of shock passed through the room, expressions ranging from confusion to surprise. Rhaenyra laughed at their reaction, a rich, knowing sound. “That is exactly what I want you to do.”

Now, she had their undivided attention.

She continued, her voice firm yet inviting. “Together, we will strengthen each of your realms, ensuring that your houses—and mine—flourish. But make no mistake, this will not be easy. There will be hard work ahead, and if any of you are not up to the task, you may take your leave now.”

A moment of silence hung between them before each of her ladies, one by one, gave their agreement. Satisfied, Rhaenyra wasted no time.

“Good,” she said, rising. “Then let us begin.”

She led them to her solar, a space she had carefully redecorated over the last fortnight. The chamber was no longer just her retreat—it had been transformed into a meeting place fit for queens and their counsel. Each lady’s seat bore the sigil of her house, carved into the wood with deliberate care. It was a clear message: they each had a place in what she was building.

And tonight, they would take their first steps toward it.

Once all were seated, Rhaenyra began. She gestured to the writing materials before them—fresh parchment and the sleek, innovative quills she had commissioned.

“First,” she said, “I want each of you to write one thing you believe would benefit your realm.”

The ladies exchanged glances before dipping their quills and setting to their task. When they were finished, Aelyth moved gracefully through the chamber, collecting each parchment. Rhaenyra took them with a nod.

“I will review each of these personally,” she assured them, “and in the days to come, I will meet with each of you individually to discuss your ideas further.”

With that, she moved on to the next order of business.

Going around the great round table, she assigned each lady her Courtly Office, explaining in detail the duties and responsibilities that came with each role. She ensured that every lady understood her place within the court, pausing to answer any questions before proceeding.

Once the assignments were settled, she gestured to a servant who stepped forward with a velvet-lined tray. Upon it lay a collection of finely wrought pins—each one crafted from Valyrian steel, each one a mark of station.

“These,” Rhaenyra declared, lifting one for them to see, “have been forged in my steel mill, each representing the office you now hold.”

Valyrian steel—unmatched in strength, unyielding against time. It was the legacy of their blood, a reminder of what they were meant to be. She had chosen it with purpose.

One by one, she personally affixed a pin to each of her ladies, ensuring they understood the significance of what they now carried.

Once they were all pinned, she turned to the final matter.

“You will each have an attendant assigned to assist you in your duties,” she announced, motioning for a line of attendants to step forward. “These are my former attendants—ones I have chosen for you personally. They answer to me first, then to you.”

The ladies took in their assigned attendants with quiet curiosity, though some exchanged wary glances at Rhaenyra’s words.

“I have also had manuals prepared,” she continued, nodding to the attendants, who stepped forward bearing leather-bound tomes. “These will guide you through the ins and outs of your new roles. Study them well. You will be expected to uphold the standards of this court.”

With that, she settled back, watching her ladies take in the gravity of their new positions. This was only the beginning.

Next, Rhaenyra turned to matters of betrothals. With careful precision, she compiled a list, separating those who were already promised from those who remained unspoken for. By the time the tally was complete, nine of her ladies were betrothed.

“For those already promised,” she said, scanning the names before her, “I will work to ensure that those who are able may spend more time in the capital. It would serve you well to better know the men who will one day be your lords.”

She then turned to the others, those without matches. “For those of you not yet betrothed,” she continued, “I want you to write down what you seek in a future husband—qualities, strengths, ambitions. I will see what matches can be made to suit your desires.”

A murmur passed through the room, but no one objected.

Satisfied, Rhaenyra leaned back in her chair, taking them all in. “We have covered much this eve,” she said, her tone shifting to one of finality. “You should all rest well, for in a sennight, I expect you to begin handling your duties in full. That gives you a fortnight to prepare before I am formally named heir.”

Her gaze sharpened as she continued. “The court will be watching, waiting for any sign of weakness. And we will give them none.”
A heavy silence settled over the room, each lady taking in the weight of her words. A challenge had been set before them. Rhaenyra watched as they filed out, knowing that by the morrow, their loyalty—and their worth—would begin to show.

“You are dismissed for the night,” she concluded. “We begin individual meetings the day after the morrow. Take your rest—you will need it.”

With that, she rose, signaling the end of the gathering. One by one, her ladies departed, some murmuring in hushed tones, others quiet in thought. The true work was about to begin.

Chapter Text

The chamber was quiet but for the faint crackling of the hearth. A stack of paper lay before Rhaenyra, each sheet marked by the sigil of a noble house, the words penned in the careful hands of women who ruled, who knew their lands as their fathers, brothers, and husbands never could. She had asked for their honesty, not flattery—for the single, greatest need of their lands.

Now, alone in the early light, she read.

The Narrow Sea: Dominion Beyond the Shore

Laena Velaryon of Driftmark:
"The sea is not a barrier—it is a road, and on it, kingdoms rise or fall. Let Driftmark lead a royal effort to establish ports and shipyards along both coasts, manned by Westerosi sailors and craftsmen. Let us train a navy not for war alone, but for trade, exploration, and strength. A fleet born of the realm, supported by its isles and shores, will enrich our coffers, protect our borders, and make the Crown master of more than tides—it will be its master."

Rhaenyra’s fingers drummed against the table.

She had always known this truth—had felt its shape beneath courtly silence and seaborne boasts—but seeing it inked in Laena’s hand made it undeniable. The Crown held no fleet, only borrowed sails and the goodwill of one house. If ever that tide turned, the realm would drift unguarded. No more.

It was time the realm commanded its own strength upon the waves.

Tanselle Celtigar of Claw Isle:
"Gold bends all to its will, yet the realm bows to foreign bankers. Claw Isle knows this well—we trade salt and silver, but the profits flow east. A royal bank, funded by Westerosi coin and governed by the Crown, would anchor wealth where it is earned. Let us invest in our own, raise our own credit, and lend strength to our people. Trade, war, roads, ships—none should hinge on the whim of Braavos. Let the Iron Bank come to us, not the other way around."

Rhaenyra's lips curved in approval.

Ships required coin—and roads, garrisons, and ports even more so. But why should Westeros stretch out its hand for its own wealth? Why should its future be tallied in foreign ledgers? Claw Isle’s wisdom was sharp: sovereignty meant nothing if bought with borrowed gold. If the Crown held its own vaults, its own power, it would answer to no one.

The Crownlands: Strength at the Realm’s Heart

Elinda Massey of Stonedance:
"A kingdom’s heart must not falter. The Crownlands must be more than a banner—its roads must run clear, its laws swift and just, its lords held to duty, not privilege. If the realm is to endure, its center must not rot from neglect but rise as a pillar of order and strength."

Rhaenyra read with a slow nod.

Simple words, yet weighted with truth. She had ridden those roads, seen the rot beneath polished courtyards—the lords who taxed but did not serve, who bled their lands dry without consequence. If the heart of the realm faltered, all else would follow. That, she could not allow.

Mhaegen Hayford of Hayford:
"Steel defends a crown, but wisdom preserves it. Let there be halls of learning across the Crownlands, where governance, history, and duty are taught—not just to princes, but to stewards, castellans, and knights. A wise realm begins with those who know how to guide it."

The words lingered long after she read them.

She had seen too many heirs raised on pride and the sword, knowing nothing of judgment, nothing of peace. But what if they knew more? What if knowledge was not a luxury, but a duty? It could change not just one lordship, but the shape of rule itself.

The North: Endurance Beyond the Wall

Barba Bolton of the Dreadfort:
"The North survives, but survival is not enough. If the Crown values loyalty, it must reward it—not with gold, but with grain, with trade, with water that runs in all seasons. Let us build granaries, dig canals, and open safer routes, so the North may not endure, but flourish."

Rhaenyra exhaled slowly.

The North had never asked for favor, only for fairness. Harsh and vast, it stood alone too often, expected to scrape by while others feasted. But a fed North, a thriving North, would not be quick to rise in rebellion—it would rise in defense.

Jocelyn Mormont of Bear Island:
"Steel does not ask the hand that wields it. In the North, our women fight beside our men, and bleed just as bravely. If the realm is wise, it will see the strength in all its people—and train those willing to defend it, regardless of name, land, or gender."

A smile tugged at her lips.

She remembered the women of Bear Island, fierce-eyed and unyielding. Let the South whisper of propriety and place—Jocelyn was right. The realm needed warriors, not excuses. And strength wore many faces.

The Vale: Roads to Prosperity

Lorra Arryn of Gulltown:
"Trade is the lifeblood of the Vale, and our mountain roads its veins. Too long have they buckled under snow and disuse. Let the Crown invest in stone-paved roads and fortified passes, linking farm to market, mine to harbor. Let Gulltown rise not only as a gate to the East, but as a beacon of trade for all Westeros. The Vale has steel—but it could have gold as well."

Rhaenyra traced the edge of the parchment with her thumb.

The Vale had always been proud, isolated, strong—but strength alone did not fill granaries or fund fleets. Lorra saw further. If the mountain roads were made passable in all seasons, and Gulltown allowed to flourish, the East might rival the West not just in arms, but in wealth. The kingdom needed more than swords—it needed prosperity.

Kella Borrell of Sisterton:
"The Sisters bleed coin with every ship that fails to return. Raiders infest our waters, stealing not just cargo but peace. The Crown must act—not only with steel, but with strategy. End the piracy, yes—but consider this: offer terms to those who would trade loyalty for legitimacy. What better way to defend the Narrow Sea than with those who once preyed upon it?"

Rhaenyra leaned back, thoughtful.

The Sisters had always walked the knife’s edge between law and lawlessness. Yet Kella’s words rang true—some foes might be bought, others broken. And if the Sisters were pacified, the eastern coast would gain more than safety; it would gain control of the tides. Safer seas meant stronger trade for them all.

The Riverlands: Unity Amid Feuds

Gwenys Blackwood of Raventree Hall:
"The Riverlands are fertile, rich in rivers and grain, but endlessly bled by ancient grudges. The Blackwood-Bracken feud is but one among many. These quarrels weaken us, leave us vulnerable. If the Crown desires strength in the center of the realm, it must demand unity—not by force, but by peace. Let us mend what history has broken."

Rhaenyra’s brow furrowed.

Too often the Riverlands fed the realm while feuding among themselves, lords fighting like dogs while enemies watched. Gwenys did not speak only for her house—she spoke for a land that needed to rise as one. If peace could be forged in those fractured valleys, the heartlands could become a bastion instead of a battlefield.

Perriane Bracken of Stone Hedge:
"Peace cannot be commanded—it must be built. If the Riverlands are to be made whole, then justice must be offered to all. Let the Crown send arbiters, offer land to heal old scars, and settle grievances not with swords, but with sentences. Do that, and you will not only have peace—you will have loyalty."

The two letters echoed each other, yet neither rang hollow.

The Riverlands had always threatened to tear itself apart, but here were two voices calling for healing. Rhaenyra did not need them to love one another—but if she could offer justice, she could win more than peace. She could win their trust.

The Stormlands: The Shield, and the Sword

Maris Baratheon of Storm’s End:
"We are the shield of the realm—but a shield raised too long begins to crack. Give us ships, and we shall strike as well as defend. Let Storm’s End expand its ports, and let our shipwrights and sailors rise. We will guard the sea, not just the land. Let the Stormlands become the sword that answers every threat from the east."

Rhaenyra’s pulse quickened.

The Stormlands were already iron in the realm’s spine—but with ships? With ports to rival Oldtown or Gulltown? They could be a force to reckon with. Maris saw the future clearly—and it gleamed with sails and steel.

Aelinor Tarth of Evenfall Hall:
"A knight’s honor is not for songs alone. Let the realm remember chivalry—not as pageant or pretense, but as law. Let our knights be trained not only in war, but in justice, loyalty, and restraint. If we raise legends, let them be living ones—bound to protect, not only to conquer."

It was an ideal, yes—but not an empty one.

Honor, once a crown in itself, had grown tarnished in too many courts. Yet Aelinor’s words stirred something deeper—what if the realm’s defenders were not only strong, but just? If she could give the next generation of knights purpose beyond blood, perhaps she could shape a nobler age.

The Westerlands: Gold and Power

Tyshara Lannister of Casterly Rock:
"Gold rules all—this we know. But it is not hoarded coin that builds kingdoms. Let trade flourish, let our mines run deeper, and let alliances be forged not only through blood, but through shared prosperity. With wealth as our foundation, power becomes inevitable."

Darlessa Reyne of Castamere:
"Gold must flow beyond the Rock. If only lions feast, the pride will turn on itself. Let the Crown ensure that all houses of the Westerlands—great and small—profit from growth. A realm does not thrive on a single stronghold, but on the strength of many."

Rhaenyra considered them both, eyes narrowing.

Wealth was a weapon, yes—but one that cut both ways. The Westerlands gleamed with promise, but if coin filled only the coffers of Casterly Rock, resentment would rot its roots. Yet if she struck the right balance—strengthening not just the lion, but the pride—the realm could wield its wealth like a sword and shield both.

The Iron Islands: Strength Beyond Old Ways

Esgred Greyjoy of Pyke:
"We have always taken—but give us the chance to build. Ships of our own, trades of our own making. Let the Ironborn chart a new course within the realm, not as raiders, but as mariners of worth. Give us reason, and we shall give loyalty."

Alannys Harlaw of the Ten Towers:
"There is more to the Ironborn than salt and steel. There are minds among us, and hands that can shape more than blades. Let the Crown foster industry, craft, and trade in our isles. We do not ask to be made soft—only to be made useful."

Rhaenyra leaned forward, thoughtful.

The Ironborn were fierce, unpredictable, but not without promise. If war had shaped them, perhaps peace could refine them. Let them build, let them trade—let them prove themselves not as enemies to be endured, but as allies worth investing in. If she could do that, she might win more than obedience—she might win transformation.

Dorne: Alliance Through Respect

Frynne Martell of Sunspear:
"The Crown must not treat Dorne as a land conquered by sword. Respect our customs, honor our law, and speak to us as equals. Do that, and Dorne will give its loyalty freely, not as tribute—but as promise."

Moriah Dayne of Starfall:
"We are proud, yes—but not blind to what could be. Invest in our deserts and rivers, our crops and passes. Let the roads to Starfall and Sunspear carry more than soldiers—let them carry silk, spice, and silver. Dorne will not be bound by force, but it may yet be bound by faith, trade, and trust."

Rhaenyra traced the sun-and-spear etched on the parchment.

Dorne had resisted fire and iron for centuries, but perhaps not all strength was defiance. If she offered respect instead of rule, partnership instead of pressure, the realm might gain what conquest never secured: a true alliance. One forged not in blood, but in purpose.

The Reach: Growth Worth Defending

Helicent Tyrell of Highgarden:
"The Reach feeds the realm—but grain alone does not secure legacy. Let us fortify our borders, guard our granaries, and invest in those who till and tend the land. Roads must be watched, markets protected, and the stewards of our bounty honored, not burdened. Strengthen the hands that feed the kingdom, and the kingdom shall never go hungry."

Rhaenyra read slowly, nodding.

Highgarden had always been a garden of plenty—but even the richest soil could be trampled if left unguarded. Helicent understood more than harvests; she saw that true abundance demanded protection, not just planting. If the Reach was to remain the breadbasket of the realm, its people, ports, and farmlands must be shielded with the same care as any gold vault.

Prosperity, after all, was not just a treasure—but a target.

The One Waste of Her Time

She lifted the final sheet and sighed before she even read it.

Alicent Hightower of Oldtown:
"The Faith, the Citadel—Oldtown’s reach is vast. The queen would do well to keep the Hightowers in her favor, to have the Faith’s blessing and the Citadel’s wisdom at her disposal."

Rhaenyra snorted, crumpling the paper in her fist.

She had asked what would serve their lands and the realm—not what would serve a Hightower’s ambition. The Faith would not rule her. The Maesters would not guide her hand.

With a flick of her wrist, she tossed it aside—where it belonged.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra had spent the morning reading the written words of women who knew their lands better than any lord. Now came the second step—speaking to them directly. Ideas on paper were one thing, but she would look them in the eye, hear the conviction in their voices, and ensure their words were not merely politeness or ambition, but true need.

She settled herself in the chamber she had chosen for these meetings—not the Red Keep’s formal audience halls, but a quieter, private room. Here, there would be no pomp, no courtiers listening in, only the heir to the Iron Throne and the women who had answered her call.

The first was brought in.

Laena Velaryon of Driftmark
“Laena,” Rhaenyra greeted, rising from her seat. “Your letter was clear, but tell me now—do you truly believe the realm must build its own fleet?”

Laena smiled, fierce and certain. “I would not have written it if I did not.”

Rhaenyra gestured for her to sit. “I agree. Velaryon ships have carried the realm’s wars, but that cannot last forever. If the Free Cities can raise fleets of their own, why should Westeros not do the same?”

“It should,” Laena said. “And it can.”

Rhaenyra leaned forward. “Driftmark has the shipwrights, the expertise. I will see that the Crown funds the building of royal shipyards—but the fleet they build will be mine, not my uncle’s or my cousins’. You will help oversee its creation, and the finest sailors will command it.”

Laena’s eyes gleamed. “Then we will make it unmatched.”

Tanselle Celtigar of Claw Isle
The chamber door swung open, and Tanselle Celtigar stepped inside with the composed air of a woman who understood the weight of wealth. There was no hesitation in her step, no meekness in her bearing—she was a Celtigar, a daughter of a house whose fortune rivaled even the great lords of Westeros.

She sat smoothly across from Rhaenyra, folding her hands in her lap.

Rhaenyra met her gaze. “You wrote that the Crown should not bow to foreign bankers. That we should have our own bank.” She tilted her head slightly. “Do you stand by that?”

“I do,” Tanselle said without hesitation. “Why should Braavosi men decide our fate? The wealth of Westeros should serve Westeros.”

Rhaenyra had spent many moons watching her father’s court scramble for loans, watching the Crown's debts mount while Braavosi lenders whispered promises wrapped in chains. A kingdom that relied on foreign coin would always be bound by foreign interests.

She nodded. “Then it shall.”

She sat back, fingers tapping against the arm of her chair. “I will gather the support of noble houses willing to back the royal bank. We will lend to our own, control our own debts, and when we go to war, we will do so with coin that does not come at the cost of our sovereignty.”

Tanselle’s lips curled into a knowing smile. “Then you will rule from a seat of gold, not debt.”

Rhaenyra considered her for a moment before leaning forward slightly. “Would you be willing to help me see it come to light?”

Tanselle arched a brow, intrigued. “You wish for my involvement?”

“You understand wealth,” Rhaenyra said. “Not just how to spend it, but how to make it grow. The lords will listen to you, and I need someone who sees gold not just as power, but as a weapon.”

Tanselle’s expression sharpened. “Then I will help you forge it.”

Rhaenyra smiled. “Then let us begin.”

Elinda Massey of Stonedance
“Elinda.” Rhaenyra greeted her with a small but deliberate nod as the young lady of Stonedance stepped into the chamber. There was sharpness in her eyes, the look of someone who did not waste words, who had thought long and hard before setting quill to paper.

Elinda dipped her head in greeting but did not wait to be prompted. “Your Grace, my concern remains law and order in the Crownlands.”

Rhaenyra studied her. “Is this truly what your lands need most?”

“Yes,” Elinda said without hesitation. “Too many lords act with impunity. Bandits roam where they please. If the Crownlands are not strong, how can the realm be?”

Rhaenyra sat back, a small smile forming at the corner of her lips. “You are young, but you are wise. That is why I chose you.”

Elinda blinked, startled for a moment before straightening in her seat.

“The realm is filled with men twice your age who believe power means privilege and not duty,” Rhaenyra continued. “They do not see what you see. But I do.”

She leaned forward. “It will be seen to. New wardens will be appointed—ones who will enforce the law without fear or favor. The roads will be patrolled, the lords reminded of their duties. The Crownlands will not be left to rot.”

Elinda dipped her head again, this time in something closer to gratitude. “Then they will stand as they should.”

Rhaenyra exhaled softly, already forming her next step in her mind. “And I will not sit idly while others do this work for me. Tomorrow, I will go into the city with ten guards and find the perfect building to begin setting up a proper command post for those who will oversee this order.”

Elinda’s brow lifted slightly, her respect deepening. “You would go yourself?”

Rhaenyra smirked. “Who better to choose the foundation than the one who will rule upon it?”

Mhaegen Hayford of Hayford
Mhaegen entered with the quiet confidence of a woman who had no need to boast. She carried herself with the certainty of someone who knew her worth, who did not need to seek validation for her ideas. Rhaenyra appreciated that.

She motioned for Mhaegen to sit. “You spoke of learning,” she began. “Of governance being taught, not simply inherited.” Her fingers tapped against the table as she studied the woman before her. “Do you believe the realm would truly change for it?”

“I do,” Mhaegen answered without hesitation. “A sword in the hands of a fool is dangerous. So too is power.”

Rhaenyra found herself nodding. “Then we will begin in King’s Landing. A place where stewards can be taught how to rule wisely and learn the law.”

Mhaegen’s face brightened, her voice carrying the passion of someone who had spent years thinking of such things. “If knowledge is nurtured, the realm will only grow stronger.”

Rhaenyra leaned back, considering the scope of what this could become. “There are many who hold power but do not understand how to wield it. But there are others—those who would seek such positions, who would thrive if given the opportunity.” She met Mhaegen’s gaze. “It should not be limited to those born to rule.”

Mhaegen nodded in agreement. “There are those who serve lords, those who advise them—stewards, officials, men and women who are just as vital to governance as the lords themselves. If they are taught properly, the entire realm benefits.”

Rhaenyra smirked. “Then we will not just shape kings and queens, but the ones who stand beside them.”

Barbrey Bolton of the Dreadfort
The chamber door swung open, and Barbrey Bolton strode inside with a purposeful gait. There was no hesitation, no wasted movement—only the quiet confidence of a woman who had spent a lifetime enduring the harsh realities of the North.

She took her seat without ceremony. “The North suffers when the land fails it,” she stated the moment she settled, her voice as firm as the stone of her keep.

Rhaenyra met her gaze. “And you truly believe the answer is better trade and food stores?”

Barbrey did not blink. “I know it is.”

She leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table. “The North is vast, but it is not rich. We do not have golden fields like the Reach or mines like the West. When winter comes, we rely on what we have stored, and too often, it is not enough. If Northern lords had the means to prepare properly—storehouses filled in times of plenty, trade routes that do not falter in snow and ice—then we would endure without need of southern charity.”

Rhaenyra listened, but she had already been thinking ahead. Without a word, she reached beneath the table and unrolled a sheet of thick paper.

Barbrey’s sharp gaze flicked to it immediately.

The drawing was precise, lined with careful detail—a towering steel silo, its structure built to withstand the brutal Northern cold. Beside it, another sketch: a rail car, sturdy and reinforced, meant to move grain and goods across long distances with ease.

“I already have plans for the North,” Rhaenyra said, tapping a finger against the drawings. “Steel silos to store grain, far better than wooden barns that rot and leak. And these—” she gestured to the rail car “—designed to move food and supplies quickly across the land, even in winter. The Crown can lay the foundation, but it will require investment from those who stand to benefit most.”

She lifted her gaze, fixing Barbrey with a pointed look. “I need someone on the inside. Someone who can convince the lords that these silos are worth the cost, that the investment should be shared between them and the Crown.” She let the silence hang for a moment before adding, “I think that person is you.”

Barbrey’s eyes remained locked on the sketches. Slowly, she reached forward, running a gloved finger along the lines of the rail car.

When she finally looked up, a rare, knowing smile crossed her lips. “Then let us begin.”

Jocelyn Mormont of Bear Island
Jocelyn Mormont entered the chamber as if she were stepping onto a battlefield—strong, sure, and utterly unshaken. She was a woman of the North, and the North did not waste words.

She sat without hesitation, leveling Rhaenyra with a steady gaze. “The women of the North fight,” she declared. “They should not be denied the means.”

Rhaenyra studied her for a moment, a slow smirk forming on her lips. “You believe the Crown should make that official?”

Jocelyn didn’t flinch. “I do.”

Rhaenyra leaned back slightly, considering. The thought had merit—more than merit. She had always believed that women should not be dismissed as mere breeders, as delicate things to be protected and hidden away. The North had already proven that truth.

She drummed her fingers against the table. “I like your way of thinking.”

Jocelyn arched a brow but remained silent, waiting.

Rhaenyra leaned forward, voice firm. “If I were willing to put up my own coin, to fund an outpost and training center on Sea Dragon Point, would the women of the North train there? Not just for Bear Island, but for the whole of the North—to stand against any man who might seek to force them into weakness?”

Jocelyn’s breath hitched just slightly, and Rhaenyra knew she had struck true.

The Lady of Bear Island let out a low chuckle. “You’re serious?”

Rhaenyra’s smirk widened. “I do not speak of things I do not mean.”

Jocelyn leaned back, considering. “If such a place existed, you would not lack for warriors.” Her lips curled into something fierce. “A woman with steel in her hand is a force few men are ready for. If you build this outpost, the North will fill it.”

Rhaenyra tapped the table. “That is only half of what I want.”

Jocelyn narrowed her eyes. “And the other half?”

“I want some of them here.”

Jocelyn tilted her head slightly.

Rhaenyra continued. “Not all of them—many will want to remain in the North, to guard their homes and kin. But some will seek more. If they prove themselves, I want them in King’s Landing. I want them by my side.”

She let the offer settle before adding, “I need someone I trust to set something up for them here in King’s Landing. If you are willing.”

Jocelyn didn’t hesitate.

“Willing?” She let out a bark of laughter. “I’d be honored.”

Rhaenyra’s smirk turned to something sharper. “Then it’s settled.”

Jocelyn stood, clasping Rhaenyra’s forearm in a warrior’s grip. “I’ll make sure they are ready.”

Rhaenyra squeezed back. “Then I will make sure they are welcome.”

Lorra Arryn of Gulltown
Lorra Arryn entered the chamber with a measured step, her poise reflecting the high seat from which she hailed. Unlike some, she was no warrior, no woman of fire and steel. Her weapon was strategy, her battleground commerce.

She took her seat across from Rhaenyra, her expression calm, her words precise. “The Vale’s greatest strength is trade,” she said. “But trade relies on roads.”

Rhaenyra studied her for a moment. “You truly believe better roads will change everything?”

Lorra did not waver. “I know it will.”

Rhaenyra exhaled, already seeing the vision Lorra had laid before her. “Then we will rebuild them,” she declared. “And Gulltown will have the resources to become the greatest port of the East.”

But before Lorra could reply, Rhaenyra raised a hand. “However, there are steps that must be taken before I can bring this before the Small Council for approval.”

Lorra nodded, waiting.

“First, I will need the agreements of the Vale’s lords—not all of them, but those who see the future in this. They must be willing to invest.”

Lorra’s lips pressed together in thought. “There are those who will see the benefit. I can help bring them to the table.”

Rhaenyra continued. “Then there is the matter of the workers. They will need shelter as they travel. Roads are not built in a day, nor without men to lay them.”

Lorra inclined her head. “Temporary housing can be arranged along key routes.”

Rhaenyra leaned forward. “And most importantly, materials—sourced at a price that does not drain our coffers. The Foundation of these roads must be solid.” She gestured to a piece of paper before her, where she had already outlined what was needed:

Layers of Crushed Stone, Sand, and Gravel – To provide stability and prevent sinking.
Paving Stones – Flat, durable stones for the road’s surface.
Roadside Markers & Mileposts – To make travel more efficient.
Drainage & Ditches – To prevent erosion and washouts.
She looked back at Lorra. “If you can help me secure these things—lords who will invest, shelter for workers, and materials at a high discount—then I have no doubt I can see this done.”

Lorra was silent for only a moment before she gave a firm nod. “You will have my help. We will see this done.”

Rhaenyra allowed herself a small smirk. “Then let us begin.”

Kella Borrell of Sisterton
Kella Borrell entered with an air of quiet determination, her steps steady, her face unreadable. She was no highborn lady of courts and feasts—her life had been shaped by salt air and restless tides. She knew the dangers of the Narrow Sea better than most, and she had seen firsthand what unchecked piracy could do.

She took her seat, meeting Rhaenyra’s gaze with the frankness of a woman who did not waste words. “Piracy plagues the Sisters.”

Rhaenyra tapped her fingers against the table. “And you truly believe gold can solve what swords have not?”

“Yes,” Kella said without hesitation. “Some pirates will take a better offer. Those who won’t? Burn them.”

Rhaenyra smirked at the bluntness but did not immediately respond. Instead, she leaned forward slightly, studying Kella with newfound curiosity.

“Tell me something,” she said. “If the pirates had a place to call their own—sacred land of sorts—do you believe the willing among them would go to it?”

Kella’s brows lifted slightly, as if the thought had never been entertained before. She considered it, then gave a slow nod. “I believe so. Most of them raid because they have no true place in the world. They take what they cannot build. But if they were given land, a purpose, some would trade their oars for soil and steel.”

Rhaenyra exhaled, mulling over the idea. “Then I will work with my uncle to come up with a solution that benefits all.” She met Kella’s gaze, her expression sharp. “But if there is no way to make it work, I will do what needs to be done.”

Kella did not flinch. Instead, she smirked. “Either way, the Sisters will be safer for it.”

Rhaenyra nodded. “Then we are in agreement.”

Gwenys Blackwood & Perriane Bracken
The tension in the chamber shifted the moment Gwenys Blackwood and Perriane Bracken entered. They did not sit close to one another, nor did they exchange pleasantries. Their houses had been at odds for generations, and though they had come here to seek an end to that, their every movement betrayed the deep-rooted rivalry that lived in their bones.

They took their seats, rigid and wary, but neither woman hesitated.

“The Riverlands will never be strong while divided,” Gwenys said.

“Feuds must end,” Perriane added.

Rhaenyra sat in silence for a moment, watching them both. She let their words settle, let them weigh the truth of what they had just spoken.

Then, she leaned forward. “I know the best way to stop the feuding.”

Gwenys and Perriane turned their gazes toward her, both shifting in their seats.

Rhaenyra’s tone was calm, but absolute. “If you are willing to do what needs to be done.”

The two women exchanged a glance, suspicion flickering between them, before turning back to her.

“How?” Gwenys asked.

Rhaenyra did not hesitate. “You will marry the heirs of each other’s house.”

The chamber fell silent.

Perriane’s brows furrowed, Gwenys’ lips parted slightly, but neither spoke.

“Gwenys, you will wed the Bracken heir,” Rhaenyra continued smoothly, “and Perriane, you will wed the Blackwood heir. Blood for blood, bound not by war, but by family.”

Their shock was palpable.

“I can break betrothals,” Rhaenyra said before they could protest. “I can bring the heirs to you. But the rest will be on your shoulders—convincing them, ensuring this union is not just words on parchment but a true binding of your houses.”

She let that settle before adding, “If you are willing.”

Neither woman spoke. They only looked at each other again, truly looked, as if seeing each other for the first time.

Then, Perriane swallowed. “And if we refuse?”

Rhaenyra’s gaze darkened. She did not raise her voice, but when she spoke, it was enough to make both women stiffen.

“When I take the crown, I will spare you ladies.” Her violet eyes lingered on each of them in turn. “But no one else.”

A cold shudder passed between them.

“I intend to see Westeros enter a golden age.” Rhaenyra’s voice was like steel wrapped in silk, soft yet unrelenting. “And two minor houses will not stop that.”

Perriane paled slightly. Gwenys inhaled sharply.

Then, slowly—hesitantly—they both nodded.

“We will do what must be done,” Gwenys said, voice quieter than before.

“For the Riverlands,” Perriane added, though the weight of what they had agreed to lingered between them.

Rhaenyra sat back, satisfied.

Maris Baratheon of Storm’s End
Maris Baratheon entered with the boldness of a storm gathering on the horizon. There was no hesitation in her step, no false humility in her posture—only certainty, the kind that came naturally to those born of Storm’s End. She was a Baratheon through and through, bred from a line of warriors who had never been content to sit behind walls while others claimed glory.

She took her seat, meeting Rhaenyra’s gaze with the unshaken confidence of someone who knew their worth. “The Stormlands should not be only a shield,” she declared. “We should be a sword.”

Rhaenyra studied her for a moment, intrigued by the challenge in her tone. “And you believe your shipwrights can rival others?”

Maris’s lips curled into something between a smirk and a dare. “Give them the chance, and they will surpass them.”

Rhaenyra leaned forward slightly, considering the weight of that promise. The Stormlands had always been a land of warriors, known for their endurance, their strength—but never for their fleet. That had always belonged to Driftmark, to the Reach, to the Free Cities.

Perhaps it was time to change that.

“Then you shall have the chance,” she said finally. “Your shipwrights will be given the resources they need to prove their worth. If they succeed, the Stormlands will be known for more than just its castles and knights—it will be a force upon the waves.”

Maris’s smile widened, her eyes gleaming with the thrill of a challenge accepted. “Then you’ve just made the best decision of your future reign.”

Aelinor Tarth of Evenfall Hall
Aelinor Tarth carried herself with the quiet dignity of a woman who had never needed to demand respect—she had simply earned it. The Evenstar’s blood ran strong in her veins, and though she was not clad in armor, there was something unmistakably knightly in her bearing.

She took her seat, her gaze steady as she spoke. “Tarth stands for honor.”

Rhaenyra inclined her head. “And you believe chivalry must be upheld?”

Aelinor’s expression did not waver. “I do. The realm’s knights should be more than men with swords. Their oaths should mean something. Their names should stand the test of time.”

Rhaenyra considered her words. Too many knights bore their titles without bearing the weight of what it truly meant. Too many men called themselves protectors while using their strength for cruelty instead.

She met Aelinor’s gaze, determination flickering in her violet eyes. “Then we will ensure they are not just swords, but legends.”

Aelinor’s lips curved into a rare smile. “That is all any knight should strive to be.”

Tyshara Lannister & Darlessa Reyne
Tyshara Lannister entered first, the weight of Casterly Rock’s vast wealth resting on her shoulders as effortlessly as if she had been born with a crown of gold. Darlessa Reyne followed, her steps just as assured, though there was something sharper in her gaze—like a woman who had long known that the Lannisters were not the only lions in the West.

They sat across from Rhaenyra, both poised, both utterly certain of what they were about to say.

“Gold rules all,” Tyshara said smoothly, as if it were a simple truth of the world.

“But it must flow to more than one hand,” Darlessa added.

Rhaenyra studied them, letting the words settle. “You both truly believe that?”

They nodded in unison, neither hesitating.

Rhaenyra exhaled, tapping a finger against the arm of her chair. She had no illusions about the power of gold—it moved armies, built kingdoms, and decided the fate of men as easily as swords did. But wealth hoarded was wealth wasted. If Westeros was to be strong, if she was to be strong, the realm’s prosperity could not rest solely in the hands of a few.

She was prepared to wield coin as deftly as a blade, but before she made her move, she posed a single question.

“Have either of you heard of a miners’ coalition?”

Esgred Greyjoy & Alannys Harlaw
The chamber door opened, and two women of the Iron Islands strode inside—Esgred Greyjoy, tall and fierce as a rising tide, and Alannys Harlaw, her expression sharp, her calculating gaze ever watchful. They were not like the women of Westeros who played at politics with silk and whispers. These were Ironborn, raised among salt and steel, and their words carried the weight of generations of bloodied tides.

They sat before Rhaenyra without pretense.

“The Ironborn should be given purpose,” Esgred said.

“We can be more than reavers,” Alannys added.

Rhaenyra considered them for a moment, then reached to the table beside her, unrolling a large map. The parchment spread smoothly across the table’s surface, revealing the western shores of Westeros. But it was not as they had always known it—something was different.

Esgred’s eyes narrowed as she leaned forward, her fingers stopping over a marking near Oldstones. “What is this?”

Alannys studied it as well, brows furrowing. “This is not how the land is.”

Rhaenyra tapped the area in question with the tip of her finger. “It is a canal.”

The Ironborn exchanged glances before turning back to her.

“If the Iron Islands were granted this,” Rhaenyra continued smoothly, her voice even but firm, “a way to improve farming, a means to move ships deeper into Westeros’ heart, would your people still need to reave?”

Her hand slid along the path drawn on the map—a deliberate motion tracing from Oldstones through the Riverlands, then southward, past the Bay of Crabs, and finally, down to the Stepstones.

The implication was clear: trade routes, power, a legitimate foothold.

She let them absorb the idea before she continued, “If I can get my uncle to grant an island for additional farming, would the Iron Islands truly stand with the Crown?”

Esgred leaned back slightly, arms crossing over her chest as she considered the weight of what Rhaenyra was offering. Alannys was more measured, her fingers still pressed lightly against the map, tracing the canal’s path.

Rhaenyra watched them closely, then made her final play.

“To sweeten it further,” she said, tilting her head slightly, “I intend to establish trade with the Summer Islands. If I were to ensure an exclusive deal—one where they only trade on the Crown’s behalf—could the Iron Islands offer a little protection in return? A guarantee that those waters remain secure, that the goods flow freely?”

She met their gazes, unwavering.

“Protection for profit.”

Esgred exhaled slowly, exchanging another long glance with Alannys. The offer was no small thing. It was more than silver, more than simple treaties—it was a path forward for a people who had never been given one.

The silence stretched for a moment longer before Alannys finally spoke, her voice quieter, but no less certain. “That… would change everything.”

Esgred nodded, her expression unreadable, but her mind clearly turning. “You’re asking us to build, not take.”

Rhaenyra smirked. “Yes. The question is—will you?”

Frynne Martell & Moriah Dayne
Frynne Martell entered first, her stride effortless, carrying the quiet confidence of a woman who knew exactly what she was worth. Moriah Dayne followed, her presence softer but no less commanding, her sharp amethyst eyes watching everything with quiet intensity. Together, they stood as a reminder of what Dorne was—proud, independent, and never conquered.

They took their seats, their gazes steady.

Frynne was the first to speak. “Dorne must not be ruled as a conquered land.”

Rhaenyra regarded her for a long moment before tilting her head. “And you truly believe respect will earn loyalty?”

Frynne did not hesitate. “I know it will.”

Moriah, silent until now, spoke with quiet certainty. “Dorne bends to no one. But if it is treated as an equal, it will stand with you.”

Rhaenyra studied them both. She did not need to be told what happened when kings and queens tried to force Dorne into submission. The Martells had never knelt, not to dragons, not to iron swords.

And so, she would not ask them to.

She leaned forward slightly, her voice firm yet unyielding. “Then Dorne will have its place.”

Frynne’s lips curled into a satisfied smile, and Moriah gave a small nod. They had come seeking reassurance, and they had found it.

Not as subjects.

But as equals.

Helicent Tyrell of Highgarden
Helicent Tyrell entered with the poise expected of a lady of Highgarden—elegant yet deliberate, carrying herself with the quiet assurance of one who understood the power of her house. The Reach was the wealth of Westeros, its fields feeding the realm, its influence stretching far beyond its borders. Yet, unlike the Westerlands, it did not wield gold as its greatest weapon. Its power lay in something else entirely.

She took her seat gracefully, folding her hands in her lap.

“Highgarden is already the realm’s breadbasket,” Helicent began, her voice smooth as honeyed wine. “But it could be so much more.”

Rhaenyra arched a brow. “What do you propose?”

Helicent met her gaze evenly. “Knowledge. Culture. Refinement.” She gestured slightly, as if painting a vision into the air. “The Free Cities are envied for their grand libraries, their great academies, their patronage of scholars and artists. Why should Westeros not have the same? Why should Highgarden not be its heart?”

Rhaenyra leaned back slightly, intrigued. “You believe knowledge holds as much power as coin?”

Helicent smiled, tilting her head slightly. “I believe knowledge is the foundation of all power. The Reach is already the seat of learning, home to the Citadel and the Faith’s great septs—but those institutions serve only themselves. Imagine a Highgarden where scholars are funded by the Crown, where poets, craftsmen, and engineers shape the future, where lords and ladies send their children not only to learn war, but governance, history, invention.”

Rhaenyra had listened intently, but even as she did, she could not help but smile. She had already begun laying the foundation for such a thing—one academy, one center of learning to rival even the Citadel, free from its old men and their rigid grasp on knowledge.

But why stop at one?

Her violet eyes glimmered with something far sharper than mere approval. “I love this idea,” she admitted. “And you are right—why should Westeros not have such things?”

She sat forward, voice firm. “I will tell you something, Lady Helicent. This is already in motion. A grand institution, built to educate not just lords but those who will govern in truth. But with the support of Highgarden—of the Reach—we can take it further. We can establish one for every region of Westeros.”

Helicent’s lips parted slightly, realization dawning.

Rhaenyra continued. “I need the backing of a great house to see it spread, to bring in those who will nurture knowledge as you envision. If House Tyrell stands with me on this, Highgarden will not just be the heart of learning—it will be the model from which all others are built.”

For the first time, Helicent seemed momentarily stunned, but it lasted only a breath. Then, slowly, she smiled—a smile that carried more than mere approval.

“Then House Tyrell will stand with you,” she said. “And we will see Westeros shaped by more than swords and crowns.”

Rhaenyra smirked. “Then let us build something that even the Free Cities will envy.”

The last woman left. The doors closed.

One sheet of paper remained, untouched.

Alicent’s.

She picked up the crumpled-up wad of paper and with a flick of her wrist, she cast it into the fire.

Chapter Text

She and her ladies had been working nonstop for the last fortnight, and before they knew it, the time had come for her to be crowned heir. Every lord paramount had arrived, along with several others of note. She had ensured her uncle’s presence as well—a decision that made her father frown and sent Otto into a seething rage.

When the septon finally finished his long-winded droning, the lords stepped forward to swear their oaths. She stood proud and unyielding, her ladies positioned on either side of her, a testament to the strength she had cultivated.

Once the formalities ended and the luncheon began, she allowed herself to relax, mingling and speaking candidly with the gathered lords. Over the next few days, I watched—amused—as Otto scrambled to disrupt my meetings with the lords paramount, but in the end, he stood no chance. My ladies had already arranged secret gatherings, ensuring that I was always one step ahead.

Through careful maneuvering, I secured Amos Bracken and Samwell Blackwood as sworn swords, their temporary allegiance affording Gwenys and Perriane the time they needed to see their tasks through. Cregan Stark would arrive in a year’s time to foster with me—one heir to another—and already, four lords had purchased steel grains.

All in all, everything had fallen into place. Now, it was time for some hard truths.

Rhaenyra rode out into the city with ten guards, making her way to a manse nestled in the better quarter of King’s Landing. It had once belonged to her grandfather, the Old King, before he left it abandoned. When they arrived at the gates, she turned to her men with a firm command.

"Wait here. I will be safe inside."

Though some of them exchanged uneasy glances, none dared argue. She was their princess, and her word was law.

Inside, she was met by Sheara—her aunt, though no one knew it. Rhaenyra had learned of her through a dragonkeeper, one who had spoken in hushed tones of a dragonseed her grandfather had visited after her grandmother’s death. Sheara was all Targaryen in blood and bearing, if not in name, and Rhaenyra had taken an instant liking to her when she found her on Dragonstone. Over the years, she had carefully convinced Sheara to take up residence in this forgotten manse, reclaiming what had been left to rot.

Giving her aunt a warm embrace, she settled into the solar, a steaming cup of tea in hand. She wasted little time.

"Was Laenor able to do it?"

Sheara sighed, her expression grim. "No," she said. "He could not rise to the occasion."

Rhaenyra laughed, not in surprise but in amusement. "I knew it." She shook her head, taking another sip. "But not all is lost. Plans have simply changed."

For a moment, she studied her aunt, noting the similarities between her and the mother she had lost. So much like Aemma—frail in presence, yet possessing a quiet strength beneath the surface. But unlike Aemma, Sheara had never been given a choice in her fate.

"Are you still willing to seduce my father?" she asked at last. "Since Laenor could not fulfill his role, you must. Of course, the child will be my brother, and once my father is no longer living, he will be legitimized as a Targaryen. He will have more than a small keep—he will have lands befitting his birth."

Sheara met her gaze with unwavering loyalty. "You are the only family who ever stopped me from being treated as filth—a whore to be used and discarded. You have protected me, and I will do what must be done to protect you in turn. That will never change."

Rhaenyra smiled, embracing her again. "Good. In a sennight, I will have you escorted to the castle. You will take up your role as my attendant. And once you are with child, we will begin the process to ensure that my father can sire no more."

Finishing her tea, she rose, smoothing her skirts as she prepared to depart. There was no time to linger. She had another matter to tend to, and she knew exactly where Laenor would be.

Rhaenyra made her way to the Dragonpit, knowing exactly where she would find Laenor. Sure enough, he was there, lingering near Seasmoke’s enclosure, running a hand along the dragon’s pale scales. He turned when he heard her approach, his expression shifting from surprise to resignation.

"If you cannot be my husband," she said without preamble, "then I want you as my Master of War."

Laenor exhaled, shaking his head. "Rhaenyra, I tried. I truly did. But I couldn’t do it."

She offered a small, knowing smile. "That’s fine. If I’m being honest, I always wanted to marry Daemon anyway—and I would’ve hated having to kill you."

Laenor’s brows shot up, his mouth parting in stunned silence before a sudden, incredulous laugh escaped him. "Good thing I couldn’t, then."

Rhaenyra chuckled, and soon enough, they were both laughing, the tension breaking like a wave against the shore.

Once the laughter faded, she stepped closer, her voice dropping to a lower register. "I need a favor, but it must be done in secret."

Laenor straightened, sensing the shift in her tone. "Tell me."

She did, speaking quickly and carefully, outlining what needed to be done and where he would have to go. He listened without interruption, nodding slowly as the weight of her words settled over him.
When she finished, he took a deep breath and met her gaze. "Alright," he said. "I’ll take the trip."

Chapter Text

The King stirred his tea in slow, methodical circles, watching the steam curl upward—as if it might shape her face before she entered. He hadn’t seen Rhaenyra in days—not truly. There had been moments at court, at council, brief greetings in the halls. But this—she had requested to break her fast with him. And for that alone, he had allowed himself a fragile bloom of hope.

He missed her. Gods, how he missed her. He missed the little girl with wild hair and stubborn fire, the one who clutched his fingers in her sleep and called him Kepa with such trust it made him feel like a true king.

Now… now she moved like her mother and spoke like her uncle.

The doors opened.

She stepped into the chamber clad in black and red silk, a dragon in the shape of a girl, and his heart clenched at the sight. She had never looked more like Aemma… until she opened her mouth and Daemon’s fire came pouring out.

“Good morrow,” she said simply, gliding into the seat opposite his.

He nodded, a warm smile struggling to take hold. “Good morrow, daughter. I trust you slept well?”

“Well enough,” she answered, breaking off a corner of her bread. “It is a busy time.”

They sat in silence for a few moments, chewing, sipping. He waited. Waited for her to say it—for her to smile and tell him what he had yearned for.

Instead, she placed her cup aside and said, almost as if in passing, “Lady Martell informed me that Qoren Martell is to be wed before the end of the year.”

Viserys blinked. “Ah. Truly?” He sat up straighter, grasping at the thread. “That is good news. His father must have been most eager to see it done. And what of you, Rhaenyra?” He tried to smile. “So—have you chosen Laenor as a suitor, then?”

She tilted her head just so. “Laenor was not able to lay with the dragonseed.”

The words hit him like cold iron.

He lowered his cup slowly.

“Are you certain?” he asked. “Perhaps it was nerves. Or… or maybe she—”

“He could not,” she said, cutting off his denial with finality. “And so, we must look elsewhere.”

“Now what, daughter?” His voice strained, the weight of so many plans beginning to shake. “You know this matters. To the realm. To our house.”

“I know,” she said plainly. “And I now have seven moons to plan my wedding to Daemon.”

Silence fell.

The world tilted.

“Daemon?” he echoed. “You… you cannot be serious.”

“I am. It is the only choice left, Father. We are both dragonriders. Both Targaryen. And together, we will make our house stronger.”

“Rhaenyra—” He stood now, pushing his chair back with more force than grace. “He is using you! Can you not see that? You are to be named heir to the Iron Throne, and he has always wanted power—”

“Then he would’ve taken it!” she shouted, rising to meet him, her voice filling the solar like dragonfire. “If Daemon wanted the crown, he could have seized it a dozen times over. He could have claimed your seat, the crown, and the dragons. But he didn’t.”

He stared at her, stunned not just by her defiance, but by the sheer truth behind her words.

She was breathing hard, her eyes burning.

And in that moment, she looked like neither Aemma nor Daemon.

She looked like herself.

He searched her face, hoping to glimpse the child who once clung to him. But she was gone.

“I love you, Father,” she said, voice quaking but steady. “But your reign is weak.”

His mouth parted, but no words came.

She didn’t stop.

“Most nobles think you are a puppet king. That you move only when Otto Hightower pulls your strings. The smallfolk believe you care more about feasts, and tourneys, and having a son than you do the people you were crowned to protect.”

Viserys flinched. He wanted to argue. To defend himself. But some deep, poisoned root inside him knew it was true.

“I have watched them,” Rhaenyra went on. “I have listened. At court. In corridors. In chambers where you think no ears press against the wood. They do not fear you, Father. They do not believe in you.”

He looked at her as though he were seeing a stranger—a woman grown, flame-tempered, and unbending.

And perhaps he was.

“I am not a little girl anymore,” she said gently now, the anger cooling but not gone. “And if you truly want me to be heir in more than name only… then you must stop fighting me. Stop undermining me. Stop making it seem as though I need the Lords of your small council's permission to act.”

Her voice dropped lower, but gained weight.

“Because if you keep doing so, they will not only say you are weak, Father.”

She stepped forward.

“They will say I am too.”

He inhaled sharply, but she was not finished.

“And I will not allow that of me, of our house anymore. I am Rhaenyra Targaryen. Rider of Syrax and I will wield that power for our house.”

He stared.

She did not blink.

In that moment, he saw it—the truth of it. The inevitability. The daughter he had named, shaped, and yet never truly understood was already queen in deed if not yet in crown.

And she would not be stopped.

Not even by him.

---

The Small Council chamber had never felt so suffocating.

Viserys sat at the head of the long table, fingers clasped tight around the carved arms of his chair. Next to him empty sat Rhaenyra's dragonbone chair in miniature—Maegor’s design—it mocked him now. He had set in his rooms for the remainder of the day thinking over all Rhaenyra had said. Now his back ached. His hands trembled just slightly, but enough for Otto Hightower to notice.

They were all watching him differently this day.

Otto with veiled contempt, lips pursed in that permanent line of judgment. Lyonel Strong with pitying quiet. Lyman Beesbury tapping his quill with nervous repetition. Mellos murmuring about tinctures and sleep. Only Corlys Velaryon, newly returned to the capital, leaned forward with anything like curiosity.

Viserys had barely spoken since the early meal. His daughter’s words still echoed in his head.

> “They do not fear you.”
> “They will say I am weak.”
> “I am Rhaenyra Targaryen.”

The room blurred for a moment, then sharpened again. Otto had been speaking. Viserys blinked.

“…a troubling message to send to the realm, Your Grace,” Otto said crisply. “The Princess naming herself equal to the crown before the ink is even dry on the oaths.”

“She is the heir,” Viserys murmured.

“Indeed,” Otto replied looking as if he wanted to say more but my acknowledgement stopped him.

Lyonel cleared his throat. “She has accomplished more in the past moon than most heirs do in ten. Her reforms, her ladies’ petitions—”

“She’s bypassing the council entirely!” Otto snapped. “She holds private meetings with lords. She assigns Courtly Offices without approval. She distributes Valyrian steel as if it were trinkets. And now this… wedding scheme.”

Daemon, Viserys thought bitterly. Of course it’s about Daemon.

The council exchanged glances.

Viserys tried to sit taller. “She told me of her intentions and I have given her my blessing.”

The words stung. More than they should have. Viserys exhaled slowly. Otto opened his mouth to speak. But Viserys cut him off by slamming his hand on the table—“I am King and this matter is settled,” he said.

A silence fell. Uncomfortable. Thick.

Then, Mellos, in that soft, too-patient tone: “Of course, Your Grace.”

Viserys stood abruptly. The ache in his leg flared, but he ignored it. He needed to move. To escape the weight of their gazes. He turned toward the windows, staring out toward the Dragonpit in the hazy light of midmorning.

She had looked so much like her mother. But spoken like fire itself.

“I named her,” he said aloud. “She is my heir. And now she commands as the heir.”

No one replied.

He turned back slowly. Otto’s gaze met his, hard as stone.

“You gave her power, Your Grace. Now she wields it. The question before us is whether the realm will follow her… or follow you.”

Viserys studied his Hand.

He had known Otto was clever, manipulative, a ladder-climber. But never before had he realized the depth of the contempt beneath the bowing and soft-voiced counsel.

His hands clenched.

“Leave,” he said.

Otto blinked. “Your Grace?”

“I said leave.” Viserys’s voice rang out like steel drawn from a sheath. “All of you. I will have no more counsel this day.”

They rose, reluctant, wary. Otto was the last to linger, and Viserys met his gaze with a final, damning voice:

“She does not your approval, Lord Hightower. And neither do I.”

When the doors shut, Viserys let out a long, shuddering breath.

He was surrounded by flatterers, liars, and men too slow to keep pace. His daughter—his flameborn daughter—was the only one not afraid to speak the truth.

And gods help him…

She was right.

Chapter Text

The throne room was filled with heat, breath, and tension.

The banners had been changed—Targaryen red and black unfurled behind the Iron Throne, flanked on one side by a new standard bearing a golden one-headed dragon with a red-black dawn casting over the city of King’s Landing, and on the other, a red dragon on black silk. A declaration, even before the King opened his mouth.

The lords had gathered, draped in velvets and expectation. The smallfolk lined the upper galleries, eyes bright with the rare privilege of witnessing court. The mood was uncertain—neither joyous nor hostile, but tight with anticipation, like the breath drawn before a leap.

King Viserys sat the Iron Throne with stiff, deliberate posture. Every move he made felt carved out of will alone. At either side of the throne stood Ser Harrold Westerling and Lord Commander Ryam Redwyne. To his right near the stairs waited Otto Hightower, tight-lipped and stone-faced, and Mellos murmuring prayers under his breath. But none drew the eye like the two figures who stood on the left side of the throne, silent and radiant:

Rhaenyra in deep crimson, trimmed with obsidian and gold, her silver hair twisted in Valyrian knots. And beside her, Daemon, cool and calm in black leathers, his blade Dark Sister sheathed and his expression unreadable.

When the room quieted, the King rose.

The murmurs hushed.

Viserys surveyed them all—not just lords and knights, but stewards, tradesmen, and guards who had stood through the last years watching his reign drift. His voice, when it came, was stronger than they remembered:

“Three sennights past, I named my daughter, Rhaenyra Targaryen, as the heir to the Iron Throne.”

Applause fluttered through the smallfolk once more. The memory was still fresh. The oaths had been sworn—but many wondered still if he would hold to them.

He did not flinch.

“Some said that I would change my mind once a son was born. That I would let the tides of ambition and tradition wash away the promise I made to her.”

He looked to the lords and let the weight of his words press into their bones.

“They are wrong.”

Now, the chamber was still. The lords stiffened. Otto Hightower did not move, but his jaw clenched like stone beneath water.

“This day, before the eyes of the realm, I reaffirm my choice: Rhaenyra of House Targaryen, my blood and my flame, is the heir to the Iron Throne. She will follow me, not as a placeholder, but as a sovereign in her own right.”

The words echoed like iron on marble.

A few nobles bowed their heads. Others looked to Otto, searching for any signal of objection. None came.

Rhaenyra did not smile. She stood motionless, regal and unbending, as if she had always known it would come to this.

Viserys lifted a hand again.

“And as she ascends toward that future, she will not do so alone. Six moons from this day, she shall be wed to Prince Daemon Targaryen, rider of Caraxes, my brother and the realm’s most formidable sword.”

Gasps, louder now. A few shouts. One noble lady actually dropped her fan.

“Their union is no mere marriage—it is a forging of strength. Of fire and blood, not just in name, but in truth. Together, they shall carry our legacy forward.”

The murmuring threatened to break into chaos—until Rhaenyra took one step forward and looked not at the nobles, but at the people.

“We are of the blood of the dragon,” she said clearly, her voice carrying like fire in wind. “And we rise together, not in shadow, but in flame.”

Daemon raised her hand, kissed her knuckles. Not in affection, but in allegiance.

There was no stopping the wave now—whether of awe or outrage.

Viserys raised his hand once more.

“To mark this occasion, the Crown declares four celebrations for all the realm. First: the Glory Games, to be held for the smallfolk—contests of strength, wit, and courage, open to all smallfolk men.”

The murmuring shifted, surprised delight bubbling up in the gallery.

He continued:

“These Glory Games will be held for a sennight and shall begin with the first-ever Commoners’ Games: the test of wills, the test of strength, a test of wit, and a joust in which the victor may earn the right to be named a hedge knight, followed by a feast for all the winners. A day for those who toiled to feel pride in strength.”

“Next, a three-day trial for the women, noble and lowborn: archery, a test of blades, a trial of skills, and a joust for those bold enough to enter—culminating in a feast where the victor will be granted silver from the future Queen’s own purse.”

A few surprised cheers rose even from the lords’ tier.

“Then comes Squires’ Day: a proving ground for young warriors who will tilt and clash in supervised melee, with honors bestowed by Prince Daemon himself.”

The youths in the gallery erupted in thrilled whispering.

“And the sennight following shall be grand indeed—a Parade of Steel, with open competitions for all nobles: archery, melee, and a full joust.”

Now the murmur was near a roar.

“And after the wedding,” he said, letting the noise swell and settle, “a Carnival for another full sennight—filled with riding contraptions, games, and Valyrian wonders brought across the Narrow Sea. The final feast will bring court and commons together in song and spectacle. And not to worry, Lord Beesbury,” he added dryly, “this too shall be funded by my heir’s own coffers.” That broke what little resistance remained in the upper galleries.

The smallfolk erupted in cheers—real, unforced joy rippling through the upper tiers. Some lords looked skeptical. A few applauded slowly, cautiously. Otto Hightower remained still as a stone pillar, but behind his eyes, calculations burned.

Viserys turned to Rhaenyra and Daemon, who now stood side by side before him, and gave them a single nod. “The future is ours to shape. Let all who hear these words remember: House Targaryen stands united.”

The Iron Throne loomed behind him.

And in front of it, the next age of dragons began to rise.

Chapter Text

After the announcement, the realm roared.

And then, like all roars, it echoed—and faded.

The throne room emptied slowly, lords and ladies peeling away in stunned conversation, courtiers already spinning tales to suit whatever future they now feared or desired. But behind the clamor and ceremony, Rhaenyra turned on her heel and led her procession not to a feast, but to her private chambers.

Daemon followed at her side, calm and watchful. Her ladies trailed behind in a formation that was not entirely ceremonial anymore—those with Courtly Offices already moved with quiet purpose, their roles shifting from ornamental to essential.

The doors closed behind them with a quiet thud.

Inside, she dismissed them all with a flick of her fingers. “Rest, refresh, and wait for my summons. All but my Ladies of the Left and Right Hands.”

They obeyed without question. Lorra Arryn lingered by the window, her cool blue eyes already calculating. Mhaegen Hayford moved to the hearth, hands folded, as composed as ever. Both knew something was coming.

Rhaenyra turned to Daemon.

“It’s time the realm saw what true power looks like.”

Daemon’s mouth curved slightly. “I thought that’s what we just showed them.”

“That was only the spark,” she said. “Now we build the fire.”

She moved to the table where a rolled map of the city had been laid out by her steward. Unfurling it with a firm hand, she gestured for them to come closer. All three gathered around.

“I want a council,” she said. “My council. The future Queen’s Small Council. The men on my father’s small council think they hold dominion over the realm’s future, but I’ve already put my own pieces in motion."

Daemon’s brows rose slightly. “You’re forming a second council beneath your father’s nose?”

“Not beneath it,” she said. “Beside it. And soon, over it.”

She tapped the map. “Every seat will be filled. War, coin, trade, law, intelligence. Health. Education. Religion. We will not inherit a broken kingdom. We will shape it. In time,” Rhaenyra stated. “For now, they will advise me directly. I’ve already selected them. Some are here. Others arrive within the moons. Each chosen not for name alone—but for clarity of vision.”

Mhaegen studied the names. “And what of secrecy?”

“For now, it remains informal. We plan in quiet. We act in strength. The first full meeting will be held on the full moon,” Rhaenyra said. “In my solar. Not one step of this court will go unseen by the people. But not one piece will be moved until I say so.”

Mhaegen gave a quiet hum of approval. “And what of the city itself? Its people?”

Rhaenyra looked directly at Daemon and said, “I want a census—a list of sorts telling me of every soul in King’s Landing. Every district. Every street. I want to know what the smallfolk lack—what they need. Food, clean water, honest work. We’ll start with Flea Bottom, the Street of Silk, and the Fishmonger’s Square. They’ve been neglected the longest. And I need your gold cloaks to accompany my ladies as they collect these census.”

Daemon thought for a moment and said, “I can handle that.”

Lorra also nodded slowly. “And the funds?”

“I’ve already had Beesbury’s assistant prepare a ledger of discretionary Crown expenses. Half of what the city spends on useless pageantry could build ten granaries. And with the Glory Games approaching, we’ll gain public favor before the first game even starts.”

She looked to Daemon.

“You’ll oversee the gold cloaks now with funding from my steel mill. Shift their patrols. Start with enforcing law the way you want again. I want them seen—visible, organized, clean. And retrain the lot of them if you must.”

Daemon gave her a wry smile. “You’re asking a great deal.”

“I’m not asking,” she said. “I’m telling you to build something worth fearing.”

That earned a low laugh from him. He touched her cheek briefly, a rare moment of warmth passing between them. Then he turned and left without another word, the door closing quietly behind him.

Rhaenyra exhaled, her shoulders squaring as she turned back to her two ladies.

“We begin today.”

Lorra stepped forward. “We’ve already acquired three properties along the lower harbor road. Taverns. Cheap—nearly abandoned.”

“Turn one into a public hall. Use the second for housing laborers. The third becomes our first smallfolk place of learning.”

Mhaegen lifted a brow. “For children or apprentices?”

“Both,” Rhaenyra replied. “And I want every other district mapped—find the next cluster by the end of the sennight.”

She paused, glancing at the letters piled on her writing desk.

Then she rang the bell.

Within minutes, her ladies returned—some still breathless from changing, others already holding writing slates, ready. They gathered around the long table, curious and alert.

Rhaenyra stood at the head. “We begin with the census. Every team will take two streets. You’ll gather information from every household—how many live there, what work they do, what they lack, what they need. Food. Water. Wood. Work. Each of you will be assigned a district.”

She handed out folded slips—preassigned zones matched to her ladies’ strengths. Tanselle was sent to the Dockside. Tyshara to the Tailor’s Quarter. Aelyth to the Guild Heights. Each lady would have one of Rhaenyra’s former attendants assigned as scribe.

“Write clearly. Record everything,” Rhaenyra said. “The gold cloaks will escort you—not hover, but shield. Your presence must feel helpful, not invasive.”

When they moved to the competitions and celebrations, the table became a flurry of conversation. They discussed the locations: the tourney grounds for the games, the western slope of Aegon’s Hill for the carnival. Rides were to be constructed from repurposed carts and ropeworks—simple wheels, tilt-barrels, a maze built from unused market stalls. Games would include tests of skill, tosses, races, and guess-the-weight challenges. The prizes would be coin, sweetmeats, and hand-forged trinkets from her own smiths.

“For food, I want stalls from each district,” Rhaenyra added. “Let the people cook their own wares and keep their coin. That way the crown feeds the people without paying for every crumb.”

Entertainment would be a mix of local troupes and traveling performers she had already commissioned through Lord Mooton’s trade routes. Fire dancers from Essos. Painted mummers. One of the smallfolk bands she’d heard in secret during her walks through the city.

The conversations drifted next to housing. Her allies would need homes within walking distance. She designated entire buildings for conversion: one near the market for her future Master of Commons, another in the northern square for the healers. Manuals would be drafted—Rhaenyra had already begun work on a handbook of duties, complete with simplified law codes and protocols for their new roles. She would personally oversee their training.

Once the main council broke, she dismissed the others and called for her most trusted four.

Lorra Arryn and Mhaegen Hayford remained behind, reviewing letters from Raventree Hall, Claw Isle, and Gulltown. The tide of support held strong, but she needed them closer. Meetings were scheduled. Escorts were assigned.

Then there was Frynne Martell of Sunspear, her Lady Keeper of Secrets, and Darlessa Reyne of Castamere, her Lady of Whispers.

“I need more eyes. Ears. Trusted ones. Not Otto’s whisperers. Ours.”

Darlessa gave a sly smile. “I may know a few lowborn cousins with nimble fingers and better hearing.”

Frynne added, “And the silent sisters are not as silent as they pretend.”

Rhaenyra’s smirk was faint but real.

“Good. Get them started.”

The Queen-to-be moved to her desk, fingers trailing over the letters from Claw Isle. Gulltown. Raventree Hall. Their support was holding—but more would be needed.

The time for promises had passed.

Now came the time to deliver.

Chapter Text

Three moons had passed, and with every piece now in place, it was time to enact my next plan. After having half-tables and chairs commissioned to accommodate my vision, I took my seat in the Small Council chamber, waiting for the others to arrive. The lords settled into their usual places, oblivious to the shift about to unfold.

I let the moment linger, the silence stretching just enough to command attention before I spoke. "My lords, before we begin this meeting, I would like to introduce my council—those who will be shadowing you."

A murmur of confusion rippled through the chamber, with Otto Hightower’s eyes narrowing in suspicion. I turned to Ser Harrold, who inclined his head and strode to the door.

At his command, attendants entered, carrying in the newly commissioned half-tables and chairs, fitting them seamlessly behind the council members' seats and encircling the main table. The lords watched with mixed expressions—some intrigued, others wary, and a few outright displeased at the intrusion into their space.

When the attendants finished their work, the doors opened once more. Samwell Blackwood stepped forward, his steps steady, his bearing strong as he took his place before the assembled lords. He unrolled a scroll and, in a clear voice, began the announcement.

"The Future Queen’s Council is declared:"

He paused, letting the weight of those words settle over the chamber before he continued.

"Left Hand of the Queen – The Queen’s highest-ranking advisor, overseeing governance and acting as regent when needed. Daemon Targaryen."

Gasps and sharp intakes of breath filled the room.

The chamber doors opened once more. Daemon stepped inside, composed and commanding. He strode forward with deliberate ease, bowed first to his brother, then to me, and without a word, moved to sit directly behind Otto Hightower’s seat.

Otto’s face twisted in barely concealed outrage, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked ready to shatter. My father remained expressionless, though his fingers tightened on the armrest of his chair.

I said nothing—but in my mind, I smiled.

A calculated move.

Rhaenyra didn’t smile, but the thought flickered sharp in her mind: Let Otto tread carefully now—unless he wants a sword to the back.

"Right Hand of the Queen – Second-in-command, ensuring the Queen’s will is carried out across the realm. Rhaenys Velaryon."

Another ripple of murmurs spread through the room.

A woman in such a position? And one married to the most powerful naval commander in Westeros? The implications were not lost on anyone.

The doors opened again.

Rhaenys entered with calm authority, her steps unhurried, her chin lifted. Draped in sea-dark silks and a Valyrian-cut cloak, she moved like the sea itself—still on the surface, with storms beneath.

She passed the lords without a glance, came to the table, and bowed—first to the King, then to me. Only then did she turn and take her seat directly behind me.

A quiet declaration of loyalty.

I felt the room shift. Let them whisper. Let them wonder.

I was not a girl alone anymore.

"Lord Commander of the Queensguard – Leads the Queensguard and ensures the Queen’s personal protection. Ser Harrold Westerling."

A few approving nods followed this, as Ser Harrold was well-respected.

"Lord Commander of the City Watch – Commands the Gold Cloaks, enforcing law and order in the capital. Ser Harwin Strong."

I could feel the weight of Otto’s glare now, his displeasure palpable. A Strong now controlled the City Watch—an unmistakable shift in power.

The doors opened again.

Harwin Strong stepped into the room, broad-shouldered and confident, clad in the dark armor of the gold cloaks with the badge of command already upon his chest. He advanced with quiet assurance, then bowed first to the King, and then to me.

Without hesitation, he moved to the seat placed just behind his father’s—one of the two chairs arranged at the new half-table—and sat.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

The message was already clear: the Strongs were no longer on the sidelines.

"Master of War – Oversees military strategy, defense, and wartime preparations. Laenor Velaryon."

A few exchanged glances, questioning whether Laenor had the stomach for war, but his bloodline and dragon made his position undeniable.

The chamber doors opened once more.

Laenor Velaryon entered with confident steps, dressed in the deep blacks and silvers of his house. He bowed first to the King, then to me, his face unreadable but steady.

Without delay, he made his way to the half-chair placed directly behind his father’s seat and sat—silent, composed, and unshakably present.

Velaryon blood stood now at both levels of the council.

"Master of Laws – Maintains legal order, drafts laws, and oversees justice in the realm. Lord Lyonel Strong."

This choice was less controversial; even Otto had to acknowledge Lord Lyonel’s competency.

"Master of Trade – Regulates commerce, oversees markets, and strengthens economic ties with foreign powers. Lord Desmond Manderley."

Whispers of approval followed. House Manderley had long been a dominant force in trade and wealth.

The doors opened once more.

Lord Desmond Manderley stepped into the chamber with dignified grace, his rich blue-and-sea-green cloak trailing behind him like a tide. He bowed deeply to the King, then to me, his movements full of practiced courtesy.

Then, without comment, he moved to the seat placed directly behind Lord Beesbury’s and settled in—one of two half-chairs that now stood at the back of the old man’s station.

Another piece placed. Another shadow cast over the old guard.

"Master of Coin – Manages the treasury, revenue collection, and economic policy. Lord Beesbury to choose and train his successor at his will."

I saw my father glancing at the Lord, as if questioning whether he had already training someone.

"Master of Ships – Commands the royal fleet, overseeing naval defenses and trade routes. Lord Corlys Velaryon."

No one muttered at that.

"Master or Mistress of Entertainment – Regulates feasts, tournaments, and public spectacles to control public morale and perception. The Princess will hold this title for now per her request."

Some chuckled, though I caught the calculating glances exchanged between Otto and Mellos. They knew how important controlling public sentiment would be.

"Master of Commons – Acts as a liaison between the crown and the smallfolk, addressing their grievances and ensuring their welfare. Cassara Darklyn."

A few unapproving nods followed. House Darklyn had long been involved in city matters, but the granddaughter of a legitimized bastard was a different matter.

The doors opened again.

Cassara Darklyn stepped in with quiet confidence, her dark cloak lined with crimson, her posture straight and sure. She bowed first to the King, then to me—deep and respectful, though her eyes burned with pride.

Without hesitation, she moved to one of the two seats placed behind the Grand Maester and took her place—unshaken, unbothered, and wholly unashamed.

Let them judge. She had been chosen for a reason.

"Master of Foreign Affairs – Manages diplomatic relations, treaties, and negotiations with other realms. Laena Velaryon."

Gasps of surprise met this. Another woman, and another Velaryon, placed at the heart of power. I saw Otto shift in his seat, his frustration evident.

Laena entered with poise, the picture of noble confidence. Draped in lavender silk and silver thread, her curls cascading like waves, she made her way forward without pause.

She curtseyed deeply to the King, then turned and offered me a knowing smile and a subtle nod—one sister in fire acknowledging another.

Then, with measured grace, she made her way around the table and took her seat behind her father, beside Laenor, the two siblings now shadowing the Sea Snake.

I watched the discomfort settle over the faces of my father’s small council.

And in my mind, I whispered: Just wait. It gets better.

"Master of Religion – Ensures harmony between the crown and religious institutions, overseeing faith matters and temple relations. Rhaella Targaryen."

This sent murmurs through the chamber—for rarely had a Targaryen taken an official position regarding faith.

The doors to the Small Council chamber opened.

Rhaella Targaryen entered with quiet dignity, her pale robes trimmed in amethyst silk, a circlet of soft silver crowning her head. The light pouring through the high arched windows caught her hair and made it glow like spun gold.

The marble floor didn’t so much echo her steps as welcome them.

King Viserys rose from his seat at the circular table, surprising several lords as he crossed the chamber with emotion writ plain across his face. He embraced Rhaella without hesitation, a rare moment of sincerity in a room built for strategy and performance.

As he held her, he looked past her shoulder to me—his eyes shining, misted—as though I’d reached into the pyres of Dragonstone and called his mother back from ash.

I met his gaze with a quiet smile.

Because I knew exactly what he was feeling.

And I also knew Rhaella would have much to say to him when they were alone.

She bowed her head to him, then turned and walked the chamber’s curve to her assigned seat—slipping in behind the Grand Maester’s chair, beside her soon-to-be counterpart on this council, Cassara Darklyn.

Two women, side by side—faith and people. A quiet alliance of change.

And still, I wasn’t done.

Not by half.

"Master of Public Works – Oversees infrastructure, roads, bridges, and building projects for the realm’s development. Clement Celtigar."

A quieter appointment, perhaps—but one with far-reaching consequence. Roads shaped travel. Bridges shaped trade. And Clement Celtigar, though not loud in court, understood how to build what lasted.

He entered with measured steps, following the precedent set by those before him. With a respectful bow to both King and heir, he moved across the chamber and took his place behind Otto Hightower—seated beside Prince Daemon.

"Master and Mistress of Whisperers – Manages intelligence, espionage, and counterespionage. Larys Strong and Frynne Martell."

The air shifted. Shoulders tightened. Lords exchanged wary glances, as if even saying the title summoned secrets best left buried. One spymaster was enough to make a man sweat. But two? And a woman of Dorne, no less? That was a storm waiting to strike.

The doors to the Small Council chamber opened once more.

Larys Strong entered with that familiar uneven stride, his cane tapping lightly against the marble floor. Frynne Martell followed, her silks the color of twilight and her presence cool as the Dornish night. Together, they moved without fanfare, but every eye followed.

They gave the required bows—Larys slow and deliberate, Frynne with a subtle curtsey and an inscrutable smile. Then, in perfect coordination, they crossed the chamber and took their seats behind Ser Harrold Westerling’s council chair, where two new half-chairs had been placed.

A few quiet murmurs stirred around the table, and a handful of cold stares flicked toward me.

I met them with a smile.

Let them look. Let them worry.

These were my shadows now—and they cast theirs across every man in this room.

"Master of Expenses – Oversees the allocation of funds, ensuring financial efficiency and preventing corruption. Archmaester Vaegon Targaryen."

The chamber fell into a silence so thick, it nearly hummed.
At that name, both my father and Daemon sank a little lower in their chairs—as if the old ghost of Oldtown himself had been summoned into the room. Otto Hightower went pale. Grand Maester Mellos looked like he’d swallowed something sour and alive.

The doors creaked open.

In walked Archmaester Vaegon Targaryen—robes of slate and silver, the chain of his station heavy across his chest, and a look that could curdle wine.

He didn’t bow. Didn’t pause. Just cast a glance around the table, landed on Viserys, and snapped, “Sit up straight, boy. You look like a limp eel.”

My father stiffened, shoulders jerking upright with a long-suffering sigh. Daemon coughed into his hand to hide his laugh. Otto looked like he might faint.

Vaegon made straight for the Grand Maester’s seat. Mellos half-rose to greet him—whether out of habit or panic, it was hard to tell—but barely got a word out before Vaegon sliced the air with one bony hand.

“You stand up.” His eyes narrowed to slits. “You know Citadel doctrine. In the presence of an Archmaester, the lesser ranks step aside. You are not needed at this table while I’m seated at it.”

Mellos opened his mouth again.

Vaegon raised one brow.

That was enough.

The Grand Maester stood silently, bowed his head, and shuffled off like a whipped dog, retreating to a shadowed alcove near the back of the chamber.

Vaegon took his place without ceremony, adjusted the seat as if it had offended him personally, and then glanced at the Blackwood boy still holding the scroll.

“Well?” he said, voice dry as old parchment. “You’ve more to read, haven’t you? Let’s get on with it. I’m not here to watch you preen.”

I smiled sweetly at my father, who was now staring at me with the expression of a man realizing his own daughter had just brought an avalanche down on his favorite hill.

And I wasn’t even done.

"Master of Education – Oversees learning across the realm, ensures access to maesters, and promotes literacy. To be chosen by Archmaester Vaegon Targaryen, who will appoint the most capable healer or maester to this role."

I watched my father’s gaze flick toward Otto, a silent, searching glance that almost begged for objection—some argument, some protest to interrupt the tide I’d unleashed. But what could he say? What could any of them say? Who in this room would dare argue against education? And who among them would challenge Vaegon now?

Exactly.

"Master of Health – Oversees medicine, public sanitation, and disease control, working with maesters and healers. To be chosen by Archmaester Vaegon Targaryen, who will appoint the most capable healer or maester to this role."

The room had fallen completely still.

It wasn’t just the surprise anymore. It was the understanding. The weight of what had truly happened here. This was not a list of new titles, not a passing phase or a youthful indulgence.

This was an institution. A council.

A government in waiting.

Mine.

I leaned back in my chair, fingers laced lightly over my stomach as I met each stunned, simmering, or calculating expression around the table.

Otto was stiff as iron. My father looked like he wanted to throw something. Daemon was watching me with open amusement. Rhaenys hadn’t moved at all.

My council was set.

The game had begun.

Chapter Text

Otto Hightower did not storm from the chamber.

He walked.

Measured. Silent. Controlled.

Each step from the Small Council table was a performance in restraint, a quiet refusal to give satisfaction to the woman—girl—who had just dismantled two decades of delicate scaffolding and made him a shadow in his own court.

Not one lord had risen to challenge her.

Not one dared.

And the King, his King, had sat there and let it happen.

Otto’s jaw ached from the tension. He hadn’t spoken since Vaegon Targaryen had arrived like a sour-faced revenant, stinking of parchment and audacity, and thrown the entire room into chaos. The old maester had barked Viserys into straightening like a scolded child and exiled Mellos from his own chair. And the King had done nothing.

Worse—he had looked to Rhaenyra with relief. As if this betrayal was a balm.

It wasn’t until Otto reached his solar that the mask cracked.

He slammed the door.

The sound echoed like a thrown gauntlet.

Then he turned, bracing both hands on the carved table in the center of the room. His breathing was sharp, tight. The polished wood creaked under his grip.

He did not rage. That was not his way. Rage was for lesser men—blunt instruments like Daemon, or foolish boys like Harwin Strong.

Otto Hightower worked in quiet fury.

He had watched the court for too long, served too many weak kings, to throw a tantrum when war was declared with silk instead of swords.

And make no mistake—Rhaenyra had declared war.

Not openly. Not in words. But in chairs.

Half-tables and seats behind every lord. A shadow for every vote. A whisper in every ear. She had not replaced the council. No—she had doubled it. Outflanked it. Created a mirror of power that would reflect every decision, every hesitation, every show of loyalty—or lack thereof—until the old guard looked like the relics they were.

She had named over a dozen appointments in one sitting.

Daemon as her Left Hand. Rhaenys as her Right. Ser Harrold. Harwin Strong. Larys Strong. Frynne Martell. Rhaella Targaryen, of all people, dressed like some holy ghost with flame in her eyes. And Vaegon—Archmaester Vaegon, thrown at them like a black-inked hammer.

Every face, every name, had been a chess move.

Otto had tried to counter her for years. Through quiet undermining. Through Alicent. Through whispers in the King’s ear.

Now, he had been maneuvered off the board.

The room spun. He moved to the sideboard and poured himself a cup of wine with a hand that did, finally, tremble. It sloshed at the rim. He cursed himself and set the cup down, gripping the edge of the table instead.

His mind worked faster than the sting of failure could take root.

She’s bold. Too bold.

He clung to that thought like a lifeline. Boldness was dangerous—but it was also overreach. Ambition unchecked often sowed its own ruin.

Still… this had not been the work of moons. It had been years in the making.

The letters. The alliances. The rumors of her walks through flea bottom. The silent acquisitions of property. The training of guisewomen in rhetoric and diplomacy under the of “ladies’ courtly culture.” He had underestimated her.

And that mistake had cost him dearly.

Otto turned toward the window. The city sprawled below—King’s Landing, ancient and festering, a beast with too many mouths and not enough meat. But now… it stirred. There were banners going up again on rooftops. Red and black. Gold. Sea-green. His informants had reported as much. But it was one thing to hear it—it was another to see the pulse of power shift before your eyes.

She was not heir-in-waiting anymore. She was acting queen. Her “council” wasn’t advisory. It was a parallel court.

She had the people’s favor—and the weapons of legitimacy.

The Gold Cloaks answered to Daemon. The Riverlords were pledging support. The Crown’s finances were being rerouted. And the Faith… Rhaella would see to that, wouldn’t she?

Otto exhaled through his nose.

And yet.

All was not lost.

The Queen had made her move. The board was tilted, but the game was not finished. No—now it was time for counterplay.

He moved to his desk, opened a locked drawer, and retrieved a parchment case stamped with the seal of House Hightower. Inside: a collection of letters, unopened—because they had never been sent.

Not yet.

He unrolled one and began to reread it:

To Lord Jason Lannister of Casterly Rock…

Another:

To Ser Tyland of the King’s Treasury…

Another:

To the High Septon in Oldtown…

Each one, drafted in expectation. Contingency had always been Otto’s first tutor.

If the court would not fight for power… then he would look elsewhere.

“Summon Ser Gwayne,” Otto said aloud to no one. A guard outside the door would hear. “Tell him to ready his armor. And pen a letter to Oldtown. I want eyes in every temple, and a second letter for Larys Strong.”

He would find out how much loyalty the heir had in her master of whispers.

And if not Larys, then the dornish lady. If not the crown’s purse, then the grain silos. If not the King… then the Faith.

Power did not have to sit on the throne.

Otto had made king bend before. He could do it again.

He turned back toward the window, lifting his wine at last. The city stared back. The girl he once thought spoiled and sentimental had outflanked him.

But she was still young.

Still mortal.

Still fallible.

And even a dragon could bleed.

He sipped the wine, let the bitterness stain his tongue, and whispered:

“Let her reign begin.”

Because when it fell—

It would fall hard.

And then—

A knock.

He said nothing.

The door opened anyway. It always did with her.

Alicent stepped inside, eyes uncertain, hands folded tightly in front of her.

“Father,” she said gently. “I—”

“Close the door.”

She obeyed.

He didn’t look at her. Not yet. He turned instead to the wine, finally lifting the cup to his lips.

Only when he had set it down did he speak.

“Tell me, Alicent. When, exactly, were you going to inform me that the Princess had assembled an entire council beneath our very noses?”

She blinked. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Otto turned. “Don’t lie.”

“I’m not lying,” she said quickly. “I knew she had her ladies—those companions, those courtiers. But not—father, I swear to you, I didn’t know they were meant as a council.”

“They were not companions,” Otto said coldly. “They were officers. Deputies. One for every office in the realm, from war to whispers. There were fifteen new chairs placed behind the Small Council table today—and each was filled with a loyal shadow.”

He stepped toward her slowly.

“She’s been planning this for moons. And you—her lady-in-waiting—either failed to notice, or failed to tell me.”

“I didn’t know,” Alicent said again, softly. “I thought they were just ladies…”

“And that,” Otto said, voice rising only slightly, “is why you are utterly useless in your role.”

She looked stricken, but he didn’t stop.

“Clearly, courtly pleasantries are beyond your depth. So here is what you will do: You will resign as Rhaenyra’s lady-in-waiting immediately.”

She gasped. “But—she’ll see it as an insult—”

“She already sees you as a pet,” Otto snapped. “A tame creature she inherited from her mother’s deathbed. You’ve served no purpose. You’ve learned nothing of value. And now you’ve allowed her to build a government while we were still arranging flower baskets for the next feast.”

“Then what am I to do?” Alicent asked, voice trembling. “If I’m not beside her, I lose what little standing I have.”

Otto stepped close. “Then you will regain standing elsewhere. You will devote yourself entirely to the King. Every hour. Every breath. You will cater to his moods, soften his pain, ease his decline. You will be his comfort and his voice and his balm. He listens to you. Use that.”

Alicent’s lip trembled. “And if Rhaenyra sees it for what it is? She’ll see I’m being used against her.”

Otto’s expression darkened.

“Then let her see.”

“That will ruin everything. It will ruin me.”

He stared at her long and hard.

“You should already be Queen,” he said quietly. “Had you not hesitated. Had you not wept and waited and allowed her to send her own attendants to the King’s chambers after the Queen died, you would have already worn the crown she now thinks belongs to her.”

Alicent flinched.

“You were supposed to comfort the King,” Otto continued. “You were supposed to fill the void—make yourself indispensable. But instead, you waited for invitations like a kitchen maid.”

“Because I grieved her,” Alicent whispered. “I loved the Queen—”

“Then grieve in silence. And do what must be done.”

He turned away from her and took up his quill.

“You will spend your days with the King. You will read to him, walk with him, serve him. You will speak softly, and say what I write. And if I hear another word about your ‘standing’ with the Princess…”

He looked over his shoulder, voice turning to ice.

“…I will have you sent back to Oldtown.”

Alicent went pale.

“You wouldn’t—”

“I would,” he said flatly. “And believe me, the Hightower has plenty of use for a daughter who remembers her duties. Or else we’ll find you a husband with no use for court at all.”

The silence stretched.

Finally, she nodded.

Tears welled in her eyes, but she didn’t let them fall.

She turned and walked to the door.

Just before she left, Otto spoke again—quietly, but with iron behind it.

“You will not fail me again.”

The door clicked shut.

Otto stood alone once more.

He picked up the letter to Oldtown.

And began to write.

The ink was barely dry on the letter to Oldtown when the knock came.

A firm, measured rhythm.

Otto did not look up. “Enter.”

The door opened, and Ser Gwayne Hightower stepped inside, boots clicking on the stone. He was dressed not in court finery but riding leathers, a sword belted at his hip. His face was taut, alert, and—mercifully—not confused.

“Father,” he said. “You summoned me.”

Otto nodded slowly and gestured to the seat across from him. “Close the door.”

Gwayne obeyed, eyes flicking briefly to the second cup of wine already poured at the desk. He took the seat without a word.

Otto’s gaze lingered on him for a moment. His only son. His legacy. And now—his only chance.

“Rhaenyra has overstepped,” Otto said, quiet and grave. “And if we allow this farce of a council to solidify, we will no longer be playing the game—we will be watching it from the outside.”

Gwayne gave a tight nod. “I heard about what happened. She brought in half the court. Even the Strong boy.”

“She did not bring them,” Otto corrected. “She installed them. Shadow for shadow. Every position mirrored. Every lever of power duplicated and assigned to her own chosen men and women.”

“And the King allowed this?”

Otto’s expression barely shifted. “The King smiled.”

Gwayne’s hands clenched slightly on the arms of the chair.

Otto leaned forward.

“She will rule in truth long before she wears a crown. But there are still pieces left to play. And I mean to play them now.”

He reached into the stack of correspondence and withdrew three separate parchments, spreading them carefully across the desk.

“First,” he said, tapping the top one, “we will press for the appointment of an additional member to the Small Council. A Royal Comptroller of Coin—a separate office from the Master of Coin, with oversight authority over infrastructure and wartime funding. One who reports not to Vaegon, but to the King directly.”

Gwayne’s brow arched slightly. “That will cause conflict.”

“Precisely,” Otto murmured. “We restrict the Crown’s coffers without removing the Archmaester’s seat. We outmaneuver the Princess with the appearance of prudence. Vaegon will fume, but he will have no grounds to object publicly. It is the King’s right.”

He tapped the second parchment.

“Second—we quietly inform Lord Rosby and the Crown’s remaining accountants that all future expense authorizations must be verified by the King and the Royal Comptroller. No coin shall move from the treasury without dual signatures.”

“And the Princess?” Gwayne asked.

“She will learn,” Otto said softly, “what happens when you attempt to rule without the throne beneath you.”

He tapped the third parchment.

“And lastly—this is the most delicate. I want the High Septon to issue a formal summons for Rhaella Targaryen to return to Oldtown for ‘spiritual reflection and clarity of duty.’ A polite way to say: she is recalled.”

Gwayne blinked. “That will cause public outcry.”

“It will cause whispers,” Otto replied. “And those are better. The realm must begin to question how a maiden of the Faith has become a Queen’s weapon. Let the Septon gently remind the court that piety must come before politics.”

“And if she refuses?”

Otto’s mouth thinned. “She may. But even then, the High Septon’s request will remain. It weakens her position. It makes her suspect. And it puts the Faith back in the game.”

He leaned back, folding his hands.

“You leave for Oldtown at first light. You will carry these letters. Speak to the Septon directly. If he hesitates, remind him of the Reach’s loyalty, and of the years House Hightower has protected his seat. He will understand.”

Gwayne hesitated only briefly.

“And if he does not?”

“Then we remind him,” Otto said, voice quiet as frost, “what happens to Faiths that lose the favor of kings.”

The silence between them was cold and sharp-edged.

Finally, Gwayne rose.

“It will be done.”

He took the parchments Otto slid across the desk, folding them into his satchel.

At the door, he paused.

“And if Rhaenyra retaliates?”

Otto met his son’s gaze without blinking.

“She will.”

He stood slowly, stepping toward the window that overlooked the city below.

“But the fire she stoked today must be fed. And soon, she will find that not every ember burns the way she expects.”

Gwayne nodded once and left.

Otto stood in the quiet, watching the torches flicker along the walls of the Red Keep.

He no longer needed the King's ear.

He needed only time.

Chapter Text

The heat from the earlier meeting with the King’s Small Council still clung to Rhaenyra’s skin like a second cloak as she swept down the corridor. Her father had nodded, nodded, nodded—never objected, never protested—and yet the stiffness in his jaw told her enough. Let him sit and stew in his own throne. She had her own to build.

At her side walked Vaegon, Daemon, and Rhaenys, silent but alert. Behind them followed Lord Lyonel Strong, Lord Beesbury, Lord Manderly, Rhaella, Corlys Velaryon, Laenor, Laena, Harwin Strong, Clement Celtigar, Cassara Darklyn, Larys Strong, Frynne Martell, and Ser Harrold Westerling.

They entered the newly prepared chamber without fanfare.

The guards posted in the small front room took careful note of each name, recording entries onto newly crafted paper logs. This was Vaegon’s order: No shadow passed through this threshold unseen. Behind that antechamber lay the true heart of their new realm—a large stone hall now called Vaegon’s Hall, once a neglected treasury annex, repurposed at Rhaenyra’s command.

At the center stood a wide, round table crafted from Dragonstone basalt and inlaid with polished red jade veins. Seventeen high-backed chairs ringed its edge, each one labeled discreetly by name and station. Against the side wall sat two smaller desks with matching stools where scribes awaited with ink and parchment.

The council members took their seats, some with solemnity, others with veiled anticipation.

Rhaenyra did not sit. She stood at the head, one hand on the back of her chair, silver hair coiled like flame atop her crown.

“Welcome,” she said, “to the first official meeting of the Future Queen’s Council. The council that will not inherit a kingdom—it will shape one. Let this be the table where flame meets purpose. And let this meeting mark the beginning of a golden age.”

She nodded once, firmly. “First order of business: the census is complete. Now is time for the Citywide Reforms to start now that they will have a working format.”

A rustle of cloth. The scrape of quills readying to write.

Rhaenys blinked. “A census?”

Vaegon snorted softly, as if someone had asked whether fire was hot. “A census,” he said, “is a systematic tally of a region’s population and basic information—households, trades, needs, even illnesses if done properly. It is the only intelligent starting point for reform. Without knowing who lives where, you might as well pour water into a cracked pot.”

Rhaenys offered a small, acknowledging tilt of her chin. “Then I’m glad we’re beginning with this cracked pot.”

Rhaenyra stepped closer to the table. “As of yesterday, our tally is thus: Flea Bottom holds 88,547 people. The Street of Silk—8,231. Fishmonger’s Bay—54,611.”

Several council members straightened, the numbers hitting like stones dropped into still water.

“From this day forward,” she continued, “those names will not be spoken in official documents. We are renaming the districts—recasting them in a mold of dignity, not shame.”

She turned toward a scribe. “Write this down clearly.”

“Flea Bottom is now The Lower District. It will be organized into eight zones.”

“The Street of Silk is now The Silk District, with four zones.”

“Fishmonger’s Bay becomes The Fisherman’s District, with six zones.”

She then looked back at her council and said,
“But the first thing you will do,” she said clearly, “is take up office in your own official buildings around the city—each one already selected, remodeled, and equipped with everything you will need. You are encouraged, though not required, to reside near or within your post—so the people may come to know your presence as part of their daily lives.”

She turned to Daemon first. “As my Left Hand, you will take command of all military enforcement and elite security across the capital. You’ll be stationed at the Tower of the Sword, the newly fortified stronghold adjacent to the Dragon Guard barracks, where our most highly trained force—drawn from Dragonstone—will be quartered. These Dragon Guards will protect all crown-owned sites: public halls, education centers, courts, bathhouses, and cisterns. Harwin and the City Watch report to you. So do the Dragon Guard, our Master of War, Master of Public Works, and our Whisperers. Keep them disciplined, coordinated, and feared.”

She looked next to Rhaenys. “As my Right Hand, your post will be based in the Dawnspire Tower near the upper harbor wall—elevated, visible, and central to the noble districts. You will serve as the realm’s diplomatic heart—organizing noble houses, city liaisons, ceremonial matters, and cultural reforms. You’ll also oversee Cassara in Commons, Rhaella in Faith, Vaegon in Education and Health, and the Coin and Trade offices. You’ll make sure our policies not only function but reflect the dignity of our house. Every noble house will know: our future court is not a boy’s club of swords and coin—but a realm of order, care, and strength.”

She nodded to Harwin Strong. “You’ll remain in the South Tower, now renovated for the new City Watch headquarters. From there, you’ll restructure patrols and training for the gold cloaks. You answer to Daemon, but you speak with my voice. The people must see you before they ever see a blade drawn.”

Her eyes fell on Laenor. She met her cousin’s eyes. “Laenor, as Master of War, you are stationed in the newly remodeled command hall at the base of the Dragonpit. From there, begin training the four dragonseeds I approved—each one must be able to ride and defend, not just parade. In addition, you’ll form the foundation of our standing Targaryen army. Train willing smallfolk in formation, swordplay, archery, and discipline. When we’re tested, I want steel that holds.”

To Cassara, she said, “Your new Commons Hall stands at the heart of the Lower—just north of the new market square. You are permitted to recruit orphan girls, single mothers, and widowed women into official administrative roles—recordkeeping, household registrars, and public aid monitors. Build a network of loyal, trained, and proud women. They will be the ones who hold the people’s trust.”

She turned to Rhaella. “Your sanctum sits in the garden hall beneath the rebuilt Sept of Song. From there, you will serve as Master of Religion—leading prayers, guiding public rituals, but also organizing the new Faith Council. Every god of Westeros—old or new—will have a voice under your lead. Let them see the Crown walks with reverence, not control.”

Laena Velaryon received a nod. “Your office is now in the northern harbor wing, where the old customs hall once stood. From there, you’ll coordinate diplomatic envoys, oversee foreign treaties, and liaise with trade fleets from Pentos, Lys, and the Summer Isles. As a woman of blood, sea, and fire, let them know we do not send weaklings to negotiate.”

“Lord Lyonel Strong,” she continued, “you’ll remain in the Red Keep for now, presiding over justice and legal affairs until your new offices are completed. You’ll review city codes, supervise magistrates, and train younger justiciars in my simplified laws.”

“Lord Beesbury,” she said, “your ledger tower in the western court of the Red Keep has been doubled in size and will host your successor when chosen. You’ll remain there until then—auditing the city’s old debts and guiding the Crown’s accounting reforms.”

“Lord Manderley,” she said next, “you’ve been placed in the Trade Hall of Seven Arches, just off the Guild Heights. You’ll oversee markets, merchants, tariffs, and harbor agreements—especially during the carnival. Your post will define how the realm feeds and trades.”

“Clement Celtigar,” she said, “your new Public Works Hall is located at the base of the Queen’s Steps in the Lower District. You’ll manage sanitation, roads, cisterns, bridges, and waste. You’ll coordinate with Vaegon and Cassara to make sure public facilities are safe, clean, and honored.”

She nodded toward the table’s far end. “Larys Strong and Frynne Martell, your Office of Whispers is hidden in plain sight—disguised as an herbalist’s shop in the Silk District, with two underground levels. You’ll manage surveillance, threat reporting, and informant networks across all districts. One of you always reports to Daemon. The other, to me.”

Finally, her eyes rested on Vaegon. “Your domain is the old Septstone library, now converted into the Grand Hall of Learning. From there, you’ll oversee the education offices, health clinics, and fiscal inspections across the city. Your appointments to Health and Education will report directly to you. Your reforms must move quickly and efficiently—this is the heart of what we’ll become.”

She looked once more around the chamber. “Each of you has your place. Each of you has your orders. And all of you serve not just me—but the people who will remember what we built here, long after we are dust.”

She rested her hands on the table and met each of their eyes.

“From this day forward, you no longer serve alone. You serve together. And you report always to my Left and Right Hands.”

The Queen-to-be smiled faintly.

“Let us begin.”

Chapter Text

The following sennight a new decree was submitted to the Lord Hand.

From the Desk of the
Princess of Dragonstone

To:
Ser Otto Hightower,
Hand of the King, and the Esteemed Members of His Grace’s Small Council

Subject: Urban Reforms of King’s Landing – Lower District, Silk District, and Fisherman’s District.

In accordance with His Grace’s decree reaffirming my station as heir to the Iron Throne, and in anticipation of the forthcoming Glory Games and royal celebrations, I submit the following reforms for your formal record and reference.

These measures represent the first stage of comprehensive civic renewal within the capital, aimed at dignifying and modernizing the most neglected districts of King’s Landing.
Let it be known that under the Crown’s directive, the following renamings and restructurings are now in effect:

The Lower District (Formerly Flea Bottom)
To lift the stain long associated with “Flea Bottom,” the district shall henceforth be formally recorded in all royal ledgers and court documents as The Lower District. This renaming marks not just a change of name but a redirection of purpose—signaling the Crown’s dedication to public investment, civic dignity, and long-term reform. The Lower District is now organized into nine functional zones, with Cinder Cross at its center—forming a ring of revitalization radiating outward from the heart of the capital’s most troubled quarter.

Cinder Cross: The district’s central market and communal heart. Newly paved with cobblestones, lined with streetlamps, and centered around a Crown message board. This is where announcements, job postings, and royal decrees will be read aloud weekly.
Key Public Buildings in Cinder Cross zone:
• The Crown Hearth: A multipurpose public facility housing a soup kitchen, census center, and grievance court.
• The Hall of Flame: A registry for apprenticeships and local trades, doubling as an early learning center.
• The Lantern Bastion: A repurposed watchtower where Gold Cloaks conduct nighttime patrols and public safety checks.
• The Queen’s Steps: A newly constructed stone stairway connecting Ashmire Path to the higher districts, ensuring safer access and ease of movement.

Surrounding Eight Zones – Crown-Regulated Districts:
Each of these outer zones is now held to new Crown housing standards. All landlords will be given six moons to bring their properties up to code. If they fail inspection, they are granted one moon to correct deficiencies. A second failed inspection results in a fine and one final moon for compliance. After three failed inspections, the Crown will seize, demolish, or repurpose the property for public use.

• Smoke Alley:
Once a slum of collapsed hovels, this Crown-owned zone has been cleared and replaced with six-unit family housing. Nine buildings are complete, with fifty-one more underway. Three public shelters and a modest bathhouse have also been approved for construction.

• Rabble Row:
Formerly an unregulated sprawl of food stalls and vagrant camps, now restructured. Vendors must be licensed by the Commons Office. Crown-funded soup kitchens operate nightly with support from septas and healers.

• The Cradle:
A zone with the densest child population. A ruined sept has been rebuilt into a nursery and basic learning center overseen by the Office of Education and Mhaegen Hayford’s domestic staff.

• Drake’s Loop:
Historically a lawless quarter near the Dragonpit. Gold Cloak patrols now run nightly circuits. A half-finished amphitheater is being constructed for public performances and civic games.

• Pigskin Vale:
Former site of an illicit fighting pit and butchers’ yard. The pit has been cleared, and the space is now a public square reserved for town gatherings, speeches, and minor magistrate trials.

• Kettle Street:
A narrow, tavern-lined road where sanitation once failed entirely. Health inspectors trained under Archmaester Vaegon now monitor waste, disease indicators, and drainage. Improvements are ongoing.

• Ashmire Path:
A trade route leading uphill toward Rhaenys’s Hill. The road has been widened, paved, and lined with resting benches and oil-lamp lanterns for safer nighttime passage.

All households have been registered and mapped through the ongoing census. Each zone shall appoint a district steward—typically an elder woman or respected local—who will meet with the Office of the Commons every fortnight to report grievances, supply requests, and public concerns. The Crown intends not merely to uplift the Lower District, but to set the standard for reform throughout the city. This is the first of many civic transformations to come.

The Silk District (Formerly Street of Silk)
The Street of Silk shall now be known in official documents as The Silk District.
This renaming retains the cultural identity of the region while inviting regulatory structure and craft preservation. The Silk District has been divided into four designated zones.

• Velvet Bend:
Courtesan guild zone; now houses the Court of Trade Affections to regulate prices, safety, and contracts.

• Moonwine Walk:
Performance square; upgraded for festivals, parades, and licensed entertainers.

• Spindle Lane:
Textile guild ward; looms restored and a weaver's registry implemented.

• Lilac Hill:
Transitioned brothels into regulated housing for aging courtesans and girls seeking new trades.
Key Public Buildings Include:
• The Silken House: Legal office for trade contracts, disputes, and performer licenses.
• The Lace Hall: Skill-sharing center for courtesans transitioning to textile and service trades.
• The Court of Petitions: Biweekly court for grievances related to wage theft, harassment, and trade rights.

Cassara Darklyn shall oversee integration efforts and female employment reforms in the district. Special focus will be given to safe shelter, re-skilling, and health access for courtesans, widows, and orphans.

The Fisherman’s District (Formerly Fishmonger’s Bay)
Fishmonger’s Bay is henceforth renamed as The Fisherman’s District—a tribute to its central role in the realm’s maritime commerce and food supply.
The district now contains six zones.

• Saltshore Pier:
Primary dock; updated mooring posts, Crown-funded breakhouse (The Salt Shelter) for laborers.

• Crabpot Crescent:
Residential sector; cleaned, drained, and centered around a new cistern tower.

• Mariner’s Hollow:
Shipwright zone; home to the newly opened Queen’s Slipyard and apprenticeships.

• Netter’s Verge:
Organized fish-vendor area; Crown-supervised price recording now enforced.

• Foam Street:
Refuse site; reorganized into compost lanes with worker compensation and vinegar barrels.

• Wharf-End:
Cultural space; being developed into a public amphitheater and shrine for sailor rites.
Key Public Buildings Include:
• The Salt Shelter: Rest and meal hall for dockhands.
• The Queen’s Slipyard: Boatbuilding and training ground for smallfolk apprentices.
• The Cistern Watchtower: Water monitoring post.
• The Fish-Ledger Hall: Trade and pricing registry.
• The Tide Circle: Open-air gathering arena for festivals and civic meetings.

Water and Sanitation Reforms –
To ensure the health and dignity of the city’s growing population, each district and its zones will now feature specialized sanitation infrastructure.

Public cistern towers are being built to gradually replace old fountains. These cisterns will be maintained by full-time attendants employed through the Office of Public Works.
Smaller drinking fountains, using enclosed barrels and clean tap flow, will be placed in common zones for regular public access.

Clothes-washing huts, one per zone, will serve as sheltered spaces where citizens may clean garments using clean water sources in communal rotation.

Gender-specific bathhouses are being reopened or built anew in each district. These modest but efficient facilities use heated cisterns and will maintain separate hours for men and women. All are patrolled by the newly trained Dragon Guard Cloaks, elite forces from Dragonstone, now stationed throughout the city.

These guards will also protect all Crown-owned public properties, including community gardens, children’s play courts, worker housing projects, district-specific public latrines, and portable upright box-cart privies, which are monitored by assigned sanitation workers from the Public Works Office.

All sanitation efforts fall under the supervision of the Office of Public Health, coordinated by Archmaester Vaegon and his licensed healers. These efforts are core to the Royal Health Initiative, which promotes widespread cleanliness and disease prevention.

Medical Response and Grievance Systems –
First aid posts will be established ahead of public festivals and gatherings—staffed by healer-apprentices trained under approved maesters.

Public messaging boards will be installed at key intersections in every district, carved or painted with announcements, job postings, royal edicts, and news. Some will include illustrations for the illiterate.

Public Halls of Grievance—“listening courts” held weekly in major districts—will allow smallfolk to report issues, file complaints, or resolve disputes. These sessions are overseen by junior magistrates trained in Queen Rhaenyra’s simplified legal code.

Waste disposal zones are being formally designated for refuse and compost in overpopulated quarters. These pits will be rotated and maintained by Crown-assigned crews to reduce rot, odor, and the spread of illness. Oversight will be shared between the Master of Public Works and Cassara Darklyn’s Commons Office.

Civic and Social Reforms –
• Streetlight Initiative:
Oil-lamp streetlights will be installed in high-traffic areas like Dockside, Guild Heights, and River Row to reduce nighttime crime. Smallfolk will be hired to clean, light, and maintain these lanterns as part of a new public employment scheme.

• Education and Labor:
Apprenticeship registries will be organized in each district. Tradesmen may officially register to take on one or two apprentices, receiving incentives such as food vouchers or tax relief. Managed by the forthcoming Master of Education.

Basic literacy and arithmetic classes will be held in evenings inside shrines, inns, or repurposed halls. These are led by septas, literate scribes, or healers from Vaegon’s training initiative.

• Healer and midwife licensing:
Herbalists, midwives, and barber-surgeons must now undergo formal evaluation by the Crown. Those who pass receive an official sigil-token proving they are licensed by the realm.

Guard Rotation Reform –
The Gold Cloaks will now follow a posted, rotational schedule. Assignments will be made public daily to eliminate favoritism, reduce redundancy, and curb corruption. This system is enforced under the watch of Ser Harwin Strong, reporting directly to Prince Daemon.

Infrastructure and Economic Reform –
• District Vouchers:
A pilot program will test a token-based currency in three districts. These clay or wooden tokens hold fixed value and are easier for smallfolk to use. This system discourages hoarding and manipulation by moneylenders.

• Modest Market Grants:
Small Crown-funded grants will be offered to vendors and craftspeople setting up market stalls ahead of the royal wedding and tournament. These loans will be repaid through goods or services, not coin—keeping commerce local and affordable.

Grievance courts and job posting boards are active every sennight across the district. New rope-lantern posts ensure safety along coastal routes. Waste management crews are assigned by the Office of Public Works and report to both the Master of Commons and the Public Sanitation team under Archmaester Vaegon’s supervision.

These reforms mark only the beginning of our work. Let this serve as formal notice to the King’s Small Council that Crown-sponsored reform under my office shall proceed with full authority and civic cooperation. Should questions arise, I invite further correspondence through Ser Harrold Westerling or via direct dispatch to Dragonstone.

Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen
Heir to the Iron Throne, Princess of Dragonstone, Protector of the Realm to Come

Chapter Text

The morn after the new cistern towers began rising in the Fisherman’s District, a letter arrived at Dragonstone.

It came by royal courier, marked urgent.

Rhaenyra didn’t open it at once. She was in her garden, barefoot, speaking softly to one of the orphans Cassara had brought up from the Lower. A girl named Nera, whose hands were still callused from sorting fish bones in saltwater and whose eyes now glittered at the sight of carved letters in chalk.

The raven-haired girl traced her name once more.

“That’s an R,” Rhaenyra said. “Not just for Rhaenyra. For rise.”

Only once Nera returned to her lesson did Rhaenyra take the scroll offered by Ser Harrold.

Green wax. Otto’s seal.

She broke it without pause.

Read it once.

Read it again.

Then handed it to Lorra Arryn without a word.

Mhaegen took it from her next. “She’s resigning.”

“Of course she is,” Rhaenyra said flatly, plucking a plum from a branch overhead. “Otto’s reclaimed his doll.”

“She claims illness,” Mhaegen added.

“She was always sick with indecision,” Rhaenyra muttered, twisting the plum in her fingers until the skin broke and the juice ran. “Let her lie in bed and pretend it was her own choice.”

Lorra’s eyes narrowed. “This is not a courtesy. It’s a move.”

“Aye,” said Rhaenyra, biting into the plum. “Otto means to nest her beside the King now. Whisper comfort, then policy. Spoon honey, then poison. He’ll keep her close enough to soften what little spine my father still has.”

Mhaegen folded the letter. “Shall we send reply?”

Rhaenyra shook her head. “No. Let her slip away without echo. The only thing worse than losing favor is realizing no one noticed you left.”

“But the court will notice,” Lorra said. “You know how they speak.”

“I do.” Rhaenyra smiled faintly. “They’ll say I drove her out. That I made her irrelevant. That I treated her cold.”

Her smile deepened, blade-sharp.

“They’ll be right.”

She turned back toward the garden path, voice low.

“Alicent Hightower was never a rival. Only a shadow.”

The wind stirred the leaves, tugged at her braid.

“She’s gone now. So let the sun fall where it’s meant to.”

And with that, the Princess walked on.

The letter fell into the brazier before the hour was out.

No answer was ever sent.

A sennight later....

Rhaenyra didn’t need to ask where Sheara was housed now. Lorra had told her plainly that she’s moved into the King’s own set of rooms.

Rhaenyra had only lifted a brow. No smile. No frown.

Just turned on her heel and went to see Sheara.

The guards at the King’s chamber doors looked at her but did not speak a word when she entered into the small room to the side of his chambers door. The air inside was warm, the suite freshly aired, sunlight falling across polished wood and newly fluffed pillows.

Sheara was seated in a low chair near the hearth, wrapped in pale yellow, one hand resting over her belly, the other curled around a cup of tea.

Rhaenyra crossed the room without waiting to be announced.

“How are you feeling?”

Sheara looked up. “Still sick most morns.” She gave a soft shrug. “But I’m happy. I’m glad to be with child.”

Rhaenyra nodded once.

She let her eyes skim the room.

Then: “Your lady of the cup.”

“She’s been here every day,” Sheara said. “But I send her away before sunset. Every day.”

“Good,” Rhaenyra said. “She resigned her post a sennight ago.”

Sheara looked at her.

Rhaenyra looked right back.

And smiled.

Sheara snorted once, low and amused. Then she stood slowly, walked to the chest at the end of the bed, bent down, opened it, and pulled out a single gold dragon.

She turned and held it out.

“I just knew she wouldn’t be so bold,” Sheara said. “But a wager is a wager.”

Rhaenyra laughed. Full and sharp.

She took the coin and slipped it into her breast pouch holder.

Then she reached into her sleeve and drew out a small glass vial. Clear. Sealed.

Sheara took it without asking a thing. Walked to the far wall near the window, pulled a loose brick from its corner, placed the vial inside, and slid the brick back in.

Rhaenyra waited.

Then said simply, “Come walk the gardens with me.”

Sheara nodded. Didn’t bother with a shawl.

And followed.

They walked slow, Rhaenyra and Sheara, along the sunlit gravel path between the citrus trees.

The garden smelled of lemon and rosemary. Somewhere nearby, a fountain murmured lazily like it had nothing better to do.

Then Sheara’s steps faltered.

Rhaenyra didn’t have to ask why.

Across the wide marble walkway, just past the hedgerow, her father strolled arm in arm with no one—but beside him, close enough to count—walked Alicent. No shawl. No distance. Not touching, but not far.

Viserys looked up and saw them. Saw his daughter. Saw the girl who carried his next child.

And he paled just a little. Not sickly. Not weak. Just... aware.

Rhaenyra smiled.

Not wide. Not cruel. Just a quiet little curl of the mouth that said everything it needed to.

Then she took Sheara gently by the elbow and turned them both away, walking down the end of the garden’s path, toward the maze of white roses and away from her father entirely.

They didn’t speak of it.

They didn’t have to.

Later that day, with no announcement, Rhaenyra summoned her seamstress and had every white and smoked grey gown that had ever been stitched for Alicent Hightower brought down from the wardrobe rooms.

Not one was spared.

Each one was picked through, measured, and taken in—seams drawn closer, shoulders lowered, hems adjusted. All made to fit Sheara now.

Sheara would wear them—those pale, lovely gowns—and she would sit beside Rhaenyra in the royal box when the Glory Games began.

And not a soul in the realm would fail to notice.

Not one.

---

Vaegon’s Hall

Rhaenyra sat tall at the head of the basalt-ringed table, flamelight catching in the red veins of stone beneath her fingers. Around her, the council leaned in—some with open ledgers, others with folded arms—but all listening. The map before them bore the careful inked edges of the capital’s newest ambition.

She spoke clearly.

“We’ve begun clearing the stretch of land between the Hook and the Muddy Way. What once stood there—rotted shacks, broken smithies, pitfires, and lean-to hovels—will be razed to the last beam.”

Her hand hovered over the marked space on the map, tapping it once.

“In its place, we are building a new district. A neighborhood, truly. One meant for the workers of our steel mill and brickworks—those who forge our realm, stone by stone. And this time, they will not live in ash and splinters.”

She looked around the table.

“Each house will be three stories tall. Made of brick—our brick. Crown’s brick. Single-family row homes. Four sleeping chambers per house. A proper cooking room with our new design: the Crown’s Brick Stove.”

Vaegon’s quill paused mid-stroke.

“These stoves,” she continued, “are the first of their kind in Westeros. No more open fire pits and ash-choked rafters. These are stone-lined hearths with controlled venting and solid brick flues. Hotter. Safer. Cleaner. Built from the very kilns our workers fire.”

Daemon exhaled softly through his nose, amused. “She’s putting Dragonstone’s fire into every hearth.”

Rhaenyra didn’t pause.

“Each home will also include a family room, a front garden for herbs or blooms, and behind—room for a two-horse barn. Functional. Clean. Their own.”

She swept her hand across the map’s shaded circle.

“At the heart of every cluster: a shared green. A community garden. A gathering space with benches for councils and holidays. And a fenced yard for the children to play.”

Cassara’s face had already gone soft with thought.

“And this is not given freely,” Rhaenyra said, her voice tightening slightly. “It is earned. Workers who take up residence may purchase their homes from the Crown—no tricks, no loans, no coinlenders. One-third of their monthly wage. After ten years, the house is theirs.”

Lord Manderly’s brow lifted.

“If a man passes before those ten years are done, his wife or children may assume the remaining years without penalty. The home stays with the family, so long as the work remains.”

Ser Harwin gave a low nod. “They’ll fight to protect it, then.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze held firm. “They already do.”

Laenor leaned forward. “How many homes?”

“Seventy in the first ring. A hundred more after.” She looked to Lord Celtigar. “You’ll have the layouts and measurements by dusk. The roads will be wide enough for carts. The gutters will run with proper drainage. I want it clean. And I want it to last.”

Rhaenys offered a rare look of satisfaction. “A thousand years from now, they’ll still call them Crown Homes.”

“No,” Rhaenyra said. “They’ll call them theirs.”

Silence hung for a breath.

Then Vaegon quietly said, “And every flame that burns within will whisper where it came from.”

Rhaenyra pressed her palm against the table’s smooth center. “We don’t build a realm with blades alone. We build it with hearths.”

And around her, the council saw not only homes—but a city rising from cinders, one brick at a time.

Chapter Text

Under the shadow of Dragonstone’s black towers and the rising red sun, Prince Daemon Targaryen stood in the yard already half-slicked in sweat, his silver hair tied at the nape, leathers scuffed from the morn's exertions. His sword hissed as he lowered it, watching young Clarent Crakehall stumble back from a failed parry.

“Too wide,” Daemon said. “And again.”

Clarent gritted his teeth and stepped back in, determined. Alan Lefford, Martyn Tarly, and Titus Peake waited their turn with wooden blades in hand. Roland Goodbrother laughed as he leaned on the fence, while Cyan Snow stretched his back, already bruised. Robb Rivers observed it all in silence, eyes sharp.

Daemon’s blood hummed with the rhythm of it. These boys were green, aye—but not soft. Not with what he was giving them. Rhaenyra had given him the future of the realm’s defense, and he would shape it with fire and iron.

By midday, he broke from training, leaving the squires to spar with Harwin Strong, who arrived with a nod and his usual crooked smile.

“The Gold cloaks daily reports,” Harwin said, offering a stack of papers. “Two new incidents put down without blood. Fishmonger’s Watch ran clean. Your reforms are working.”

Daemon grunted an approval.

From there he moved to the training barracks—Ser Laenor Velaryon awaited with Rhaenyra four chosen dragonseeds. They bowed as Daemon approached, and he studied them like a craftsman inspecting weapons just forged.

A young girl named Nettles from driftmark was Rhaenyras first pick, along with three young boys all brothers of her attendant Aleatha.

“in a fortnights time they will be ready to patrol,” Laenor reported. “Nettles nearly burned herself climbing too fast.”

“She’ll learn,” Daemon muttered, “or burn. As we all do when we're learning.”

The city was beginning to respond. He could feel it in the discipline of the cloaks, the quickness of reports, the subtle, wary respect in the eyes of smallfolk. His force—Dragonstone-trained warriors clad in crimson and black—were becoming figures of quiet terror among the low districts. And yet, when mothers came to the public kitchens or festivals, they bowed with gratitude.

He passed the young pages later near the Dawnspire Tower. Joffrey Arryn and Hother Umber scrambled to attention.

“Page duties,” Daemon said, not breaking stride. “You carry messages. You polish steel. You watch, and you listen. Every whispered word you hear between noblemen, every idle tale you hear in the stables, every breath that feels out of place—you bring it to me.”

“Even gossip?” Joffrey asked.

Daemon turned, lip curling. “Especially gossip.”

The boy nodded fast.

By afternoon, he entered Vaegon’s Hall where Rhaenyra’s council gathered in ritual—papers, ledgers, positions, decisions. Daemon didn’t much care for the talking—but he saw the shape of it.

Rhaenyra had filled the room with flame. Her Right and Left Hand ladies had grown sharp and confident. Rhaella brought a gravity of faith. Vaegon wielded numbers like axes. Cassara brought her quiet, feminine steel to every matter of the commons. Larys watched from shadow, and even Laenor had taken his role to heart.

Rhaenyra presided like a queen of old Valyria. Proud. Precise. Dressed in black and red, with fire in her gaze. He had seen her command dragons and crush men with words sharper than his blade. She wasn’t just the heir—she was the realm to come.

And she had chosen him.

That truth still thundered beneath his skin.

She could’ve taken some dull, polished lord with lands and manners and a powdered cock. But she’d taken him—the rogue prince, the exile, the firebrand—and not as a plaything or protector, but as the shield-arm of her rule.

When supper came, it was quiet between them in the private hall near the solar. Their guards were posted far. Her ladies were dismissed. Only Rhaenyra and Daemon shared bread, meat, and wine by candlelight.

“You’re too quiet,” she said, eyes watching him over her goblet.

“I’m watching,” Daemon answered, mouth curled at one side. “I like what I see.”

“Do you?” she asked.

Daemon leaned back. “You’ve outmatched every one of those fools in the Red Keep. You took their board and built a new one. You set me at your side and named me protector of the realm in front of them all. Your council is tighter than a warband, and your streets whisper your name like it’s law.”

He set down his goblet, gaze dark and hungry.

“You walk like a dragonrider of old. Are you one?”

Her mouth curved. “Yes, but I had to become one. Or burn.”

“Then let the world burn,” Daemon said. “So long as you and I ride above it.”

They didn’t touch, not yet—but the heat between them was a thing alive.

Later, under cloak of darkness, he descended through a hidden stair beneath the Tower of the Sword to meet with Rhaenyras secret masters of whispers and enforcers. There, in the stone-walled room lit by one brazier, sat the others.

Mushroom, with his strange half-smile. Blood, polishing a dagger. And Cheese, chewing on dried figs and flicking rat bones at a board.

“My Prince,” mushroom said. “The lower Silk has stirred. A whisper of someone trying to bribe the coin registrars.”

Daemon nodded. “Have them watched. Followed. If they slip, let them.”

Blood looked up. “And then?”

“Then make sure they vanish clean.”

Cheese snorted. “I like clean.”

Mushroom stood. “And the little whorehouse under the bridge?”

“Burn it,” Daemon said. “Quietly. Leave a warning carved in the ash.”

Mushroom eyes gleamed.

He left them with final orders and returned aboveground just before moonrise. The night wind carried the scent of oil and sea salt, the breath of a capital in motion.

The city was changing.

His wife-to-be was dragging it into something new. Not soft, not pretty—but real. Strong.

And for once, Daemon Targaryen felt not only needed—but matched.

His blood burned hotter for her than any dragonfire.

A sennight passed.

The skies were clear that morning, the kind of blue that dared dragons to race it. Two shadows carved the clouds as Caraxes and Syrax cut across the heavens, wings thrumming over the Narrow Sea. Below, the dark silhouette of Dragonstone unfurled—volcanic and jagged, its cliffs reaching toward them like a welcome too proud to beg.

Rhaenyra rode ahead. Daemon kept close. The silence between them wasn’t cold—it was coiled. Weighted. A thing waiting to be undone.

They landed together on the upper terrace, carved from ancient black rock. Caraxes growled low as he coiled around the eastern spire, while Syrax settled with a regal sigh, her wings folding like silk.

Rhaenyra dismounted first, her boots striking stone. She turned to Daemon, still swinging down from Caraxes’s saddle.

“Do you want to play a little game?” she asked, voice light.

Daemon arched a brow, lip twitching. “Always.”

She smiled faintly. “Disarm me, and you may ask three meaningful questions. Any you choose.”

He blinked once. Laughed. “That’ll be very easy.”

“Will it?” she murmured, walking toward a nearby alcove tucked beneath the stone arch. From behind a heavy drape of shadow, she pulled a sheathed blade—long, dark, ancient. The moment the steel gleamed, Daemon froze.

His eyes narrowed. His voice dropped. “Why in the seven hells do you have—”

“Disarm me,” she cut in, unsheathing it in one clean draw, “and I’ll tell you.”

He pulled his blade from his hip. The real Dark Sister—Valyrian steel, curved and tempered by fire long since cooled. He stared at her weapon. It was the same. Identical down to the ripple of forge lines and the dragon-etched hilt.

“That’s not possible,” he said.

“Isn’t it?” she said, and struck.

He barely blocked the first blow. The second came swift, angled with footwork he’d never seen her use. The third—

His sword clattered to the stone.

It had taken her three moves. Maybe less.

Daemon stared. Not at the blade this time—but at her.

“Again,” he said, already lifting Dark Sister back into guard.

The second match lasted longer. Much longer. He landed two touches. Nearly took her shoulder with a feint. She fought like someone used to command—not trained, not taught—but used to leading men into death with steel. Her eyes never left his. Her balance never wavered.

She caught him off guard on the last parry and sent his blade flying wide.

Breathless, he lowered his sword. “Who has been training you?”

Rhaenyra only stepped back, dark eyes unreadable. “Ready?”

The third bout began in silence. Daemon pressed harder now, trying to break her rhythm. But this time she let him win. Deliberately. It was too clean, too easy—her parry slow, her stance unguarded. His blade flicked her wrist, and hers fell to the stone.

“You let me take that,” he said, breathing hard.

She didn’t deny it.

He stepped close. “You owe me an answer.”

“I owe you three.”

His voice dropped. “Then start with the sword.”

She turned from him slightly, as if gathering wind in her lungs.

“That sword,” she said slowly, “was mine once. Before this life. Before any of this.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’ll believe—for now.”

Daemon folded his arms. “You’re saying you’ve lived before.”

“I’ve ruled before.”

He waited. The wind tugged at her hair.

“I was Visenya Targaryen,” she said. “In the first life. The witch queen. The blade was mine, then. Forged for my hand. I laid curses in blood and flame so our house would never break.”

Daemon stared at her, motionless.

“And then?” he asked quietly.

“Then I was Daenerys Stormborn,” she said. “Two centuries from now. The city burned under me. I thought it was justice.”

He didn’t speak.

“I failed,” she added. “Burned what I should have changed.”

She lifted her chin. “But fire doesn’t forget.”

“And?”

“In two thousand years,” she said, voice thinned to steel, “I will be Avril Blackfyr. The bastard queen. The city will drown in blood—the peoples blood. But that version of me carve down every last root of the poison that dooms us.”

Daemon looked at her like one might look at a living flame.

“And now?” he asked.

“Now,” she whispered, “I am Rhaenyra. The black queen. The one who remembers all the others.”

She met his gaze. “You asked how I learned the sword.”

She touched the hilt of her Dark Sister.

“I’ve carried it in two lifetimes.” Her voice deepened. “And I’ve never once forgotten how to kill with it.”

---

Daemon didn’t speak.

Didn’t scoff. Didn’t laugh. Didn’t accuse her of madness. He only looked at her—truly looked—as though seeing not one woman, but four.

And then he stepped close. Not with swagger, but with the weight of something understood.

“How long have you known?” he asked.

Rhaenyra didn’t blink. “Since my birth.”

His mouth parted, a slow exhale escaping him. “Gods.”

“No,” she said. “Something older.”

Silence stretched between them like a blade.

“And the rest?” he asked. “Does your father know? The council?”

“Only you.”

He gave a short nod. “You said this is your last life.”

She turned toward the sea, wind tugging her braid. “It has to be.”

Daemon followed her gaze, then whispered, “And the sword?”

“I called it back to me. Across fire and blood. Across death. I’ve carried it in my hand every time this house stood on the edge.”

A beat passed.

Then Daemon said, low, “I believe you.”

She turned her head. “Truly?”

“I saw it in your eyes the moment we crossed blades. You’ve killed with it before. You carry weight like a general. Fire like a priestess. Rage like a dragon.”

He stepped behind her, voice softer now. “But this time... you’re not alone.”

Rhaenyra closed her eyes.

“You don’t have to burn the world by yourself,” he said.

She turned to him, slowly.

Daemon didn’t reach for her. Just held her gaze like a knight would hold a vow.

And Rhaenyra, for the first time in many lifetimes, let herself believe that maybe—just maybe—this time wouldn’t end in ash.

Chapter Text

The day had yet to bloom in full, but already the solar in Maegor’s Tower was alive with rustling paper, warm spiced wine, and the quiet confidence of ladies who shaped kingdoms.

Rhaenyra Targaryen sat at the head of her round table, the polished ashwood gleaming beneath her fingers, carved with the sigils of the Seven Kingdoms of westeros around the rim—a table not of war, but of will. Her golden dragon pendant caught the light as she leaned forward, eyes expectant, hands laced.

Around her sat her chosen ladies—no soft-laced courtiers, but bold daughters of legacy and labor, each charged with the lifeblood of her realm. Scrolls lay unfurled beside them, sealed letters broken and annotations inked in bold lines. This was not court play or idle gossip—this was the work of a future queen.

Laena Velaryon of Driftmark, ever poised in silk the color of the sea, was the first to speak.

“My princess,” she began, “your father has signed the writ. A third of the northern Kingswood is now yours to use for your shipyards—specifically for the three-deck pleasure craft you designed. He called it ‘ambitious,’ though I think he meant it with some admiration.”

Rhaenyra’s mouth twitched with restrained triumph. “He only ever admires ambition when it serves his comfort. Still, it shall be done. Fast, sleek, and lavish. Let the Crown have its ship—mine, not his.” She turned her gaze to Maris across the table. “And you’ve been laying the groundwork for its construction?”

Maris Baratheon nodded, her tawny hair twisted up like the antlers of her house. “I have. With my cousin's leave, I’ve had his steward convert an old hunting estate into a barracks and quarters for the shipwrights and their families. It’s no great keep, but it stands strong, and the land nearby is easy to work.”

Rhaenyra tilted her head, a rare softness to her smirk. “I hear Borros has named his youngest daughter after you.”

Maris let out a sharp breath—half amusement, half exasperation. “No, Your Grace. She bears the name Maris, aye, but not for me. Borros named her for his mother—Maris Baratheon née Penrose. That woman had steel in her bones and vinegar in her blood. A proper namesake for me and now, I suppose her.”

Tanselle Celtigar, wrapped in pearl-threaded storm-silk, cleared her throat. “Lady Rhaenyra, Lord Beesbury has approved the three new coins you and I discussed. The copper crown, worth six coppers; the silver wolf, worth three silvers; and the golden lady—half a dragon in worth.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes gleamed. “Excellent. Let us see the people with full purses and fairer trade. The golden lady will circulate before the tourney if I have anything to say of it. And I do.”

Elinda Massey leaned in, her tone brisk. “The first one hundred Crownlands cloaks have finished the final tier of training. They begin patrols in a sennight.”

Rhaenyra raised a brow. “And the towers? I won’t have cloaks patrolling blind.”

“Nine out of the twelve watch and messenger towers are complete,” Elinda reported. “The rest will rise within the fortnight—our builders swear it.”

“They better.” Rhaenyra said, voice clipped, though not cruel. “If one warning or message fails to reach the city, I’ll hold their hammers to task.”

Mhaegen Hayford, her Lady of the Left Hand, glanced at her ledger with pride. “Two apprentice learning halls are now open in the Lower District. Three children’s halls are running daily sessions, and one workman’s learning center opened near the Southern Road. The three orphan halls have also been expanded—they now have space for food, sleep, and learning.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes softened again. “You’ve done well. We all have done well.”

Barbrey Bolton leaned forward next, her dress dark red with pale pink like her house's banner. “All the noble houses in the North have now requested two or more silos. And every one of them wants a crown glasshouse. Your crown’s glasswork has become a favored luxury—affordable and trusted. No one believes the Myr could do better, and I’ll agree with them.”

Rhaenyra gave a wry laugh. “I’ve worked it through with the small council and the master-glasswrights—each functioning Night’s Watch castle will receive one crown glasshouse, gifted by the realm, and two grain silos. One silo will be filled each year by Crown tithe. In return, the lands of the New Gift will be handed back to the North, as Lord Stark agreed.”

Barbrey’s eyes gleamed. “He’ll keep his word. He already sent men to start construction on the new northern railway.”

“A bold realm demands bold transportation,” Rhaenyra murmured.

Jocelyn Mormont’s voice cut in next. “Fifty Northern warrior-women will arrive before the first day of the Glory Games. They come with spear, sword, and no patience for coddling.”

“Will they compete?” Rhaenyra asked, mouth curling upward.

Jocelyn met her gaze with a toothy grin. “Aye.”

Rhaenyra leaned back, smile blooming fully now. “Good. Let the South tremble at what Northern women can do.”

The solar hummed with satisfied murmurs as Rhaenyra glanced around the table, each report shaping the spine of her soon to be reign. Their hands inked progress and pulled maps into being—but it was their wills that made it real.

“Now,” she said, turning slightly, her eyes falling to Lorra and the next round of updates. “Let us continue.”

Lorra Arryn of Gulltown sat tall in her sky-blue gown, her sleeves stitched with falcon wings so delicate they seemed ready to take flight. The map beside her bore the scars of pins and charcoal, tracing the mountains and valleys of the Vale like a mother marking a child’s growth.

“Road reconstruction has begun,” she announced, “starting at the foothills outside the Bloody Gate. From there, the work stretches east and south, feeding toward the Kingsroad. We’re using Vale quarried stone and crown-backed wages to keep the workers loyal. Once we reach the main trade arteries, traffic to King’s Landing will double in speed.”

Rhaenyra gave a short nod. “See that it does because roads are the lifeblood of the realm.”

Kella Borrell of the Sisters, still wind-worn from her most recent voyage, leaned her elbows on the table with the air of one who had no time for silks or ceremony. “Pirate elimination is almost complete. Those who could be bought off have taken their bribes and slunk away. The rest were dragged from their hovecaves or killed at sea. The Sisters are safer now than they’ve been in half a century. Trade ships are coming in with half the guards they once needed.”

“A fine tide,” Rhaenyra said. “Let us keep it that way. If the Sisters prove stable, I’ll see about granting lawful status to your dock-leagues and water-courts.”

Next was Aelinor Tarth, sun-blonde and steel-backed. “The knights of your small council,” she said crisply, “are reviewing the final amendments to the knighthood laws. Specifically, who may swear under the Crown banner, and how knightly oaths shall be governed going forward.”

“I will help them review them quickly,” Rhaenyra said. “I will not have men with rusty swords and glossier tongues calling themselves true knights while my finest remain unmade.”

Darlessa Reyne leaned forward, the firelight catching the copper of her hair. “As a daughter of Castamere,” she said with a smile, “and with Tyshara’s backing from Lannisport, we’ve promoted reforms focused on productivity and innovation—new mills, new systems of account, and trial markets in the hilllands. Poverty has lessened. Some of the farmers have earned three times what they did two moons past.”

“That’s what happens when gold is worked, not hoarded,” Rhaenyra said. “The West must prove that wealth can serve.”

From the darker corner of the table, Esgred Greyjoy lifted her eyes. “The Ironborn council will gather next moon to discuss your proposed canal,” she said flatly. “They’re reluctant, as ever. But not fools. They know it means power. And coin.”

Rhaenyra leaned an elbow on the table. “Tell them Daemon and I shall visit the isles after our wedding. I’d rather give my commands in person.”

Esgred raised a brow. “Still planning the progress, then?”

“Aye,” Rhaenyra said. “I’ll walk their halls with dragonblood in my eyes and their future in my hands.”

Alannys Harlaw gave a slight nod, sea rings glinting on every finger. “My father has agreed to the shipping and guarding contract. The Sunset Sea and western Summer Sea are yours—no reaving, no theft. Any captain who breaks that contract will answer to us before he ever reaches the Crown’s justice.”

Rhaenyra let out a satisfied breath. “That is great news, Alannys. Truly.”

“I have news as well,” Frynne Martell said, her voice as warm and rich as the deserts she came from. “My cousin has agreed to the green desert project. The first land parcels are marked, the irrigation lines drawn. It will be slow, but we shall coax blossoms from sand.”

Moriah Dayne, seated beside her, inclined her head. “And with it, Dorne shall begin its integration—not as a reluctant addition, but as an honored, autonomous ally of the Crown.”

The ladies all turned subtly toward Rhaenyra, watching her reaction.

She smiled—but paused.

Everyone was smiling… save for one.

Helicent Tyrell sat with her chin high, her lips tight. Rhaenyra caught it at once.

“What’s wrong, Helicent?”

The lady from Highgarden lifted her hands in slow defeat. “The Crown-funded learning centers of art and invention—our model for the Reach—is not going as smoothly as we hoped. The maesters resist. The Septons preach against the work. But give me more time, and I will see it done.”

Rhaenyra nodded, voice firm but not cold. “If you need anything—silver, men, dragons—come to me directly. I trust you, Helicent. You’ll get it done.”

The Reach lady dipped her head, gratitude flickering in her eyes.

Rhaenyra’s gaze drifted now to the Riverlands—specifically to Gwenys Blackwood and Perriane Bracken, seated side by side in almost suspicious harmony. Their silence had not gone unnoticed.

She said nothing—for now—but made a note to question them alone later.

Instead, she stood, golden pendant swaying softly over her bodice.

“There is one matter yet. We have no second lady from the Reach at this table,” she said. “A gap that must be filled. I trust each of you to leave your suggestions with Mhaegen.”

Chairs shifted as the ladies straightened.

“And remember,” Rhaenyra said, her voice measured and bright as the sun was now creeping through the window slits, “our power is not just in names or houses. It is in what we build. Daughters of war. Mothers of change. We are the realm’s true inheritance.”

With that, she lifted her hand and dismissed the meeting.

The ladies rose, skirts whispering, papers gathered, and in the future Queen’s solar, the forging of a new realm cooled just slightly—for now.

Chapter Text

The wind off the Blackwater carried the scent of sawdust, sweetbread, and steel.

Preparations swelled like a tide across the city. The Glory Games loomed a little over a fortnight away. The wedding followed in a moon. But already the capital pulsed with motion—hammers, drums, boots, voices—each echoing the shape of something larger: the rise of a reign.

Rhaenyra stood high atop the Queen’s Walk—a parapet that overlooked the River Park and the wide stone flats beyond Aegon’s Hill. From here, she could see the first banners being staked, the new arena being roped, and the shadow of a crown taking shape near the water’s edge.

Beside her, Lorra Arryn held a journal scratched with lists three columns deep.

“They’ve begun final construction on the carnival scaffolds. The wheel’s spine is upright. The tilt-barrel mounts are tested. The maze has been trialed twice by children from the orphan halls.”

“And the market stalls for the arena?” Rhaenyra asked.

“Half are claimed. The rest will be by sennight’s end. Each district’s vendors will receive free placement and full revenue—no royal tax.”

“Good. Let them taste prosperity.”

She turned toward the rising sun. Below, the River Park glimmered in its light. Painted carts rolled in with dry goods, tins, treats. A green cart from the Fisherman’s District arrived bearing fish and sugar cakes. Two girls leapt out the back and began arranging bundles of wrapped sweets shaped like dragon eggs.

Rhaenyra smiled faintly.

“I want the first round of festival grants distributed by dusk,” she said. “And someone needs to check on the cider taps. If the barrels are spoiled, the Crown’s going to look foolish.”

“I’ll send Cassara.”

“No. She’s buried under ledger revisions. Send Rhaella.”

Lorra gave a quiet hum of agreement and made the note.

The Glory Games would span three full sennights. The first was set for the smallfolk men—each day its own contest: will, strength, wit, archery, and metal. The second sennight would see the squires melaee and women compete, the latter now extended to four days with the addition of the Northern warrior-women that qualified. The third sennight would be reserved for the nobles. But beyond the games, the city would swell with song, drink, dance, and light. Rhaenyra had ordered no formal balls, no closed-off lordly halls. Instead: a citywide revel. From harbor to hilltop.

But it would not come together by goodwill alone.

---

In the heart of the Lower District, Cassara Darklyn sat hunched over a ledger spread across three tables. Her sleeves were rolled to the elbow. Her eyes red from ink dust and sunburn.

“I said no vendor fees,” she muttered. “Why are there still vendor fees in Smoke Alley?”

A nervous girl beside her—twelve and freckled—flipped through a second ledger. “It was the steward’s collection,” she said. “Not the district fee. He said—”

“Stewards aren’t kings. Flag it. Reimburse every vendor.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Three rooms over, women were stitching crimson ribbons through white silk sleeves. These would be handed to the smallfolk champions after each game. They would wear them home with pride.

And beneath them, in the stone kitchens, a firewarden stoked the testing oven for the new bread ovens—Crown-built, smoke-vented, safe. A baker pulled one loaf, then another, from the redbrick core and held up his mitten-covered hands in disbelief. “No burn. Not a bit.”

Cassara didn’t hear him. She was still writing.

---

In the Guild Heights, Archmaester Vaegon was not writing. He was pacing.

“You can’t teach triage in two moons,” he snapped at his apprentices. “But you can teach how to clean a wound, pack it, and send for a proper healer. If they can count three breaths and wrap a linen square, they’re hired.”

He slammed a copy of his Field Aid Primer onto the table.

“The first aid posts must be manned by those who will not faint at the sight of blood. No septas who swoon. No leeches who flinch.”

The apprentices scribbled notes furiously.

Behind him, the new infirmary was lined with stretchers, clean barrels of boiled water, and boxes marked with colored clay tokens—green for fever, red for injury, black for unknown. Vaegon would have every public game, fair, and celebration covered with trained eyes. No man would bleed unattended. No woman would labor without help. No child would die of something preventable, not on his watch.

---

At the Dragonstone shipyard, Laena Velaryon walked through sawdust and salt spray. Her new patrol cutters—swift, light, and sharp-prowed—lay docked at the ready. She turned to the woman beside her, a dock-foreman named Illenna.

“This new ship needs to be ready before the wedding,” Laena said. “Rhaenyra wants a presence on the water.”

“Aye, my lady. The hull is near cured. It’ll gleam.”

Laena nodded once.

Behind her, the long flagship frame—Rhaenyra’s pleasure cruise ship—was being adorned with golden dragonheads, red lantern hooks, and a sail stitched with House Targaryen’s flame-sigil over Valyrian waves.

It would bear the Queen-to-be across the Blackwater the final day of games.

---

Within the Sept of Song, Rhaella Targaryen knelt before the altar of the Seven. Not praying. Scrubbing.

Around her, five younger septas worked in quiet diligence, sweeping old incense ash, polishing the new tile floor, refitting braziers. The sept had been gutted and remade under Rhaenyra’s orders—its walls lined with equal icons: the Fourteen Flames, the Seven, a Heart Tree, the the flame of R'hllor, the stone spiral of the Mother Rhoyne, the drowning man, and the thundering cloud.

No single faith would claim this court. All Kingdoms would walk in equal light.

“Has the High Septon replied?” Rhaella asked without looking up.

A novice behind her shook her head. “Not yet, my lady.”

“He will,” she murmured. “Or he’ll find his sermons playing to empty halls.”

---

In the outer courts, Elinda Massey stood beneath a steel-framed archway, watching the first of the new Crownlands potrol assemble. Seventy guards. All Crownlands-born smallfolk. Uniforms polished. Rotation charts memorized.

“You are not gold cloaks,” she said. “You are not sellswords. You wear the silver-flame of the Crown’s own justice.”

She paced before them like a hammer on legs.

“If I find one of you extorting coin, harassing women, or vanishing from post, I will see you stripped, shaved, and tossed in the Lower District to explain yourself. Twice.”

Not one man blinked.

“Now report to your designated watch towers.”

---

Mhaegen Hayford’s voice echoed off stone.

“Letters must be memorized in order,” she said. “No jumping. No guessing. No murmured half-sounds.”

In the open-air class circle behind the Queen’s Tower, children sat cross-legged with chalkboards in their laps. Three dozen. Ages from four to ten. All wearing scraps of every color.

A boy stood and spelled “bread.” The others clapped. Mhaegen did not.

“Bread feeds bellies. Letters feed minds. Spell it again.”

The children repeated in unison.

Behind the class, new benches were being assembled. Donations had arrived from six districts. Rhaenyra’s coin had paid for the books. But it was Mhaegen who taught the voices that would rise with the realm.

---

Inside the Red Keep, Tanselle, Tyshara and Darlessa leaned over a tapestry chart draped acrothe planning table.

“The Lower District token system begins now,” Tanselle said. “The obsidian and ash coins are drying in the molds. Markets will accept them within three days.”

Tyshara sipped from her glass goblet. “Trade networks in the West have already written for samples. Once they see the model works, they’ll abandon gold during festivals.”

“Not all.”

“No. But enough.”

On the floor below, three girls tallied baskets of fresh-molded tokens—standardized by Rhaenyra’s design.

---

Rhaenyra read each report in silence.

She stood before her round table, papers fanned across the carved realm-map of ashwood. Flames flickered behind her. Her hair was tied in a single braid looped like a crown.

Around her sat her lady hands, her ladies-in-waiting council, her builders, her watchers, her writers.

Lorra gave the harbor reports. Laena followed with foreign trade. Moriah Dayne laid out Dorne’s wedding delegation. Jocelyn Mormont listed the twenty-seven women who had passed the final sword drills and would enter the women’s games as contestants.

Tanselle finalized the payment logs.

Kella confirmed the clinics were staffed.

Barbrey handed out the names of the festival speakers. Each would rotate hourly. None could proselytize.

Aelinor Tarth set forth the knighthood amendments.

Esgred, along with Alannys, detailed the arrival of four Ironborn ships, two carrying timber, two bearing olive oil and salted cod. “No theft, no delay.”

Even Helicent Tyrell had news: the first Reach school had reopened, despite two sermons calling it heretical. “They came anyway,” she said. “They also brought their children.”

Rhaenyra spoke softly. “Good.”

She turned to the map.

“There will be dragons flying that day. Banners from every house. Meat, song, lights, and sound. The kingdom will gather to see what we are.”

Her hand hovered above the marked spot labeled River Park.

“So let them see.”

She looked up, eyes fierce.

“Let them see the future Queen’s realm already in motion. Let them walk through something they never dared dream they could belong to. And let no one leave without knowing: this is what a Targaryen crown builds.”

The room went still.

Then Lorra stood. “The wheels turn.”

“The ships float,” said Laena.

“The coin spins,” murmured Tanselle.

“The roads rise,” said Lorra.

“The bells ring,” Mhaegen finished.

Rhaenyra smiled.

“A fortnight left,” she said. “Let’s show them what that time is worth.”

And the table moved as one.

A sennight later....

From the point of view of King Viserys I Targaryen

Viserys Targaryen had wondered—often aloud, often with impatience—just what manner of monstrosity his daughter had been building beyond the city walls. The coin Rhaenyra had redirected into her so-called Glory Games had not trickled—it had poured. He had heard whispers from lords, seen requests for labor exemptions, even denied the stone shipments requested by her advisors. But no one had told him the truth. Not truly.

Not until now.

They stood before it just past dawn, only a few days before the Glory Games would begin. The mist still clung to the Blackwater like a lover reluctant to part. Viserys emerged from his carriage first, his knees aching as always, but the moment his eyes lifted—the pain vanished.

Gods.

Before him loomed a colosseum. No—more than a colosseum. It was a giant’s crown, built of stone and sun, stretching so wide it swallowed the edge of the tourney grounds and spilled into the waters of the bay itself. Stone pillars jutted into the sea like teeth sunk deep into bedrock, holding up a section of the arena as if it too refused to bow. It gleamed with morning dew and was shadowed with power.

Its outer walls rose in three tremendous tiers, carved in soft spirals of dragons and flame, adorned with bas-relief depictions of Aegon’s Conquest, great moments of Targaryen rule, and—he realized with a start—of Rhaenyra herself. Her likeness stood thirty feet high across the eastern arch: astride Syrax, sword aloft, flame in hand.

The Eternal Arena, she called it.

The vendors’ stalls had been built straight into the structure’s outer wall, stone-carved recesses where butchers, bakers, clothiers, and foodstuffs sellers could set their wares. Stone awnings hung above them to shield from sun and rain alike. No ramshackle tents. No broken carts. Permanent. Solid. Everlasting.

And then came the stairs.

Seven distinct stairwells arched into the colosseum from points all around its curve:

The Falcon Stairs to the right of the main entrance.

The Wolf Stairs to the left of the main entrance.

The Lion Stairs next to the Wolf.

The Trout Stairs beside the Falcon.

The Stag Stairs beside the Lion.

The Rose Stairs beside the Trout.

And finally, the Royal Stairs—hidden at the rear, guarded, flanked by black-and-gold marble columns with a private entrance and exit for the royal family’s carriages.

The royal stairs held a secret.

Inside, just beyond the gate, stood a lift.

A wooden platform surrounded by burnished brass railings, affixed to thick chains and pulley gears concealed behind the stone wall. Rhaenyra had called it a “rising platform”—a lift drawn upward by counterweights, powered by men pulling in precise rhythm far below. Viserys had never seen the like.

He stepped on it without asking questions.

The ascent was smooth, deliberate. Silent, save for the low creak of ropes moving like clockwork.

And then—open sky.

The lift opened into the third floor of the arena, into a sunlit corridor crowned with banners of black and red. Before him stretched a high terrace, a stone arch curving into shadow. Then: light. Wind. Space.

The royal galleries.

Two private boxes had been built into the top of the Eternal Arena—one for the King, and one for the Heir. Rhaenyra stood in hers already, awaiting them.

The seating below was laid out with purpose:

Third Floor:

Top level: The Royal Family—Viserys, Rhaenyra, and those of closest blood.

Second level: The Lord Paramount Houses—Arryn, Stark, Tully, Lannister, Tyrell, Baratheon.

Bottom level: The Noble Houses of ancient name.

Second Floor:

Top level: Minor Noble Houses.

Middle level: Knightly Houses.

Bottom level: Highborn commoners.

Bottom Floor:

Top level: Guild members, castle workers, Rhaenyra’s administrative staff.

Middle level: Off-duty Gold Cloaks, Dragon Guard Cloaks, Crownlands Cloaks, and their families.

Ground level: The smallfolk—fisherfolk, cobblers, smiths, street vendors, and children.

All seats were smooth rows of the strange stone Rhaenyra called royal concrete etched into the colosseum’s form—sturdy, sun-warmed, and vast. Two hundred thousand souls could fit within its sweeping stone belly.

And already, many had come to continue setting up for the games.

Viserys blinked at the magnitude of it. The walls reached higher than the tallest towers in the Red Keep. The air inside felt more like a breathing beast than a structure—vast, alive, and humming. The sounds echoed like a hymn to the future: scuffing boots, murmuring voices, the rustle of banners overhead.

At the edge of her gallery stood Rhaenyra.

She turned.

“Welcome,” she said, her voice calm but clear, ringing from stone to sky. “To the new tourney grounds of King’s Landing.”

A pause.

“The Eternal Arena.”

Every head turned.

“A home for all games. For all trials. For all public matters of sport and spectacle. Built to endure. Built to unify. Built of Dragonstone’s fire and the people’s labor. From this day forth, the capital shall never again be found lacking.”

She gestured outward.

“It is not mine alone. It belongs to the realm.”

Viserys said nothing for a long while.

He had come expecting indulgence. He had come prepared to scold, to lecture, to chide her for hubris.

But this—

This was no monument to vanity.

It was a city’s crown.

And for the first time in many moons, Viserys felt something shift in his chest.

Pride.

Not for himself. For her.

For what she had built. For what she might yet build. For the legacy he might actually leave behind—not in son or memory, but in daughter.

Rhaenyra turned to him briefly.

“Shall we begin?” she asked.

Chapter Text

The sun rose heavy with heat, its golden eye cast over the old tourney grounds, where a new style of arena sprawled—no tilts or jousting lists, no banners flapping for knights in shining plate. No, this was not a nobleman’s sport. This was something else. Something built for sweat, for strain, for survival.

And seated above it all, beside the King’s own box, was Rhaenyra’s royal gallery. Carved in dark wood and veined with polished obsidian, it bore the sigil of House Targaryen not once, but thrice—three-headed dragons set against the balustrades, their wings curling in protective arches.

Rhaenyra sat at the center of it, unbending, her silver-gold hair woven with red sapphires, her eyes sharp beneath a canopy of shade. On her left sat Sheara, belly just beginning to show beneath the folds of her dress—one of Alicent’s former lady in waiting gowns, now recut and restitched with better taste. On Rhaenyra’s right lounged Daemon, slouched lazily, leg propped over the arm of the chair with an amused smirk playing at his mouth as he surveyed the grounds like a dragon overseeing its prey.

Corlys Velaryon had chosen to sit within her box, among his kin. Lyonel Strong as well. Rhaella and Vaegon had not attended, and Rhaenyra had not asked why. She didn’t need to.

She was front and center for the first of the Glory Games.

And the game was about to begin.

They called it the Test of Wills. Thirty rounds. Five hundred sixty smallfolk men per round. A gauntlet of grueling challenges not meant for strength, but for balance, wit, nerve, and control.

Trumpets sounded from the end of the field. A herald stepped forward.

“The first round begins! Competitors, step forward!”

From behind a wooden barricade came the first wave: men of all shapes, sizes, and backgrounds—bricklayers, fishermen, coopers, lamplighters, reformed cutpurses, blacksmith’s sons. Each wore a plain linen tunic with a number stitched in red across the chest. They looked up at the stands with wide eyes—at the royals, the nobles, the banners—and then out toward the obstacle course that would either make or break them.

The bell rang.

---

Stage One: The Balance Mud Pit

The bell rang sharp as steel on stone.

A roar rolled through the Eternal Arena, swelling from the smallfolk crowd near the ground up through the nobles in their smooth-cement rows and into the lofty reaches of the royal boxes. But down on the field, silence reigned—save for the low, sickening churn of wet muck and the creak of wooden beams shifting under tension.

The first challenge lay exposed in the center of the field: two narrow balance beams stretched over a wide trench of swirling brown sludge, each one no broader than a butcher’s cleaver. The pit beneath wasn’t still—it moved, bubbled, breathed. Long poles jutted up from the depths, guided by workers stationed out of sight, who stirred the mire constantly to keep it loose and alive. Every few heartbeats, the mud let out a soft bloop, like it was hungry.

The beams were staggered—one slightly higher than the other, both slicked with a thin sheen of grease to keep them from drying in the heat. Between them, a hanging rope swayed, dangling at chest height—a false friend, too low to grab safely, but tempting to any man desperate for balance.

“The first round begins!” the herald cried again.

The competitors stepped forward.

Five hundred sixty men in linen tunics, each bearing a red-stitched number on their chest. They came from dockyards and gutters, smithies and bakeries, tenements and outposts. Their faces bore the sun-darkened strain of survival, their hands callused, their eyes wary. Some spat. A few rolled their shoulders and cracked their necks like pit fighters before a melee.

One man flinched and tried to bolt early. The horn blasted. Guards seized him, dragging him back. Disqualified.

Another hesitated at the edge, staring down into the swirling mess. It looked more like soup than soil—dark, thick, and sucking at the edges. His foot wobbled on the beam. He gulped. Then stepped.

The game had begun.

One by one, they crossed. Some slow, knees bent, arms spread wide like dancers. Others charged—foolishly—running with loud, clapping strides. The beam shuddered under the weight of them. A boy from the Rat Hills flailed wildly as a gust of wind caught his tunic; he spun once and dropped straight into the pit with a high-pitched yelp. The mud swallowed him in a heartbeat.

The crowd gasped. A breath later, they cheered. Laughter echoed off stone and sea alike.

An older fellow, boots tied with twine, tiptoed across. He paused to wipe sweat from his brow—then sneezed. The sneeze twisted him sideways, and the mud took him.

The crowd howled.

Still they came.

Some tried to use the rope. Mistake. It wasn’t fixed—just looped to swing. One man grabbed it, slipped, and twisted hard into the muck. Another held on too long and dangled over the trench until his arms gave out.

Rhaenyra watched from her obsidian-lined gallery, expression unreadable. Sheara winced once when two men collided mid-beam and both tumbled like puppets. Daemon chuckled darkly, eyes gleaming.

By the time the last man crossed—sweat-drenched, shaking, whispering a prayer to the Warrior—only around two hundred remained.

Mud-covered, breathless, and rattled.

And the Test of Wills had only just begun

There was no rest. No water. No mercy.

*

Stage Two: The Slanted Wall Rope Climb

The mud-slick survivors didn’t get time to rest. No water. No breath. Just the bark of orders—and what loomed ahead.

The wall.

It rose at a cruel angle—steep as a castle roof and twice as high, gleaming in the morn sun like oiled stone. The surface was smeared with lard from top to bottom, glistening in thick streaks that caught the light like sweat on a corpse. No footholds. No grooves. Only the ropes.

Nine of them.

Each dangled from iron pegs hammered into the top ledge. Some ropes were frayed at the ends, the fibers already curling loose. Some were knotted slick with pig fat. A few were thicker than a man’s wrist and soaked through—dead weight meant to snap or drag. From afar, they looked like lifelines. Up close, they whispered lies.

Each man had three attempts. No more.

“Next stage!” barked the steward from the tower. “Climb it—or fall!”

The first man bolted forward before the horn had even blown. Too eager. He leapt, caught a thick rope—and was nearly yanked off his feet as it gave way with a meaty pop, the peg tearing loose and thudding into the wall behind him. He landed hard on his side, groaning, dust rising from the dirt around him.

One try gone.

A horn sounded.

The field erupted into motion.

Men dashed for the ropes, claiming their chances like starving hounds after bone. Some stood back, watching, eyes scanning the pattern, trying to guess which ropes held and which betrayed. Others didn’t wait—they jumped, grunted, hauled themselves hand over hand.

It was a test of more than strength.

The ropes twisted as they climbed, swaying wildly under the pull of bodies. More than one man reached halfway before his grip failed and he slammed into the slanted wall, back-first, then slid with a long, helpless scrape into the dirt below.

One man—tall and broad, a coal hauler by the look of him—wrapped the rope around his forearm and tried to muscle through. The rope snapped clean at the top. He dropped like a stone, rolled, and lay wheezing in the dust. Done.

The crowd groaned. Then cheered for the next who made it.

A wiry youth—barefoot, ribs visible through his tunic—darted forward like a shadow and launched himself up one of the thinner ropes. His limbs moved fast, precise, his toes digging into the lard-slick wall with animal instinct. He didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. Up, up, and over.

The crowd roared.

Others followed. Some with grace. Most with fury. A butcher from Flea Bottom, round as a keg and soaked in sweat, tried three times. On his second, he made it halfway. On his third, his arms simply gave out. He sat where he landed, legs sprawled, eyes wet—not from pain, but shame.

Some men argued with the guards when told their attempts were spent. One swung at a steward and was dragged away.

And still the line moved forward.

Rhaenyra’s eyes tracked each climber, unmoving. Beside her, Daemon gave a low whistle when a cobbler from the Riverlands made it up a slick rope using only his knees and elbows. “That one fights dirty,” he muttered. “He’ll live long.”

At the end, the count stood.

One hundred twenty.

Caked in lard, raw in the palms, breath coming hard—but standing.

The rest sat in dirt, broken and bitter, watching the survivors gather at the base of the next stage.

Those who climbed now faced a different test—not of strength, but of nerve.

*

Stage Three: The Wrong Step Platform

The moment the survivors saw it, a ripple passed through them—some quiet curse, some wordless dread.

A vast platform of wooden tiles stretched ahead, square after square in a grid of maddening repetition. Each plank was stained the same shade of wet pine, bordered in black pitch. To the eye, they were identical. To the foot, they were traitors.

The pit beneath was wide and deep, its water dark with brackish slime, the bottom lost in shadow. Foul-smelling steam drifted up from its depths. No one knew how far the fall truly went, or if anyone who slipped would come out clean.

One row at a time, the men advanced toward the edge.

A steward’s voice called out, sharp and final: “There is only one safe path. No plank shall hold if it is not true. Step wrong—and you fall.”

The horn blew.

The first man stepped out.

Cautious, slow. His foot hovered—then pressed gently onto the plank in front of him. It held.

He took another step, just as slow, onto the next.

Then a third.

On the fourth, he hesitated too long. Behind him, the second man grew impatient and leapt two spaces ahead—and the plank collapsed beneath him. He plunged down with a yelp and vanished into the muck below. A moment later, a splash. Then nothing.

Gasps echoed from the stands. Laughter followed. Then silence again.

There was no pattern. No rhyme. Every round had a new path. No one could memorize or rely on others. The path shifted each time, controlled by hidden levers below. Rhaenyra’s engineers had built it so no round would mirror the last.

Some tried watching the men ahead to mark their steps. That worked—for a while.

Until they stepped just slightly off center, or followed a man who stumbled, or found their balance shaken by the man beside them falling suddenly into the pit.

One competitor fell flat onto the tiles and began crawling forward, hands slapping, testing each square by weight before committing. He made it halfway before a loose board gave under his knee, and he tumbled forward into the water with a wail of fury.

Others tried speed. A former messenger boy darted across seven tiles in a flash of desperate courage—he made it eight before a rotten board splintered under his heel and sent him flying.

The smarter ones slowed. They crouched. They tested gently with a toe, waited for the smallest creak, moved only when sure. Even so, luck ruled more than skill.

One man fell when he flinched at another’s shout. Another when he slipped on a patch of old water. One simply froze after his second step and refused to move again, knees shaking until a guard pulled him off the course entirely.

Rhaenyra didn’t blink as each fell. Her eyes tracked only those who succeeded. Daemon, beside her, leaned forward on one elbow, amused.

“This is the best of it,” he murmured. “The moment when men try to outthink the gods.”

By the end of the chaos, out of all who had climbed the wall, only sixty-three men made it to the other side.

Dripping. Breathless. Shaken.

But dry.

Chapter Text

Stage Four: The Maze of Ends

The hedge rose high—higher than a man on horseback, thick with thorned vine and trimmed into sharp green edges. From above, it might’ve looked like a simple shape. But from the ground, it was a living thing, dense and coiled and cruel.

One entrance. Three true exits. One dead end.

The herald gave no further instruction. No hints. Only pointed to the arch of leaves and stone where the first man was to enter. Then the next, spaced by ten slow heartbeats.

Inside, the air changed.

It was cooler beneath the shadows, but more suffocating. The pathways twisted almost immediately, veering off at odd angles, some narrowing so sharply that the men had to squeeze sideways to pass. Every hedge wall looked the same—prickly green, dense with leaf and thorn, branches interwoven so tightly no one could cut through even if given a blade.

Some paths led to small courtyards with symbols carved in stone. A dragon. A tree. A seven-pointed star. Yet not all meant freedom. Some led onward. Some led to circles. Some, back the way they came.

And one led nowhere.

The OUT wall stood tall and blank, an insult in carved white stone. No horn, no fanfare. Just a silent end and a banner draped above with cruel elegance: YOU ARE DONE.

Inside, the men cursed.

Some shouted for directions—though none were given. Others marked the dirt with fingers or tore their tunics to leave cloth behind. The clever ones tried patterns, counting steps between turns, listening for sound. But the hedges dampened all noise, and no two turns were equal.

A blacksmith’s apprentice ran until his legs gave out. A tavern singer sang to calm his nerves—until a shadowed path led him straight to the OUT wall. He screamed and pounded on the stone, but no door would open.

And all the while, from the royal boxes above, the maze was utterly still. Silent to those watching. Only the tops of hedges swayed gently with the breeze.

Daemon murmured, “This is where men get lost in themselves.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes narrowed. “This is where they prove if they deserve to be found.”

A lean figure appeared first at the dragon-marked exit—mud-smeared but grinning. He raised a hand toward the stands before guards ushered him aside.

Then another, through the tree-marked gate, breathing heavy but proud.

One man crawled out on hands and knees, his knees bloodied and pants torn. Another burst out with a roar, half-sobbing, face streaked with sweat and fury.

And finally, after a long, choking pause, the last few stumbled free—some in pairs, some alone, all changed.

Forty-two.

From sixty-three.

The rest? Trapped in green, or staring at stone. Out.

---

Stage Five: The Cookie Shape Test

They were led, breathless and weary, into the final station of the gauntlet—a shaded row of tables, each set with a single wooden stool and a small, round platter. On each platter sat a cookie.

But not just any cookie.

These were thick sugar disks, hard-baked to an almost cruel crisp, pressed with one of three symbols matching the exits of the maze: a dragon, a tree, or a seven-pointed star. Each man received the shape that matched his maze path. Each cookie slightly different in edge, curve, and thickness—no two identical.

Next to each platter sat a single tool: a thin wooden pick, no thicker than a quill, sharpened at one end and smoothed at the other. Nothing else. No knives. No second chances.

A voice called out, clear and firm: “You have ten minutes. Begin.”

Silence fell like a dropped blade.

Some men bent to the task immediately, hunching over their plates like starving beggars at a feast. Others hesitated, hands hovering, sweat already pooling at their brows. One man whispered a prayer. Another blew gently on the surface of his cookie, as though coaxing it into kindness.

The challenge was maddeningly simple: trace the outline. Remove the outer edges. Free the shape within without cracking it. Any fracture—even a hairline—meant failure.

One man, too bold, applied pressure from the start. Snap. His dragon’s wing broke clean off. A horn sounded. Disqualified.

Another used the point of the pick like a surgeon, etching millimeter by millimeter with the care of a jeweler at court. Time passed. Sand fell. One slip—and the seven-pointed star crumbled at the edge.

Groans echoed up into the stands. The crowd watched with baited breath, eyes locked not on warriors or horses—but on fingers trembling over pastries. The absurdity only made it more intense.

Daemon leaned forward, one brow raised. “Cookies,” he muttered. “Weed out the reckless.”

Rhaenyra didn’t look away. “And crown the patient.”

One man, older than most, shook visibly. His hands quivered as he reached the dragon’s tail. Just before the tip, a chip snapped off. He stared down in silence before pushing his stool back and walking away without a word.

Another began slow, but halfway through, nerves overtook him. His fingers slipped. The cookie broke in two. He dropped his head onto the table and wept.

But a few—only a few—endured.

A lean fisherman with steady fingers worked in clean circles, lifting his star free in one final motion that drew gasps from the stewards. A scribe’s apprentice, sweat pouring from his scalp, held up his unbroken tree like it was a newborn child. And one of the youngest competitors, barely sixteen, carved his dragon in long, sweeping spirals until it sat in his palm like a relic of ancient Valyria.

When the horn blew at the end of the ten minutes, only twenty-one men still had their cookies intact.

One and twenty.

Of five hundred sixty who had started.

Of sixty-three who had made it this far.

Their names were written down. Their faces remembered.

---

Round after round, through balance beams and shifting ropes, false floors and thorny mazes, cursed cookies and the silence of their own breath. Some rounds saw fewer than ten survive. Once, no one passed the final test at all. The horns of failure became a dirge.

From the high boxes, the sun passed overhead and began its descent. The banners cast long shadows. The stands never emptied.

By the time the last cookie was shattered or held high, and the final horn rang beneath the red-tinged sky, the count was finished.

Three hundred twenty-one.

Out of sixteen thousand and eight hundred.

The strong-willed. The lucky. The rare.

And the crowd cheered for them—not because they were lords or knights or named heroes.

But because they had endured.

Sheara leaned toward Rhaenyra, her hand resting lightly on her swollen stomach. “They cheer like this for smallfolk?”

Rhaenyra smiled. “They cheer because smallfolk are finally being seen.”

Daemon chuckled lowly. “Wait ‘til they see what’s next.”

And next, it would be—the Hourglass Game.
A final test of will. A test of patience. Of nerve.

But for now, the names of the 321 were being recorded. Logged. Recognized.

And for the first time in the history of King’s Landing, the roar of the crowd wasn’t for lords or knights.

It was for them.

---

The crowd had not thinned. If anything, it had swelled—word of the survivors had spread like wildfire, and all of King’s Landing seemed to hold its breath.

From sixteen thousand and more, only three hundred twenty-one men remained.

And now came the final test.

Rhaenyra sat in her royal box—centered, commanding, flame-wreathed by the dying light. Sheara sat calmly at her side, a soft-gloved hand resting atop her belly, while Daemon leaned forward with that half-wicked grin he wore when violence met spectacle.

“The Hourglass Game,” Rhaenyra announced to her council and honored guests, “will test not the body—but the mind.”

Below, the field had been cleared. In place of obstacles and mud walls now stood a clean array: three hundred twenty-one wooden pedestals, evenly spaced, each with a tall, clear hourglass standing dead center.

Each survivor from the obstacle course was ushered to his pedestal in silence. No cheering. No drums. Only the creak of leather, the shuffle of boots, and the soft wind rustling the high banners overhead.

Rhaenyra stood.

“The rules are simple,” her voice rang out.

“You each face your own time. Your task is this: flip the hourglass only at the final possible moment before the sand runs dry. Flip too early—and you are disqualified. Flip too late—and you are disqualified. You will not know the exact time. You will only feel it. And hear the flipping of others all around you. Trust not your ears. Trust your will.”

Silence.

Then came the twist.

Daemon rose next to her, lifting one gloved hand. “Every hourglass has a slightly different flow. Some faster. Some slower. No two are alike. And the sand speeds will shift at random. Watch closely, and trust yourself.”

A faint murmuring among the contestants. Rhaenyra saw nerves bloom in their hands—the twitch of a finger, the tightening of jaw, the subtle glance to the man beside them.

“Begin,” she said.

And the hourglasses dropped.

A wave of soft clicks rang across the field. Each glass began to trickle sand into its base—some slow, some fast, some deceptively calm. The men watched, motionless, eyes fixed.

The first one flipped early. A brown-haired cobbler from the Lower District. His hand darted to flip the glass a heartbeat before its final grains. A horn blew—sharp and absolute. Disqualified.

Others followed.

Another too early. A third far too late—the horn blasted just as his sand ran dry, and his hands had barely moved. He cursed himself and stepped back from the pedestal.

The air grew heavy.

One man let out a strained breath and flipped too soon—he couldn’t stand the pressure. Another waited, waited, waited—and just as the sand thinned, he flipped with perfect timing. No horn.

He remained.

Rhaenyra leaned back into her seat, observing the shifts in the crowd like a general reading a battle map. “See how they flinch when others move,” she murmured to Sheara. “The body betrays what the mind knows.”

Below, another series of horns cut through the quiet. Five more disqualified. Then seven more. Then a stretch of silence—eight hourglasses flipped nearly in unison. Too close to be planned. Were they all right?

Only three passed. The rest: gone.

By the halfway mark, more than two hundred had fallen. The field was thinning fast now, and those who remained stood like statues, hands ready, eyes narrowed with razor focus.

The sun dipped lower.

Then came the last wave.

The final thirty.

These men moved like ghosts—deliberate, still, trained by suffering. They flipped at different times. Some barely made it. Others timed it so close that even Daemon raised his brow in grudging respect.

And then—

The last horn.

It was done.

A pause.

Then a final bell tolled—the heir's signal.

Rhaenyra stood. “These,” she said, raising her hand to indicate the twenty-three who still stood behind their hourglasses, “have not only endured pain, hardship, and trial—but proven the rarest skill of all: self-mastery.”

The crowd erupted. The banner waved proudly above the box. The dragons on her sigil glowed red-gold in the evening light.

“These are the victors of the Test of Wills. They will be rewarded handsomely, honored publicly, and remembered in song. Let the scribes take down their names.”

Below, the survivors stood in stunned silence, until a few began to smile, nod, weep, or raise their fists. One fell to his knees. Another bowed toward the royal box.

Rhaenyra nodded to Sheara and sat once more.

Daemon exhaled through his nose, pleased. “That was a game worth playing.”

“And one worth remembering,” Rhaenyra said softly.

Behind them, scribes moved swiftly to record every winner’s name. These thirty-three would receive coin, housing, work, and—if Rhaenyra had her way—a place in the coming age.

But for now—

The sun had fallen. The stars blinked to life overhead.

And the Queen-to-be stood at the center of her own spectacle, her will etched in time like glass waiting to be turned.

The Test of Wills was complete.

And now the Test of Strength would begin.

Chapter Text

The next morn, the tourney grounds looked wholly transformed.

Gone were the shifting boards and thorny mazes of the day before. In their place stood vast wooden platforms and towering stone fixtures.

This day was no test of wit or nerve.

This day was for the strong.

Six hundred men had qualified—not by luck, nor name, but raw power.

Each had proved himself able to lift four sacks of wheat, fifty pounds apiece, and hold them aloft for half an hour without faltering.

They came from the quarries, the forges, the mills. From brick kilns, logging camps, and harbor docks. Broad-backed, thick-knuckled, sun-hardened.

They wore plain tunics dyed the red of the Crown’s flame, each stitched with a number from one to six hundred across the chest.

Across the arena stood four mighty challenge stations—one after the other, in order of increasing torment. Each station had been prepared through the night: platforms built, chains tested, brick towers laid in pieces like puzzles waiting for hands of strength to solve them.

The Eternal Arena buzzed with anticipation.

And the first bell tolled.

---

Stage One: The Dragon Egg Secret

Five raised platforms. Twenty stations per platform. At each station: a black crown-marked post with a numbered brass plate, an iron ankle shackle, a heavy hammer, and a bell fixed at the far left end of the platform, just past the three stairs.

Ten feet from each platform, resting on the dirt, sat the dragon eggs.

Not real ones, but heavy ovals carved from royal concrete—each weighing near three hundred pounds. They sat on the ground and had to be picked up, carried ten feet forward, up the three platform steps, and placed without touching the ground again. If an egg touched the ground after being lifted—even once—the man was disqualified.

At the steward’s cry, the men surged.

The men ran straight for the dragon eggs. A few hoisted their eggs high over a shoulder and stormed ahead. One man tripped at the base of the steps—his egg hit the dirt. Done.

Another dropped his just as he stepped onto the platform. Done.

But others made it. Some with clenched jaws and shaking knees. Some with steady breath and silent focus. They climbed all three stairs and reached their numbered station.

Each contestant shackled himself to the post. No hesitation.

Then came the hammering.

Each egg had to be smashed open. The key was sealed deep inside the solid concrete. It took multiple blows—hard, deliberate strikes. The hammers rang out across the tourney grounds in a sharp, echoing rhythm. One man broke his hammer and was pulled from the field. Another slipped with a swing and bruised his shoulder.

Those who struck true cracked their egg, dug into the broken pieces, and pulled free the iron key. They unlocked their shackle, sprinted back down the three stairs, and rang the bell.

Only the first man to ring the bell at each platform won that round.

Five winners per round.

Ten rounds.

By the end, only fifty men remained. Five hundred and fifty eliminated in a single trial.

The first test was over.

---

Stage Two: The Dragon Chain Linked

The challenge stood ready from the morning—the second in line across the row of prepared grounds, just beyond the dragon egg platforms.

Five wooden platforms had been raised, broad and flat, each bearing seven tall ashwood pegs aligned in a clean row at the back. In the center of each, waiting like coiled serpents, lay the black iron chains.

These were no common links. Forged by the Blacksmiths’ Guild, each link was thick as a man’s wrist, slicked in oil and stained from the forge—a tribute to the legendary “dragon binder” chains of old. Dragging one would strain a strong man. Dragging seven would ruin a weak one.

One man per platform. Ten rounds. One victor per round. Only ten would move on.

The rules were brutal in their simplicity: lift one chain link at a time, drag it across the platform to the line of pegs, and hook it atop the next waiting notch. If the link dropped, the contestant was out. If it slid too far or missed its peg: out. All seven had to be hung clean. In order. Without falter.

At the steward’s call, the first round began.

Chains groaned as they scraped across wood. The sound was low, terrible—like iron beasts being woken from sleep. Each man gripped his first link with both hands, teeth clenched, arms flexing from strain. They hauled the iron across the platform, chests heaving.

It wasn’t just weight—it was endurance. With every trip, the body slowed. Palms blistered. Shoulders burned. Balance failed. One man slipped on his third trip, the chain hitting the boards with a thud. Disqualified.

Another reached the fifth peg, but misjudged his toss. The link hit the peg, slipped, and clattered to the floor.

Out.

But some moved with focus. One coal-hauler from the Riverlands moved like a man born to burden—shoulders squared, breath even, arms pumping like pistons. He didn’t rush. He didn’t falter. His final link rose clean to the last peg. Hung. Secure.

The bell rang.

Round one—complete.

Nine more followed.

By the end, the wood ran dark with sweat and grit. The chains gleamed like black veins. Men were carried off with torn palms and shaking limbs.

And only ten remained.

Ten victors. Ten who endured. Ten who did not drop the chain.

---
Stage Three: The Brick Tower

The third challenge took place in a row of ten marked pits—flat, square foundations packed with leveled earth. Each pit belonged to a single contestant. Waiting on the edges of each were three towering piles of bricks, sorted by type.

First: one hundred black foundation bricks, broad and brutal, each weighing two hundred pounds. These formed the base of the tower.

Second: two hundred red body bricks, one hundred pounds apiece—uniform in size, meant for height and balance.

Third: one hundred fifty pale grey finishing bricks, lightest of the lot at twenty pounds each, smooth and narrow, designed for the top.

The task: build a tower ten feet tall. Clean. Freestanding. No mortar. No crumbled edge. Only strength, balance, and precision.

At the horn’s cry, the ten men moved.

Some charged in like beasts, dragging the black bricks across the pit with wild strength. One man tried lifting two foundation bricks at once and dropped them both—nearly crushed his own shin. Disqualified.

Another dropped one from shoulder height; it cracked on impact. He tried to stack it anyway. Another warning. Another crack. Out.

But the smarter ones paced themselves.

Three men moved with focus, not frenzy. They lifted clean. Set each stone with care. Their rhythm never broke—lift, step, place, breathe. A tower isn’t built on might alone—it’s built on judgment.

The black bricks formed the base—five rows of heavy squares stacked wide for balance.

Then came the red—the body of the tower. Narrower, taller, lighter, but still demanding.

The grey bricks were swiftest to stack—but most treacherous. More than one man rushed and watched his tower tilt with each added layer.

In the final stretch, seven towers stood at different heights. But only three passed ten feet.

Three towers. Straight. Balanced. Unbroken.

Three men, dripping sweat, arms trembling, stood beside their work.

Only three advanced.

The others fell to their knees, spent. Not for lack of strength—but for lack of control.

---
Stage Four: The Titan’s Hold

The final challenge stood apart.

At the far end of the tourney grounds, the last platform had been reserved for the last test—a brutal altar of endurance and pain. Flanked by towering stone columns carved with snarling titan faces, the platform rose like a judgment seat, its steps worn from the day’s passage but now ominously still.

Three slightly elevated bases stood at its center—round, no wider than a shield, each set with a pair of heavy iron chains. The chains were bolted deep into the Pillars on the same platform, rigged through hidden pulleys and weighted channels beneath the structure. The force constant—it increased slowly over time, made to feel heavier with every passing second.

This was no test of speed. No test of cleverness.

This was the Titan’s Hold.

The three finalists approached in silence. No boasting now. No crowd work. Just sweat on their brows and the knowledge that nothing lay beyond this but glory or collapse.

Each man mounted his base. Attendants stepped in to make sure there are holding on to the iron grips—thick handles wrapped in leather, slick with oil. The steward circled once, then twice, inspecting each position. Then he raised his black wooden staff.

“Begin.”

The chains began to pull.

At first, it seemed simple—arms outstretched, feet steady. But within heartbeats, the weight shifted. The pull grew stronger. The chains dragged with unnatural force, as though each man were holding back a beast trying to break free.

Muscles tensed. Backs arched. Fingers curled around the grips until knuckles turned white. The crowd—so loud in every trial before—fell eerily quiet.

All knew what this demanded. Grip. Grit. And an iron will.

The first man faltered within thirty breaths. His elbows trembled. A gasp escaped his lips. One hand slipped—just enough—and the other followed. The chains jerked free with a metallic snap. The weighted pulleys clanged as they swung open, and the man stumbled forward to his knees, breath ragged.

Only two remained.

The second contestant grunted, jaw clenched, legs trembling as the pull intensified. He tried to readjust. Mistake. The motion shifted his center of balance—and that was all it took. The chains surged. He lost both grips and fell forward onto all fours, groaning.

Only one stood now.

The last man—lean, scarred, unknown—trembled from head to heel. His arms shook as though struck by lightning. His chest rose and fell in sharp, savage rhythm. The veins along his neck pulsed. His hands, though slick with sweat, did not let go.

Not for a breath. Not for a heartbeat. Not for a gods-damned moment.

Rhaenyra rose slowly in her royal box. The crowd followed.

Daemon stood as well, arms crossed, face unreadable—but his eyes locked on the man below with something close to awe.

Still the chains pulled.

And still the man held.

A low, animal sound escaped his throat—not pain, but defiance. A roar born from the very marrow of his being, from every laboring moment of his life, every injustice and fight and burden he had ever borne.

When the steward finally lifted his staff and the final horn blew.

And only then—only then—did the man release his grip and fall backward onto the platform, breath gone, arms limp, heart thundering in his chest like war drums.

He had won.

Not just strength. Not just endurance.

He had conquered the others to become the Titan.

Rhaenyra descended from her gallery.

The crowd thundered.

She stepped toward the edge of the platform and looked down at the victor—mud-streaked, breathless, triumphant.

She raised her hand.

“The Titan of the Games,” she declared. “A man of strength, resolve, and fire. He shall be named champion of the Test of Strength, rewarded in coin, granted lands, and honored by this Crown.”

The people roared.

Daemon smirked. “You’ll have to find a title strong enough to match his grip.”

Rhaenyra smiled faintly. “We’ll start with ‘Knight.’”

And as the sun climbed high and the banners snapped in the wind, the arena rang not with swords, nor with the names of lords—but with the roar of smallfolk voices, united in one truth:

The strongest among them had been seen.

And crowned.

Chapter Text

The city had not stopped speaking of it.

Every alley echoed with retellings of the obstacle course. Every baker’s boy mimicked the titan’s roar. At the smallfolk feast, tongues wagged and cups clinked with pride and disbelief—of the champions crowned, of the arena raised, of how, for the first time in living memory, the games had been made for them.

So when Rhaenyra arrived the next morn for the Test of Wit, she was not surprised to see the Eternal Arena brimmed to the edge with bodies. The smallfolk levels—built to hold tens of thousands—had no room left to give. Folk stood pressed shoulder to shoulder, eyes wide, voices murmuring with excitement and awe.

The banners of the Crown flapped high in the wind, casting striped shadows across the arena floor, which had been cleared and the space repurposed yet again.

This day was for the cunning.

Across the arena floor, three grand sections had been arranged—each stranger than the last.

The first was filled with low round tables—fifty in all—each one set with four delicate glass goblets. They shimmered in the sun, clear and precise, but gave no hint of what they held. This would be the Fool’s Cup.

Beyond that lay the second section: ten towering standing slates, black and polished, set before low benches. Next to each board sat a squat wooden table bearing a set of colorful puzzle pieces. And besides that, another small tray, on which rested a delicate new tool—a pair of Crown Lenses, the Crown’s own design inspired by Myrish glasswork, crafted for precise focus and detail.

The final section was the most elaborate.

Ten box-shaped rooms had been built with open rooftops for full visibility from above. Each room was crafted like a miniature noble’s quarters: a writing desk and solar chair in one corner, a hearth and cooking alcove in another, and a curtained bed chamber at the far end. Each had one door in—and one door out—but no clear path between. These were the Trap Rooms, and none were simple.

Only two hundred men had earned the right to compete this day, having passed a grueling written test the moon before. All were fifteen and up—scribes, fishcounters, scribblers, cobblers, readers of ledgers, clever wordmen from across the capital and beyond.

Now, they would be tested in full.

---

Stage One: The Fool’s Cup

The crowd buzzed as the contestants were seated—four men to a table, all with ink-black numbers stitched across the chest. At each table sat four goblets, identical in every way. The liquid inside shimmered gold.

The herald stepped forward, dressed in green-and-blue silks. Behind him waddled a short, sharp-eyed man in motley—Mushroom, the famed jester.

A horn blew.

And then Mushroom spoke.

"Four cups stand before you, lads—one cursed with a potion most foul, and three as sweet as Reach wine. But fret not, it won’t kill you. Only make your belly weep for mercy."

The crowd laughed. Mushroom grinned.

"Listen sharp, or you’ll be painting the arena floor."

Then came the riddles.

Each table received a different one, read aloud by a steward.

"He does not drink from the cup to his right…"

"The poisoned cup is not beside the liar’s..."

"The safest drink stands between silence and a boast…"

The contestants leaned close, whispered, argued. Some wrote on scraps. Some closed their eyes and murmured to themselves.

Then came the moment of truth. Each man reached for a cup.

And drank.

Across the arena, gags and gasps rang out as unlucky contestants bent double, retching as the Alchemists’ foul but harmless brew emptied their guts. The audience shrieked in laughter. Mushroom clapped like a delighted child.

But at every table, one man did not fall. One man stayed upright. One man had chosen well.

After three full rounds, fifty men remained.

The rest? Dragged off by guards, grinning or groaning. The next trial waited.

---

Stage Two: The Herald’s Cipher

Now the true test began.

Five men were led to one of five cipher stations—five men would compete against each other with only one winner selected out of each of ten rounds.

At each station stood the towering slate board, freshly chalked with a complex cipher written in Valyrian glyphs, merchant codes, and street symbols, twisted together into a sentence that meant nothing to the untrained eye.

But buried within was a clear command—if you could read it.

A steward raised his hand.

“You have until the bell.”

A horn sounded. Chalk scraped. Fingers flew.

The cipher was no simple riddle. It required them to translate the symbols, rearrange the letters, and decode a message hidden in plain sight. One man whispered every line aloud. Another covered one eye, squinting with the Crown Lenses to pick apart overlapping marks.

At last, a man stepped back.

“Done!” he called.

His board read: 'To reach the end, begin with the sun and count backward through the storm.'

The steward nodded.

That man received a box of puzzle pieces—each painted with strange swirls and symbols. He had five minutes to assemble it.

Other men followed closely after. The puzzle—when solved—revealed a final image: five objects, each with a mark. A key. A flask. A mirror. A coin. A lens.

Then came the riddle’s second half.

Each table held dozens of tools—but only five matched the shapes in the puzzle. The contestants had to find those five, then peer through the Crown Lenses to read the markings inscribed upon them: a symbol, a word, a number. The meaning had to be deciphered and interpreted in sequence.

Only then, when all five pieces matched and their symbols deciphered, did the entry key to the Trap Room reveal itself.

Five cipher stations. Ten rounds each.

Only one man per station advanced.

Ten winners moved on.

---

Stage Three: The Trap Room

The remaining ten men were led to the final section of the arena, where the ten roofless rooms awaited.

Each man was locked inside a separate room. Each room contained:

A sealed exit door with five iron keyholes.

A hearth cold and black but fully stocked.

A desk with a sealed scroll tube.

A bed with something hidden beneath.

And a single wooden stool.

Then came the voice of the herald, booming from above.

"You are trapped. You have five keys to find. Each task opens a lock. Only one door leads to glory. The rest… to smoke."

A hush fell over the crowd.

A bell rang.

The puzzle began.

First task: the scroll.

One man pried it open. Inside, a riddle: 'To find your path, burn the lie.'
He rushed to the hearth, found a strip of old vellum beneath the firewood. He lit it—smoke curled upward, and words appeared on the stones: 'Three legs never run, but chase the sun.'
Beneath the hearth sat a sundial with a secret chamber. Inside: the first key.

Second task: the stool.

A contestant smashed it open—hidden in the hollow leg, the second key.

Third: the bed.

Under the mattress, a set of patterned tiles. They had to be arranged in order of birth moons. A wrong turn lit a candlewick above the door. One man got it right—another was warned.

Fourth: the desk.

A mirror hidden in the drawer reflected the wall—backward script revealed the next message: 'Your breath is the lock’s twin.'
The man blew air toward the panel. It triggered a tiny lever—click. Another key.

Fifth: the floor plate.

A pressure plate hidden beneath the rug. One contestant stepped too hard—nearly triggered a drop gate. Another used the broken stool to weigh it just right. A hatch opened above—key five fell into his hands.

Now, the final challenge: place all five keys in order. The order had to match the scroll’s riddle. Misplace them, and the lock jammed. Time wasted. Or worse, the false doors flew open behind, releasing blasts of soot and mocking fans.

Only one man remained steady.

One man placed the keys with precision. Turned them at once.

And the true exit opened.

A beam of daylight poured in.

He stepped through.

And the crowd erupted.

---

From above, Rhaenyra rose to her feet.

Sheara sat beside her, hand curled over her belly, smiling faintly.

“That one,” Rhaenyra said, pointing to the victor, “will be remembered.”

Daemon nodded. “Not for strength. Not for speed. But for mind.”

“For mastery,” Rhaenyra said.

She turned toward the crowd and raised her hand.

“This,” she called, “is the champion of wit. Let no one say brawn rules the realm alone. For what is a sword without a mind to wield it?”

The people roared.

And across the stone belly of the Eternal Arena, the name of the cleverest among them was written into memory.

Chapter Text

The Eternal Arena had never known such stillness.

Where days past had echoed with hammers and horns, rope-pulls and roaring, now the silence spread like a held breath. Even the banners overhead hung quiet in the air, awaiting movement, awaiting wind—awaiting the bow.

This morn was not for warriors or wits. This was for watchers. For fletchers. For sons of trees and bone, of tendon and sight. This was for the bowmen.

Ten had been chosen from among hundreds. After moons of quiet testing—private trials in the woods outside the city, under the shadow of the Red Keep, even deep within the archery yards of the gold cloaks—only ten had proven sharp enough to stand before the realm.

There were no second chances.

Each man wore the same tunic: dark wool marked with a golden fletching beneath a white eye—the rune of precision. No names were called. No houses. No lands. Only skill would speak here.

At the heart of the Arena, five elaborate stations had been raised—each one echoing an element. Water. Wind. Earth. Fire. Night.

Rhaenyra called it the Elemental Gauntlet.

The archers lined up at the edge of the arena, their bows slung across their backs, their quivers matched to their dominant hands. Longbows, recurve, horn-strung shortbows—each man bore a weapon familiar to his own land, yet all would be tested against the same trials.

---

Water – The Drowned Mark

A shallow basin had been carved into the arena floor, fed from underground cisterns through copper sluices worked by turnspits hidden beneath the stands. Floating on the water’s surface were apples—real ones, hollowed and weighted just enough to drift slowly but not sink. The current was still now, the apples resting gently near the far end.

Ten archers stood behind the painted white line. No names called. No cheers yet. Just ten bows lowered, ten eyes trained on their marks.

When the horn blew, the sluices hissed.

Water surged forward. The apples began to move—slow at first, then faster as the pressure grew. A red edge had been painted around the outer lip of the basin: hit the apple before it crossed that line. Miss early, and the crowd might boo. Shoot too soon, and you’d earn only a weak score. Wait too long, and the apple would escape.

The first archer loosed too early.

His arrow struck—barely. The shaft sank into the side of the apple, but not clean. The crowd murmured, unimpressed.

The second held his draw, counting heartbeats. But the current caught him unaware, and the apple slipped across the line as he fired. The arrow missed entirely. Groans.

The third made a clean shot—centered and timed well—but the arrow struck a moment before the apple neared the edge. Precise, but not bold.

The fourth tried to outdo the third. His hand trembled. The shot went wide. Water splashed. The crowd hissed.

The fifth nicked the stem. The apple spun, teetered, and floated on, untouched again. No mark awarded.

The sixth drew too long—his fingers cramped. When he finally released, the arrow dipped and skimmed off the surface like a stone. Nothing.

The seventh grazed her target. A glancing blow that knocked the apple aside but didn’t pierce. A score, barely.

Then the eighth stepped forward.

He didn’t posture. He didn’t blink. He watched the apple drift, loose-armed, bow barely lifted. The crowd held its breath.

Just as the apple neared the red line—no more than a finger’s length away—he drew, held, and loosed.

The string snapped. The arrow screamed across the basin.

The apple burst.

A perfect strike, dead center. Red pulp splashed across the water like a slain heart.

For a blink, the arena was silent.

Then the sound returned—deafening.

The crowd roared. They leapt to their feet. Smallfolk waved their caps in the air, shouting and pounding on the barriers. One boy near the front wept and hollered at once, “He got it! He split it, gods be good!”

From the royal gallery, even Daemon arched a brow.

The archer lowered his bow and stepped back without a word.

Nine had shot. One remained.

The tenth raised his bow with calm precision, but his hand shook just enough. He loosed late, and though his arrow struck the apple, it was already over the red line. The score was forfeit.

Only one had landed the true mark—timed at the line, clean and centered.

One point.

The crowd was still cheering when the horn blew again, calling the archers to the second trial. The sound echoed off stone and sky like thunder.

---

Wind – The Moving Mark

The second trial had no basin. No water. No stillness.

Instead, the archers now faced a narrow track that ran the length of the arena’s midsection. Upon it rolled a wooden figure—life-sized, crude but painted with pale blue skin and coal-black eyes, a mock of the legends spoken in taverns and whispered over winter hearths: the White Walkers.

The dummy moved not on its own, but by pulley. A series of cranks turned behind a curtain at the far end, manned by three squires whose only goal was to keep the target rolling—swaying, rattling, and unpredictable.

The challenge: strike the mark clean through the eye socket while the figure moved.

Wind machines—newly fitted bellows shaped like great dragon mouths—lined the arena walls. They pumped a steady breeze into the lanes, enough to twist a cloak or catch the flight of an arrow unready.

The horn blew.

The dummy began its pass.

The first archer loosed quickly, too quickly. His arrow veered left as the wind caught it. It clipped the dummy’s shoulder and stuck there, wobbling. A low score.

The second drew longer, but hesitated at the release. His shot landed between the ribs. Center-mass, perhaps, but not the eye. Better. But not what was asked.

The third misread the dummy’s sway. His arrow soared past, embedding itself in the board beyond. A miss.

The fourth waited too long. The dummy reached the end of its track before he loosed. His arrow struck wood—but not the target. Another disqualified score.

Then the fifth took position.

He watched not the dummy, but the pattern. Left, right. Dip, tilt. The wind tugged his cloak, but he made no move to brace against it. Instead, he shifted his footing—angled his bow.

The dummy moved again.

He pulled. Held.

The eye passed center.

He loosed.

The arrow sailed—not straight, but bent slightly by the breeze. Still, it found the target. A clean strike through the left eye socket, splitting paint and punching through the wooden skull.

The crowd erupted.

It had not been luck. It had been reading the wind like a scroll, judging timing like a blacksmith measures heat.

Another point.

The sixth shot grazed the dummy’s neck. The seventh hit a knee. The eighth overshot. The ninth planted an arrow in the dummy’s mouth. Close. But not the mark.

The tenth archer misfired. His bowstring snapped, and the arrow clattered at his feet. A murmur rippled across the stands as he bowed out, face flushed with quiet fury.

Only one had hit the eye.

Only one had earned the crowd’s chant again.

But no name was called. Not yet.

They would know him when the Gauntlet was done.

---

Earth – The Split Arrow Test

The third trial was older in spirit than all the rest.

A single wooden log stood at the center of the arena, fixed upright and ringed with a deep-set bullseye. One arrow was already embedded, dead-center in the mark—shaft trembling from where the wind still kissed it.

The challenge was simple to name, near impossible to win.

Split the arrow.

Each archer would stand twenty paces off. No adjustment of the target. No second shots. No magic tricks. Just one arrow. One chance.

The first man stepped forward. His shot landed close—just shy of the center ring. A strong attempt, but not close enough. Applause followed, respectful.

The second loosed too soon. His arrow struck the log three inches off, hard and flat. A thud, not a test.

The third was bolder. He held his breath, adjusted his aim with a hunter’s patience, and let fly. His arrow clipped the edge of the embedded shaft. It twisted the wood but did not split it. The crowd gasped. So close.

The fourth and fifth landed shots in the outer rings. The sixth missed the log entirely. The seventh’s arrow cracked against the grain too low. The eighth drew an arc too wide and hit high.

The ninth came close again—his shot brushed the feather of the first arrow and lodged just beside it. The judges conferred. A near-miss. No bonus awarded.

Then came the tenth.

He drew slowly. The arena had grown quiet now, save for the wind and the creak of the bow. He squinted into the sun, lowered his stance, and let the arrow fly in a single breath.

It struck hard.

The embedded arrow didn’t burst—but the newcomer buried itself in the very same notch, splitting the nock and sinking deep into the shared groove.

Not a perfect split. But near enough that both ends trembled as one.

The stands erupted. This was the best shot yet—close enough to be sung of, argued over in inns, wagered on in a generation to come.

The judges marked the score. A point—and a bonus besides.

The target was reset for the final phase. Flames already crackled nearby.

The Gauntlet moved on.

---

Fire – The Flame Shot

The fourth trial flared to life with crackling anticipation.

Each archer was handed a single pitch-dipped arrow—longer than the rest, heavier at the head, wrapped in treated cloth. A burning torch stood beside every firing line. Downfield, twenty-five paces ahead, ten identical logs bore the sigil of House Targaryen—three-headed dragons carved deep and soaked in alchemist oil, set to ignite in green, gold, or red should flame find true mark.

The rules were precise: the archer must light the arrow from the torch, loose it swiftly, and strike the heart of the dragon sigil before the flame began to die. A mark too low would sputter. Too high, and the fire would never catch. Only those who struck the dragon’s mouth or center chest would see it breathe.

The horn rang.

The first archer lit his arrow cleanly and loosed within moments. It flew true—slightly off-center—but struck hard. The dragon flared green for an instant before the fire faded. A fair shot. One point.

The second lit too soon and hesitated. His pitch began to drip mid-draw. When he fired, the arrow fizzled out before striking. No fire. No point.

The third aimed carefully, loosed just as the flame reached the shaft—and struck the lower neck. Red fire curled from the sigil. The crowd applauded.

The fourth missed entirely. His arrow skimmed the top edge of the log and disappeared into the dirt behind. The torch beside him was already out by the time he realized. Disqualified.

The fifth fired too late. The flame dimmed mid-flight, and though the arrow hit the chest, it didn’t burn. Smoke only.

The sixth landed a near-perfect shot—center mass, just beneath the chin. The log flared gold for a heartbeat before crackling into green. The dragon lit up. Cheers echoed across the arena.

Another archer’s arrow caught the edge of the snout and burst into red. A passable hit. Smoke followed, then flame.

The eighth struck low. No fire.

The ninth—too high. Again, nothing.

The tenth lit his arrow, steadied his breathing, and waited for the wind to settle. He loosed without a sound. The arrow struck the heart of the dragon.

The flame ignited green first, then flared bright gold, curling up the carved wings. The crowd gasped.

Three dragons had flared before—but none like this.

The fire danced longer, higher, with smoke trailing toward the kings box. One of the stewards raised a horn. The best shot of the round had been made.

Four archers had struck fire.

Three more had earned points for sparking flame.

And three had failed completely.

The torches were doused. The last station remained.

The trial of night.

---

Night – The Blind Archer’s Round

The final station bore no targets in sight—only a broad circle of black sand and a line of blindfolds waiting on the ground.

This was not a trial of sight, but of trust.

Each archer stepped forward and took the cloth into their own hands, tying it tight across their eyes. No one else moved. Even the crowd hushed, sensing the silence this trial demanded.

Across the arena, ten partners stood ready. Not trained aides. Not kin or comrades. Strangers, drawn by lot—one per archer, armed with only their voice.

A hush, and then:

“Draw your bow.”

They obeyed.

“Step left… lift your hand… pull slowly… stop.”

The instructions came in all tones—some sharp, some calm, some frantic. One man turned too far, loosed his arrow wide, and heard the dull thud of failure in the sand. Another fumbled his draw at the last moment and never released.

But not all faltered.

One partner called clear and steady, guiding the draw with the precision of a smith at his forge. The arrow flew—and struck the outer ring.

A solid mark.

Another archer’s partner clapped once, then again, pacing the distance with sound alone. He drew, exhaled, and loosed. His arrow thudded into the chest of the target.

A cheer rose—not loud, but sure.

One archer stood still for many heartbeats, waiting. Then, with only four whispered words—"Now. Straight. Loose. Breathe."—he fired.

The arrow struck the very center.

Silence broke like glass. The people surged to their feet, roaring approval not just for the shot, but for the poise.

The final horn sounded.

The night trial was over.

And the Gauntlet complete.

The steward lifted his staff high.

“Of the ten who faced the Gauntlet,” he called, “one alone struck true at every mark—Water, Wind, Earth, Fire, and Night.”

The crowd stilled, the wind itself seeming to pause.

Rhaenyra stood.

Her crimson cloak spilled behind her, her braid coiled like a crown, her presence commanding as ever. She stepped to the edge of her gallery and raised her hand.

“Let the realm remember this name,” she said, voice strong, carried by the still air of a thousand watching breaths. “A man without title, yet master of every test. He struck no blade, wore no armor, rode no steed—and still, he bested them all.”

Her eyes scanned the rows below, until they found him—still as ever, standing beneath the sun with bow in hand.

“Horyn Waters.”

The name rang out across the arena like thunder behind silk.

“Hawkeye,” she said. “Not by birth. Not by coin. By skill alone.”

Then the silence broke.

The cheer began low—from the lowest rows, where the dockfolk sat—and climbed upward in waves. It spilled from the mouths of stonemasons, farriers, ink-stained apprentices, weavers, and lampwrights. A sound not of noble pomp, but something fiercer: pride.

“Horyn!”

“Horyn Waters!”

“HAWKEYE!”

Bells rang along the outer ring. Drums struck from the pavilions above. In the back, the drummers who played for the children’s hour began to beat their rhythms, and the crowd clapped in time.

Rhaenyra turned to her council.

“Grant him coin,” she said. “Grant him land. And if he wills it, grant him the rank of arms. For if the kings of old crowned knights, let the future queen crown one of her own.”

Daemon raised a brow, smirking faintly.

“He’ll refuse it,” he muttered. “He’d rather keep his bow.”

“Then he shall keep both,” Rhaenyra said.

Below, Horyn lifted his gaze at last. Not smiling. Not boasting. Just seeing.

He did not bow. But he gave her a look that said all things that mattered: I heard you.

And she, in turn, dipped her head—as a woman who knew what it meant to win through fire and blood.

The Eternal Arena echoed with the name again.

“Horyn Waters!”

And somewhere, high above the stone walls and wide beyond the city roofs, a hawk soared.

Chapter Text

The Eternal Arena, still echoing with cheers from the archer’s gauntlet the eve before, now thundered with a different hunger. Horses whinnied in the tunnels beneath. Steel hooves struck stone. The smallfolk had returned in such numbers that the very steps seemed to bow beneath their weight.

From her gallery, Rhaenyra stood robed in gold and crimson, her crown half-braided into her hair, her voice sharp with command as she raised one hand.

“Lords and laborers,” she called, “knights and no-names—this is not your father’s joust.”

The crowd hushed.

“Fifty riders have qualified. All smallfolk. Each passed the mark with lance, mount, and courage. But this joust shall not be played at the tilt, nor measured in noble strikes. This—” she paused, letting the moment hold, “—is the Joust Mounted Melee!”

A roar exploded upward.

Rhaenyra grinned.

“Five rounds. Ten riders per round. All mounted. All armed with blunted weapons: lances, maces, swords, and staves. There are no pairings. No signals. No mercy. The last man still on horseback moves forward. That man alone.”

Another roar. The arena quaked.

“But know this,” she added, “what awaits at the end is not what you expect. So ride hard.”

Then she sat.

The bell rang.

---
Round One

Ten riders thundered into the Eternal Arena, helms buckled tight, their chosen arms as varied as their upbringings. From the capital’s overflowing armory came an odd array—sawed-off lances, padded cudgels, flanged maces, and one near-comic morningstar wielded by a squat, thick-necked brute who looked more likely to fall off his mount than swing the thing twice.

The horn split the air.

And chaos answered.

A wiry youth from Cobbler’s Square was the first to fall—launched from his saddle like a sack of barley when a hook-bladed polearm swept across his chest. Another, mid-turn, was hauled from his horse by two opportunists who’d clearly conspired, only to turn on each other the moment he hit dirt. A mace met a pauldron with a sickening crunch, sending its bearer sprawling to the dust. One man swung too wide and lost his grip—his cudgel sailed off like a wayward goose, to the crowd’s delight.

Soon, only two remained.

One: a lanky shepherd lad from the Maidenpool marches, his every move quick and sharp.
The other: a broad-chested farrier from Iron Rise, arms thick as timber, called Gorran.

They circled warily, horses snorting, muscles taut. The shepherd feinted—a clever shift left meant to bait a strike.

But Gorran wasn’t fooled.

Instead, he spurred forward and slammed his shoulder into the youth’s mount. The smaller horse stumbled. The lad pitched sideways and tumbled into the dust, dazed and disarmed.

Gorran remained seated, steady, and silent.

Victor: Gorran Stone, Farrier of the Iron Rise.

---

Round Two

Ten riders stormed the field, dust rising behind them, weapons tight in hand. One bore twin short swords, slung low for slashing at speed. Another hefted a round shield and thick cudgel. A northerner carried a long-handled axe with a blade wide as a dinner plate. And near the center rode a bruised, bareheaded man with a bandaged brow and a padded warhammer across his lap—silent, steady, grinning.

The horn blew.

They met like stones in a flood.

Steel clanged, wood snapped. A shield shattered under a hammer’s arc. A mace cracked in two, its head spinning into the dust. One horse reared too soon—its rider barely clung on before being thrown sideways into the dirt. Another swung wide, overcommitted, and lost his grip—his cudgel sailing into the crowd to roars of laughter.

A younger man chased his foe too deep into the press and found himself trapped—his reins tangled, his momentum stolen. An older rider in boiled leather slammed into him from the side, yanked him from the saddle, and the two tumbled together in a tangle of limbs and curses.

Four riders down in a breath.

One by one, more fell.

A man took a knee to the gut and rolled. Another was clipped at the ankle and sent spinning. By the time the dust began to settle, only two remained.

The first: a reed-thin miner from Coal Hollow, his curved blade flicking back and forth, eyes darting for an opening.

The second: the warhammer rider, quiet, battered, but still grinning.

No words. No ceremony.

The miner charged first, circling fast and striking from the left. The warhammer rider shifted late—but not too late. He ducked the blade by a hair, turned in his saddle, and brought the hammer sweeping wide.

It struck with a deep thud, center mass.

The miner’s sword flew. His body lifted from the saddle, legs flailing, before crashing down into the arena floor.

The last rider sat motionless a moment, breathing through his nose, watching the dust swirl.

Then he raised his hammer.

Victor: Drenks of the Hayforts.

---

Round Three

The horn sounded before half the men were even steady in their saddles.

This wasn’t a charge. It was a scramble.

One man—barefoot, no helm, only a scarf across his face—reared too hard, fell backward, and his mount crushed his leg before fleeing the ring. Another dropped his club in the first breath, cursed, and reached for a dagger instead.

A rider from the city’s east wall turned circles, lashing out with a broken scythe, more threat than aim. He caught a glancing blow to the neck and toppled sideways, boots tangled in stirrups, his partnerless horse dragging him halfway across the ring before a squire caught the reins.

Another took a spear to the shoulder—not sharp, but hard enough to spin him out of the saddle and leave him rolling. He didn’t rise.

One rider used his mount like a battering ram, driving full-body into another man’s flank. Both fell. Only one got up.

Two more dismounted by choice—horses too wild, weapons too awkward—and fought on foot. A fist to the jaw, a knee to the chest, and both were in the dirt. No victor. No honor. Just groaning.

Five gone. Then seven.

The dust cleared to three.

A short rider with wide shoulders and a chipped axe, crouched low in the saddle. A tall man with a long hooked pole, steering his horse with his knees like a sellsword. And the third—a quiet, sharp-eyed rider in patchy mail, his flanged mace resting on his thigh, blood already dried on his chin.

The hook went for the axe.

Too fast. The axe caught the hook mid-swing, deflected it, and cracked into the side of the man’s helm with a dull thud. He dropped. The horse ran.

Now two.

The axe and the mace.

No circling. Just stillness.

Then movement—both at once.

The axe came from the left. The mace from below.

They clashed mid-strike.

The axe glanced off a shoulder. The mace drove straight into the gut. The smaller rider grunted, rocked, then recovered—fast enough to slash low at the other man’s leg.

It struck.

The mace slipped.

The tall man slumped in his saddle and fell.

The rider with the axe stayed seated, breath sharp, arm bloodied, but grip firm.

Victor: Merris Clay.

---

Round Four

The horn hadn’t even finished sounding before the first man was down.

He rode too high in the saddle, spear raised like a banner, and a hammer from the side crushed his ribs and pride in one blow. His fall left a gap in the chaos—and two others rushed in to fill it.

This round was rougher. Sloppier. Most had no armor, just leather straps and fraying cloth. One man rode with a pot on his head. Another carried a hoe with the handle wrapped in rope.

A rider with a rusted pike tried to spear a charging foe and missed—his target ducked, swung a studded cudgel low, and clipped his horse’s knees. Both beast and rider toppled hard.

A tall man from the market square fought standing up in his stirrups, swinging a flanged club in great, showy arcs. It worked—until someone hooked his belt from behind and yanked him straight into the dirt.

Three remained.

One with a net and trident, circling wide. Another with a short-handled axe and a cracked shield, bleeding from the brow. And the third—Sedge Rivers—riding bareback, armed with nothing but a sling and a length of chain.

The net was thrown. Missed.

The trident came down. Glanced.

Sedge looped the chain around the shaft, jerked hard, and twisted it from the man’s grip. The trident skidded across the sand. The netman lunged again—this time on foot—but took a heel to the chest and folded.

The axeman tried to charge.

Sedge ducked, leaned out, and cracked the chain across his wrist. The axe dropped. The shield slipped. The man reached for the reins—

And Sedge slammed him in the temple with the chain’s iron knot.

He dropped.

One still seated. Chain swinging at his side.

Victor: Sedge Rivers.

---

Round Five

The final round began with laughter.

Not from the crowd—but from one of the riders. A toothless smuggler who hooted and howled atop a stubborn, shaggy mule. The beast refused to gallop but held its ground like a mountain. Others weren’t so lucky.

A boy from the southern docks was thrown before the horn finished blowing. His mount panicked at the noise. Another got lost in the dust and swung his blade at empty air until someone jabbed him with a blunt spear and sent him flying.

Three riders fell before any weapon struck.

One man dismounted entirely, crouched behind his horse, and jabbed a stick between the legs of a passing rider. It worked. The rider flipped. But so did the stickman’s chance—the judges disqualified him on the spot.

A merchant’s son with too-fancy gear went up against a cobbler with a hammer. The cobbler won.

Soon, only two remained.

A broad-shouldered grocer from Onion Square, wielding a dented frying pan, and a lean ex-sellsword armed with a blunted saber.

They clashed fast. The saber struck high. The pan swung low.

The saber scraped his side. The pan cracked across the ribs.

Both reeled. Then went again.

The pan struck the saber hand.

The blade fell.

The grocer didn’t stop. He stood in his stirrups, raised the frying pan high, and slapped it flat across the other man’s helm. It rang like a cracked bell.

The saber-wielder slumped forward and slid from his saddle.

Only one still mounted, panting, pan in hand.

Victor: Thar of the Onion Square.

---

The crowd cheered.

All five stood in a line—mud-streaked, sweat-drenched, breathing like bellows.

Gorran Stone.
Drenks of the Hayforts.
Merris Clay.
Sedge Rivers.
Thar of the Onion Square.

Their helms hung at their sides. Their weapons sagged in tired grips. Yet none faltered. Not now. Not before this crowd.

They waited for the final clash. For the test that would name one victor. One above the rest.

But Rhaenyra rose again.

She stepped to the edge of the royal box, crimson cloak spilling behind her like a curtain of fire. The hush fell fast. The stands leaned forward.

Her voice rang clear:

“There is no final tilt.”

The crowd blinked. Murmurs rippled through the tiers. No tilt? No duel?

“These five are already proven,” she said. “They are not opponents. They are chosen.”

A silence hung in the air like held breath. Then—

The horn blew.

From the royal tunnel, the gates parted once more.

Daemon rode forth.

His black mare stepped smooth and quiet over churned earth, cloak trailing like shadow-smoke behind him. He wore no armor now—only black and silver leathers, blade at his hip, helm slung behind his saddle.

He dismounted in one fluid motion, boots kissing sand, body moving with a hunter’s ease.

He walked the line slowly.

“I name you the Five Horsemen,” he said, his voice low but carrying.

“To the realm,” Rhaenyra called. “To the city. To the crown.”

Daemon stepped to the first.

To Gorran, he placed a hand to the shoulder.
“Strength.” The farrier bowed his head, silent but proud.

To Drenks, he gave a nod.
“Endurance.” The man smirked beneath bruised eyes, teeth gritted like a man who’d been hit harder by worse.

To Merris, he offered a quick smirk.
“Precision.” The axe still hung loose in Clay’s grip, blood drying along the edge. He nodded once.

To Sedge, he gave a firm grip.
“Ferocity.” The chain still swung idly at his side. Sedge grinned like he’d earned it in blood.

To Thar, he paused—longer than the rest.
“Discipline.” The grocer said nothing, only stood straighter.

Then Daemon reached for his sword.

Dark Sister cleared its sheath.

The arena held its breath.

Before the cheer could begin, he moved—swift, fluid. Tapped each man’s shoulder in turn.

Steel kissed sweat.

“Rise,” he said, voice like smoke and stone, “Knight of the People.”

The silence shattered.

The arena exploded.

Not for crowns. Not for castles. Not for bloodlines.

But for grit.

For sweat and bruises and broken teeth.

For the five who had fought with nothing but heart.

The Five Horsemen of the Crown.

And the roar that followed shook the banners so hard they snapped and fluttered like flames.

Chapter Text

The arena’s sands had barely cooled since the Horsemen’s rise, yet the stands were already swelling again—this time, not with fathers, but sons.

They came in tunics too loose or too tight, with shields almost as wide as their torsos and practice blades carved from seasoned ash. Some wore family colors. Others wore nothing but nerves. But all were squires—ten-and-two to six-and-ten, flushed with pride, terror, and the ache to prove something.

Rhaenyra watched from above, cloaked not in ceremony but warmth. At her side stood Ser Harrold, arms folded, helm under arm. Beside him, Ser Harwin Strong grinned down like a wolf at a meat cart.

Rhaenyra raised her hand.

“Let it be known,” she said, “that strength is not born in the joust, nor the tilt. It is born in blood. In bruises. In spirit.”

The crowd quieted.

“This is not a child’s game. This is the Young Blood Trial.”

The horn blew.

---

Phase One: The Ring of Doom

Fifty squires stood shoulder to shoulder in a wide circle marked by pale grey powder, their feet shifting in sand, faces drawn. Some bounced on their toes. Others clenched shields too tight. All eyes stared forward.

Each boy (and a few bold girls in cropped hair and hardened gazes) carried a blunted sword, a buckler, and a wooden dagger tucked into their belt. No armor beyond light padding. No horses. No real blades.

The signal came—a single drumbeat—and chaos followed.

Squires scattered inward or lunged at whoever looked the most afraid. Steel clacked. Sand kicked up. One boy lost his grip immediately and was clubbed in the shoulder. Another swung wildly and struck his own friend across the helm.

Three fell in the first minute. Not out cold, but down long enough to be called off.

Then the second signal came.

The ring began to close.

Drummers beat a slow, steady rhythm. From the edges, masked stewards marched forward with long poles, dragging thick cords in a circle tighter than the last.

Anyone still outside the new line was out.

A cluster of four panicked and tried to dive inward—two made it. The other two were caught by a pair of grinning older boys who shoulder-checked them back into elimination.

Dust clouded the air. Bruises bloomed like storm clouds on knees and arms and ribs.

By the time the second contraction hit, only twenty-three squires remained.

Squires no longer fought in duels. They hunted in twos. In threes. Friendships held—or cracked.

One squire from Gulltown disarmed his opponent, helped him to his feet… and then shoved him out of the circle.

Another from the Stormlands feigned a twisted ankle, then rolled under a blow and tackled two boys off their feet before the ring tightened again.

The drums came faster.

The circle smaller.

Now ten remained.

They circled each other like cats in a pit. Breathing ragged. Eyes sharp. Limbs sore.

One boy, taller than the rest, held a split shield and bleeding nose. A younger girl beside him wielded two daggers, quick as riverlight. Another lad held no shield at all, just his sword gripped in both hands like it owed him something.

They readied for the final push—

And then the horn blew.

---

Stage Two: The Knight’s Trial

The six remaining squires wiped blood and dust from their faces, still catching their breath—when the horn blew again.

From the far gates strode six masked warriors, their helms blackened, their sigils hidden. They wore plain cloaks marked only by a red seven-pointed star.

They said nothing.

One by one, they chose a squire. No words. Only nods. And then they stepped apart.

The match was set—six duels. One on one. No help. No mercy.

The drumbeat returned.

Steel rang. Sand flew.

The first bout ended almost as soon as it began. A squire swung too wide, tripped on his own foot, and took a glancing strike to the ribs. He fell gasping in the sand.

His masked opponent stood silent, then dropped to one knee beside him, blade planted in the earth.

The crowd stilled.

The second pair clashed harder—more stubborn than skilled. The first squire faltered under pressure. The second swung wild and left his flank open. Both were disarmed in a blink.

Two more squires down.

Their masked knights took knees beside them.

Only three bouts remained.

One squire—a rangy lad from the storm coast—held fast for near three minutes, ducking, parrying, countering with grit alone. But a clever feint sent him sprawling. He coughed, struck the ground, and nodded in surrender.

His knight, too, took a knee.

Only two duels remained now.

The final four clashed under a sun high and unrelenting. The crowd hushed. The minutes passed.

Then—a horn blew.

Five minutes had passed.

The last two squires still stood—panting, sweat-drenched, backs to one another. Their mystery opponents halted their blades mid-motion, then—without a word—each dropped to one knee in the sand.

The squires blinked. Confused. Was it over?

Another horn sounded.

And from above, Rhaenyra stood. Her voice rang out like thunder.

“What are your names?”

The taller of the two stepped forward, fist over heart.
“Milton of Dragonstone, princess.”

The other, slighter but sharp-eyed, called out:
“Hayden of Spicetown.”

The princess smiled.
“Knights—show yourselves.”

Gasps echoed as the kneeling warriors reached for their helms.

First came Ser Harrold Westerling, his white curls damp with sweat.

Then Laenor Velaryon, silver braids uncoiling as his helm fell free.

Then Ser Harwin Strong, grinning like a proud wolf.

Ser Clement Celtigar followed, silent and smirking.

Then Ser Steffon Darklyn, calm as still steel.
And last—

Prince Daemon Targaryen.

The arena erupted.

The rogue prince turned to the two squires and gestured down.
“Kneel.”

The boys dropped to their knees without hesitation.

Ser Steffon drew his sword.
Prince Daemon drew Dark Sister.

At once, they tapped shoulders left and right.

“Rise, Ser Milton. Rise, Ser Hayden.”

The arena exploded.

Bells clanged. Drums pounded. The stands shook from footfalls alone.

Rhaenyra raised her arms.
“Welcome to the Heir’s Guard.”

The two new knights dropped to one knee once more and bowed their heads.

The Eternal Arena rumbled like thunder.

Chapter Text

The Eternal Arena held its breath—not for men, nor knights, nor crowns. This day belonged to the daughters of the realm. The warriors. The riders. The bold.

On the raised dais, a lone herald stepped forward, cloak stiff in the wind, voice ringing over the crowd.

“On this day,” he called, “twelve brave women shall stand before the realm. They do not fight for fathers or brothers. They fight for honor, for strength, for the realm they one day mean to shape.”

He raised his staff.

“This is the Duel of Honor! Three rounds! First, a series of two-on-two trials. Then three single combat duels. Then the final clash—one against one against one. Each judged by the Ladies of the Realm.”

The panel rose in unison:

Lady Barbrey Bolton of the North.
Lady Jocelyn Mormont of Bear Island.
Lady Aelinor Tarth of Evenfall Hall.
Lady Esgred Greyjoy of the Iron Islands.
Lady Moriah Dayne of Starfall.

The herald struck his staff once.

“Let the contestants be named.”

From the northern gates strode four women clad in bearskin and boiled leather:

“Gayle of Bear Island.
Merci of Long Lake.
Wilma of Old Wyk.
Pearl of Deepwood Motte—shieldmaidens in service to House Mormont.”

From the east came two sisters in dark red leather:

“Alyssa and Alisen—dragonseeds of Dragonstone, daughters of storm and fire.”

From the lower tunnels emerged three figures—smaller, leaner, but no less deadly. Tunics of black and grey, eyes sharp.

“Lalla. Arniss. Yarsi—smallfolk orphans of the Lower District. Dragonseeds. Secret students of the princess herself.”

The crowd leaned forward.

Next came Cassara Darklyn, her armor kissed with black enamel, her braid wrapped in silver wire.

“Cassara of House Darklyn. She fights in the memory of her grandmother, Jonquil Darke—slain for steel she never dropped.”

Then Maris Baratheon, thunder in her stride, wrapped in storm-blue and golden antlers.

“Maris, of House Baratheon—trained in secret beneath Storm’s End.”

And last—her name alone enough to still the wind:

“Frynne Martell of Sunspear, kin to the Lord of Dorne, trained by blade and blood by the Princess Nyssaria of House Martell.”

The herald bowed to the woman.

Then the horn blew.

---

Round One: Paired Duels

The twelve women faced each other across the sand as the pairings were called.

Duel One:
Lalla and Cassara vs. Gayle and Wilma

Duel Two:
Arniss and Frynne vs. Merci and Pearl

Duel Three:
Yarsi and Maris vs. Alyssa and Alisen

The horn sounded again—and all three duels began at once.

Lalla and Cassara moved like opposites. Lalla ducked low, swift and nimble, while Cassara held high guard, her strikes steady and sharp. Gayle advanced first—brutish, bold—but Cassara parried a heavy blow with her vambrace and sent a crack down Gayle’s shield. Meanwhile, Lalla spun beneath Wilma’s swing and rapped her across the thigh with her wooden blade.

Gayle roared and knocked Cassara backward—but Lalla leapt atop her back, dragged her sideways, and they both went down. Cassara rose first—but Wilma rose faster. She slammed Cassara to the sand and helped Gayle up. The two shieldmaidens stood victorious.

Victory: Gayle and Wilma!

Arniss and Frynne wasted no time.

Arniss charged first, her stance low and focused. She swept one leg beneath Merci’s knee with brutal precision, dropping her like a sack of oats into the sand. The crowd gasped as Merci hit the ground hard, groaning.

While Arniss handled Merci, Frynne met Pearl head-on. Their blades clashed with sharp, echoing blows—Frynne’s footwork light and sharp, Pearl’s strikes powerful and unyielding. The two circled fast, each testing the other’s rhythm, sparks flying from each parried blow.

Arniss darted between them, forcing Pearl to split her attention. The shift gave Frynne the moment she needed. She danced left, then twisted suddenly to the right—lunging forward with one swift stroke.

Her blade struck Pearl square in the gut, knocking the wind from her lungs. Pearl staggered back, bent over, gasping.

Victory: Arniss and Frynne!

Yarsi and Maris faced the sisters of Dragonstone.

Alyssa struck first—bold, brutal, and without hesitation. Her blade cracked against Maris’s shoulder, but the Baratheon girl didn’t flinch. She gritted her teeth and surged forward, ramming her shield into Alyssa’s chest and forcing her back a step.

Yarsi moved with speed, slipping past Alisen’s flank like a shadow. She slashed twice—fast and low—catching cloth, nearly catching flesh. But Alisen twisted at the last second and caught Yarsi with a shoulder strike that knocked her off balance.

Alyssa recovered and locked blades with Maris, their steel grinding loud in the arena. Alisen returned to her sister’s side. The two moved as one—pressing in, striking fast, driving Maris to one knee.

With a final shout, they turned on Yarsi. The younger girl raised her blade to parry, but their combined assault drove her back into the dust, breath ragged, weapon lost.

Victory: Alyssa and Alisen!

The crowd—silent until now—rose to its feet. Women of every station roared with approval. Even lords began to nod.

---

Round Two: Solo Duels

Wilma vs. Frynne
Arniss vs. Alisen
Gayle vs. Alyssa

The first horn blew.

Wilma vs. Frynne:
Wilma came in like a bull set loose—thick arms swinging, boots churning up sand. She wielded her sword like a cudgel, powerful but wild. Frynne didn’t meet her strength with strength. She moved like water—slipping past one swing, ducking another, turning her whole body to avoid the blunt edge. The crowd held its breath as the smaller woman danced at the edge of danger, calm and calculating.

Frynne kept her eyes on Wilma’s center, not the blade. She saw the moment Wilma leaned too far, lunging with a heavy overhead strike meant to end the match. Frynne sidestepped, pivoted on one heel, and swept behind her. Wilma tried to turn, but Frynne was already in motion.

A hard strike to the back of Wilma’s leg buckled the bigger woman. Before she could recover, Frynne slammed her shoulder between Wilma’s shoulder blades and sent her sprawling face-first into the sand. The match was over before Wilma even hit the ground.

Victory: Frynne

Arniss vs. Alisen:
This was no dance. This was blood and grit. Alisen moved like a viper—fast, low, eyes locked. Her first strike sliced across Arniss’s ribs, shallow but painful. Arniss barely flinched. She caught the second blow on her bracer and growled through her teeth, stepping in closer than a sane fighter should.

Alisen tried to retreat, but Arniss pressed the attack. She caught the third strike with her own sword and turned it downward with a vicious twist of her hip. Alisen lost her grip for a moment—that was all Arniss needed. She drove forward with her forehead, headbutting Alisen right in the nose. The snap echoed across the arena.

Alisen staggered. Her footing broke. Arniss roared and swung hard, catching her opponent across the side with a brutal strike. Alisen tumbled into the dirt, gasping, weapon lost. Arniss didn’t wait for a call. She stepped back, sword raised, breathing hard but steady.

Victory: Arniss

Gayle vs. Alyssa:
Where Alyssa was quick, Gayle was constant. Alyssa darted left and right, looking for any weakness in Gayle’s guard. Her strikes came rapid, slicing the air, but each one was blocked or absorbed with grim, silent determination. Gayle didn’t chase. She endured.

Blow after blow rained down, but Gayle held. When Alyssa tried to feint low, Gayle batted the blade away. When Alyssa circled wide, Gayle turned with her, waiting. Her patience was iron. Her feet never shifted more than they had to. The crowd watched, spellbound, as Alyssa began to tire.

Gayle struck like a closing gate. She lunged, caught Alyssa’s sword arm mid-swing, and with a roar, hurled the younger woman across the sand like a sack of barley. Alyssa hit hard and didn’t rise. Gayle lowered her sword only when the horn blew again.

Victory: Gayle

The crowd erupted. Even lords now stood, clapping their hands with solemn nods. The Ladies of the Realm shared approving glances.

---
​Final Round: The Clash of Three

Frynne. Arniss. Gayle.

They entered the ring beneath a sky gone still, the sun blazing high above, casting long shadows over the sand. No cheers met them this time—only silence. Not out of disrespect, but reverence. The crowd watched as three stood alone, bloodied but unbowed, the best of the realm’s fiercest daughters. They did not need introductions now. The realm already knew their names.

The horn blew.

Gayle surged forward like a war cry made flesh. She did not hesitate, did not gauge, did not wait. She charged both at once, swinging high with her shield braced tight and her sword like a battering ram. Arniss threw herself low, trying to cut at Gayle’s flank, but the Mormont woman twisted at the last moment and struck her across the back with the flat of her blade. Arniss dropped to one knee, gritting her teeth. Frynne, calm as ever, danced out of reach, watching the tempo unfold like a bard learning a tune.

But Gayle would not let her stay distant for long. She turned on Frynne with startling speed, crashing forward with brute strength. The Dornish girl deflected once, twice—barely—and delivered a sharp jab to Gayle’s ribs. The crowd groaned as the blow landed. Gayle staggered but did not fall.

Arniss climbed back to her feet, blood running from her temple, and without warning, charged. Frynne saw her coming and shifted aside just in time to let Gayle absorb the hit. Arniss and Gayle collided hard, their bodies slamming together with the sound of clashing steel and bone. Gayle caught Arniss by the collar and hurled her into the sand—but before she could finish it, Frynne darted in and sliced a red line across Gayle’s leg. The Bear Islander stumbled, growling low in her throat.

All three broke apart, circling again.

They were breathing hard now—grime-caked, battered, but alive in the fire of combat. Arniss rolled her shoulder, steadying her grip. Frynne narrowed her stance, her blade raised like a promise. Gayle spat blood into the dirt and charged again, this time slower, more measured. The two younger fighters met her with perfect timing—Frynne ducked under the first swing, striking her ribs again, while Arniss lunged low and rammed her shoulder into Gayle’s side.

Gayle dropped to one knee. The crowd stood as one, roaring now, thundering at the sheer grit in the ring. Still, Gayle tried to rise. She screamed like a wild thing and launched forward once more—but Frynne struck her helm with a brutal overhand swing, and Arniss swept her legs clean from under her.

Gayle collapsed in a cloud of dust and sand. This time, she did not move.

Only Frynne and Arniss remained.

The noise fell to nothing.

The two circled each other slowly—one trained by Dorne’s deadliest, the other raised in shadow, hardened in silence. Their blades met once. Twice. A third time. But neither struck to wound. They were testing—measuring.

Then Frynne stopped. Raised her blade. And waited.

Arniss looked at her a long moment… and smiled. A real smile. Then she bent her knee and dropped to the ground with a knight’s grace.

The arena exploded. The banners shook. The stands trembled with thunderous feet and voices raised high.

---

Rhaenyra rose from the Heir’s Box. And with Ser Harrold Westerling beside her, she descended to the field.

All twelve women stood in a line, bloodied, panting, proud.

Rhaenyra raised her voice. “You have shown the realm what daughters can do. Let it never be said again that courage is bound by blood or bone. You are warriors.”

She looked to Gayle and Arniss. “Kneel.”

They obeyed.

Ser Harrold drew his sword.

By his hand, they were knighted beneath the sky.

“Rise, Soror Gayle. Rise, Soror Arniss.”

The crowd thundered.

Rhaenyra turned once more. “Welcome to the Heir’s Guard.”

The arena shook. Women wept. Even the stones seemed to remember.

And above them all, twelve new names were now carved in the memory of the realm.

Chapter Text

The second day of the Daughters of Westeros Warrior Glory Games dawned with rising heat and higher expectations. The Eternal Arena filled once more, humming with a hunger that had nothing to do with knights or lords. This was for the bold. The fierce. The women who dared.

A single herald stepped forward, his cloak of dark crimson catching the wind.

"People of King's Landing! You have seen blades. You have seen duels. But this day, you witness a first: the Gauntlet of The Lady Titan."

A wave of murmurs swept the crowd.

"This," the herald continued, raising one gloved hand to the arena floor behind him, "is no mere contest of speed or strength. This is a crucible. A gauntlet of elite obstacles forged for those who dare test all three: speed, strength, and might."

He gestured wide.

"Ten trials await. The Dragon Gates. Box Flip. Iron Ascent. Log Lift. Sky Bridge. Crank. Cage Crawl. Drop Zone. The Ball-and-Chain. And finally... the Relic Turn."

The crowd leaned forward.

"And now... our contestants!"

One by one they stepped forward, leather tight to muscled forms, war paint bright across proud cheeks.

"Chanta. MillIe. Claire. Zelda. Taeffi. All hailing from She-Dragon Point—the new women warriors’ outpost, once known as Sea Dragon Point."

The cheers rose like a tide.

"Only one may finish first. Only one will earn the title... The Lady Titan."

They stood shoulder to shoulder at the line—five figures carved of strength, sinew, and sheer will.

Warpaint streaked their cheeks. Muscles tensed.

The Eternal Arena pulsed beneath them, the crowd a thundercloud above.

---

The Dragon Gate

The horn ripped through the air.

And five women surged forward in unison—Chanta, Millie, Claire, Zelda, and Taeffi—legs pumping, breath sharp, racing across the sand toward the towering beast that waited.

It wasn’t a normal gate. It was a monument.

A towering gate, twenty feet tall, carved from dark oak and plated in iron bands, shaped like a dragon’s open jaw. The top arched into a wicked maw of sculpted wooden fangs—long, jagged, and gilded in gold and black. The structure cast a shadow like a castle’s curtain wall, its frame humming in the wind.

And hanging down from the top beam—five thick ropes, one for each woman, just above the reach of an outstretched hand. They were knotted at intervals for grip, but the climb was steep, the last six feet left to hang free, away from the ground.

No ladders. No side holds. No alternate paths. Only the rope. Only the climb.

Chanta reached her rope first. She leapt, caught it clean, and began to rise. Her legs locked around the knots, her arms pulled fast and sure. Her body moved like it had done this a hundred times before—tight, smooth, unshakable.

Millie arrived half a stride behind, her fingers catching the rope on the first jump. She climbed light and fast, her boots tapping rhythmically against the wood as she rose, hand over hand, knot to knot, wasting no motion.

Claire grabbed her rope with both fists, took a breath, and hauled upward with bursts of strength. Her climb wasn’t elegant, but it was fierce—every pull deliberate, her feet punching into the knots for leverage.

Taeffi climbed like a map reader following a path—quiet, precise, eyes locked on each grip before she moved. She paused only once, adjusted her wrap, and kept going.

Zelda took the rope with calm resolve, her hands large and strong. She climbed slower, but her size gave her reach—covering more distance with each pull, anchoring her sway with raw control.

The crowd screamed beneath them.

Ten feet. Fifteen. The wood behind the ropes ended—and the final stretch.

Chanta never slowed. Her body bent forward, arms blazing, legs braced tight. She swung her knee high, reached for the final knot—and vaulted up and over, sliding beneath the dragon’s carved jawline and disappearing down the other side.

Millie reached the final stretch and lunged upward, wrapping the rope around her calf to brace, then scrambled up and crested the beam with a grunt.

Claire powered through it like a battering ram—gritted teeth, big pulls, no fear of the sway. She slapped the carved dragon tooth, heaved herself up, and dropped to the far side.

Taeffi slowed—made the last pull, cleared the top, and vanished with quiet grace.

Zelda brought up the rear—but climbed strong. Her arms never shook. Her grip never faltered. She hoisted herself over the dragon’s teeth with a deep breath.

And all five women passed over it—clean, and unbroken.

The Dragon Gate was behind them.

---

The Box Flip

Four massive crates waited—each the size of a small horse cart, banded in iron, packed with sand, and sunk slightly into the churned arena floor. Too heavy to lift. They had to be flipped—edge over edge, until the fourth fell forward and cleared the path.

No tricks. No shortcuts. Just raw strength.

Millie charged her crate and dropped low, boots set wide, breath locked deep in her chest. She gripped the rim and heaved—arms taut, legs shaking. The box slammed over with a burst of sand. Her second gave her trouble—skewed to the side, adjusted her grip and rolled it on the second try. She didn’t curse, didn’t flinch. Just reset herself for the next one and kept pushing.

Chanta was already on her second by then. She moved like she’d rehearsed it in her bones—low stance, tight frame, no wasted motion. Her first flip had been clean. Her second even cleaner. The third followed in perfect rhythm. By the time she hit the fourth, her braid was dusted with grit and sweat. The crate fought back, wedged into a pit in the sand—but she shifted left, drove upward with a twist, and flipped it forward like it weighed nothing.

Claire hit her crate with sheer force. No crouch, no technique—just drive. Her forearm slammed the edge, her shoulders braced, and the crate toppled forward with a thunderous thud. The second wasn’t so forgiving. It resisted. Claire shouted, widened her stance, and powered it over with a wild grunt.

Zelda took her time. She crouched, braced with care, and shoved with her whole body—hips, arms, back working in tandem. Her first box flipped. The second nearly didn’t. Her heel skidded on a slick patch of sand. But she stayed calm, readjusted her stance, and flipped the crate clean.

Taeffi struggled with her first. Her hands slid on the rim, the angle wrong. She backed off, breathed, and dropped to her knees for a moment. Her second attempt was smarter—arms locked low, legs tight, pushing from the floor up. The crate inched—then tipped. Taeffi blinked through the sand in her eyes and moved on.

Millie’s third was halfway up when Claire slammed her fourth into the sand. Zelda pressed on, steady and quiet, and Taeffi drove through her third with gritted teeth.

One by one, the boxes rolled. Slammed. Dropped.

Not a single woman stopped. Not one gave in.

They didn’t pass because it was easy.

They passed because they made it look easy.

---

The Iron Ascent

Ahead loomed a jagged wall of blackened steel—twisting bars and angled scaffolds stacked high in a spiraling climb. It wasn’t a ladder. It was a trap for the overconfident.

The bars were slick with water, oiled just enough to betray sweaty palms. The structure climbed three stories high, narrowing toward the top where a single platform marked the escape.

The crowd held its breath.

Claire charged the frame and climbed hard. She ignored the pain, ignored the sway, drove upward like a siege engine. At the second bend, her breathing hitched. Her feet paused mid-step. She froze—just long enough to see the arena beneath her. One leg trembled. One hand slipped. But she forced herself upward anyway, inch by inch, fury in every pull.

Chanta had already hit the base and launched upward without breaking stride. She scaled the first vertical stretch with sheer momentum, hands snapping to every bar like she’d been born in a rigging yard. The zigzag turned hard left. She pivoted midair, latched to the corner, and pulled through with a twist and a breath. Her legs tucked. Her arms stretched. She was already halfway up before the others reached the incline.

Millie caught the bottom rung with both hands and hauled herself up, swinging one leg to hook the next level. She climbed with drive and grit—her pace fast, her balance locked in. At the turn, her left foot slipped, and her ribs slammed against the metal. She gasped, dangled, then reset her grip with bleeding palms and snarled through her teeth. She wasn’t letting go.

Zelda took the structure like a mountain—slow, steady, immovable. Her hands locked to the bars like clamps, arms flexing, back tight with strain. She didn’t trust the slickness, so she moved with care—anchoring every pull with planted feet, coiling strength from core to shoulder. Her pace was glacial, but it never broke.

Taeffi reached for the fifth rung and missed. Her body slammed back-first into the sand. But before the crowd could cry out, she was on her feet again—gripping the metal, eyes locked, face set. This time she climbed with rhythm—her center tight, her hands snapping higher, elbows braced with each twist. Her legs barely swung. She’d found her beat.

Chanta reached the final rung—flipped herself over the lip of the platform—and vanished from view.

Millie was only six rungs behind her, despite the hit to her ribs. She climbed like fury embodied, even as sweat poured down her arms and her raw hands slid against the bars.

Claire reached the top corner with a shout, refusing to slow. She braced her forearms across the final turn and pushed upward with a bellow.

Zelda reached the final stretch just as Taeffi caught up to her. The two climbed side by side—one massive, the other nimble. They didn’t look down. They didn’t stop.

And then—

All five women reached the platform.

Not one had failed.

Only the bars shook—beaten by breath, bruised by will.

The Iron Ascent was conquered.

---

The Log Lift

Before them lay five monstrous beams—each thick as a castle bannerman’s chest, carved from greenwood soaked in water and sand. No hollow shells. No carved grips. Just raw weight and a challenge to any spine that dared touch it.

Each log measured near three feet long, its girth wide as a smith’s anvil, and each weighed nearly as much as women did. They weren’t meant to be dragged. They had to be fully off the ground, then carried across twenty paces of loose, uneven sand to the marked finish line.

Zelda crouched, braced, and lifted the log halfway. But as she adjusted her grip, her heel slipped in the churned-up sand. The beam dropped squarely on her boot with a sickening thud. She didn’t cry out. She exhaled slow, rolled it off her foot, and started again—this time moving more centered, more controled as she marched.

Taeffi knelt beside hers, wrapped her arms, and pulled up—nothing. She adjusted. Shifted. Dug her heels in. Then she stopped, looked sideways, and tried a new grip. She used one shoulder, hugged the beam like a child, and rocked it up from the sand in three short jerks. It rose. She screamed through clenched teeth—and walked.

Claire stared at hers a heartbeat too long—measuring it with her eyes, not her hands. She tried to lift from a standing crouch, and the beam didn’t budge. She cursed, dropped lower, and tried again—this time it tilted. She jammed her thigh under it, rocked it up against her shoulder, and snarled like a wild thing. One step. Then two. Then she found her rhythm.

Millie reached her beam a breath later. She set her stance, bent with tight form, and surged upward with a grunt. The beam rose—but wavered. It slammed against her shoulder and nearly knocked her sideways. She hissed, reset, and lifted again—this time locking it against her collar with both arms clutched tight. She moved slow, controlled, biting her tongue against the strain.

Chanta crouched beside hers without ceremony. She wrapped her arms low, braced her shoulder, and bent deep until her back was flat. Her breath hissed through gritted teeth as she drove upward—legs firing, spine coiled, arms straining.

The beam lifted with a growl of shifting weight. She staggered one step back, steadied, and began to walk—shoulders hunched, knees bent, breathing hard but even. She crossed the sand like a soldier hauling the wounded, every footfall carved from will.

Across the field, Chanta didn’t stop. Her breath came in sharp, rhythmic bursts. Her arms shook. Her legs wobbled. But she never slowed.

She crossed the finish line—beam still lifted—three full body lengths ahead of the others.

Millie followed, body bent, breath ragged, eyes wild—but unyielding.

Claire knees buckling, beam almost dragged the last two paces.

Zelda passed fourth, calm again, though sweat poured from her brow.

Taeffi finished last, but finished strong, her beam never touching the ground.

Five logs. Five women. Five battles with gravity.

And not a single one left theirs behind.

Chapter Text

The Sky Bridge

The bridge loomed like a cruel jest—a narrow spine of wood strung across a pit of crushed tile and wind-scattered sand. Forty feet across, fifteen feet high, built from planks barely wider than a boot and suspended between swaying poles by taut ropes that whined and creaked with every gust. The drop wouldn’t kill—but it would end a run.

Each woman had her own lane. No crossing over. No helping hands. Just boards, rope, and balance.

Taeffi took one look at the boards and backed up a step. Then another. She waited, centered her breathing, then dashed forward in a burst—barely touching each plank as she passed, letting her weight carry momentum. The bridge bucked behind her, but she stayed ahead of the sway, feet landing exactly where she needed them. It wasn’t elegant—it was genius.

Zelda approached like she might fight the thing. She grabbed the side rope with both hands and braced herself against the sway, moving one foot at a time. The bridge groaned beneath her weight, but she anchored every step with raw power—like dragging herself across a rope at sea. Not graceful. Not quick. But unstoppable.

Claire stepped onto the first board and froze. The plank dipped. Her arms jerked wide. She breathed fast—too fast. The wind tugged at her. She whispered something under her breath and forced her foot forward. Then another. The bridge creaked. She flinched—but didn’t stop. She crept across like a woman walking the edge of a blade.

Millie stepped on fast—too fast. The second plank tipped under her weight, and her leg shot sideways. She yelped, grabbed the rope with one hand, and swayed hard over the edge. Gasps rang out from the crowd. But she didn’t fall. She clenched her jaw, reset her balance, and kept moving—slower now. More cautious. But determined.

Chanta had reached her bridge well before the others. She didn’t stop. She didn’t assess. She stepped heel-to-toe with arms wide and knees loose, eyes fixed not on the gap ahead but on the next three boards. The bridge swayed—left, then right—but she rode it like a sailor rides a mast in storm. A breeze caught her braid and tossed it sideways, but her feet never faltered. She moved with rhythm, her weight perfectly distributed, her breath quiet and steady.

Above the pit, wind howled. The ropes twisted and groaned.

Chanta reached the end first, her final step taken like a whisper.

Millie followed, breathing hard but firm.

Taeffi burst out next, chest rising and falling like a drumbeat.

Zelda stepped off behind her, arms still gripping the rope until the last possible moment.

Claire came last, shaking but unbroken.

Five bridges. Five paths. Not a single fall.

The Sky Bridge swayed behind them.

But it got no one this day.

---

The Crank

Five rusted wheels stood embedded in iron frames, each linked to a great gate made of jagged steel bars. The gates rested low to the ground—spiked teeth buried in sand—too heavy to lift, too tight to squeeze beneath. The only way forward: turn the wheel until the gate rose high enough to crawl under.

But the wheels didn’t turn easy. Their gears were soaked in grit, their axles sun-warped and stiff.

Claire reached her crank and dropped to one knee, gasping. Her fingers shook. Her chest heaved dust. But she pushed herself up, gripped the wheel, and turned. Nothing. She reset. Turned again. One inch. Then another. It wasn’t fast. It wasn’t clean. But it moved. When the gate rose high enough to crawl, she dropped and rolled beneath it with a gasp.

Chanta hit her crank like a brawler in a pit. She wrapped both hands around a lower spoke and pulled hard. The wheel groaned. The first turn dragged like stone across bone, and she dug in her heels, shoulders tight, biceps seizing with strain. The gate lifted a hand’s width. She didn’t pause. Turn two—slower. Turn three—her breath was a hiss, her palms red, her arms trembling. The fourth turn came with a yell from her chest. The gate creaked upward, high enough to pass. She ducked and charged through without looking back.

Millie grabbed the wheel and shoved—nothing. She adjusted her grip, gritted her teeth, and pushed again with a cry. The wheel moved half a hand, then more. Her face twisted with effort, her eyes burning. She turned the crank with her whole body—back arched, knees bent, hips rotating with each heave. The gate rose—but slower than she needed. She screamed and spun the last half-turn, scraping the gate open just enough to throw herself under.

Zelda arms already spent from the bridge she gripped the wheel and pulled—it didn’t move. She growled. Switched hands. Pulled again. It shifted, barely. Her huge frame pressed into the spokes, muscles locking, grinding each inch upward. One turn. Two. The gate lifted like a beast resisting death. She forced it up far enough to crouch—and slid through sideways, panting.

Taeffi scanned the wheel, found the tallest spoke, and jumped to pull downward with all her weight. The wheel spun half a turn from gravity alone. She used the rebound to catch the next spoke and swing again. It was awkward, yes—but fast. The gate rose like she was unlocking it with numbers. She ducked under and vanished beyond.

Five wheels. Five gates. Five battles with metal and muscle.

And all five emerged on the other side.

Not with ease. But with force.

---

The Cage Crawl

The tunnel yawned low before them—twenty feet of narrow mesh, no taller than a barrel, no wider than a hog trough. Iron bars formed its ribs, bent into a half-cylinder just wide enough for shoulders and just high enough for elbows. The floor beneath was strewn with grit and gravel, sharp enough to bruise, loud enough to betray any panicked shuffle.

There was no crawling on hands and knees—not here. It was elbows and belly, shoulders twisted sideways, breath shallow, pace slow.

Zelda dropped to her knees and peered in—then wedged herself sideways into the crawl. She groaned. Her tunic caught halfway through. She growled, exhaled hard, and shifted one arm forward. A wrenching twist but she was free. The cage bent slightly. She pulled herself inch by inch, jaw clenched, shoulders scraping the bars. The bars kissed her spine with every breath. She didn’t scream again.

Chanta dove forward, chest tight to the earth, arms pulling fast and sharp like strokes through water. Her braid snagged on the mesh roof halfway through—she yanked it free without stopping. Grit dug into her palms. The cage rattled with each breath she took. But she moved like fury bottled in steel. A flash. A hiss. Then gone.

Millie body tensed as she entered, breath ragged and her lips were split from the last trial, but her focus never faltered. She clawed forward—left elbow, right elbow—boots dragging behind. Every inch scraped her ribs. Her breaths came in sharp huffs. Her pace slowed—but never broke.

Claire hit the opening fast but angled wrong. Her hip caught. She backed out, shook the dust from her eyes, and adjusted her stance. Her second entry was slower—more careful. She twisted, dropped lower, and crawled like a tunnel rat, murmuring prayers between clenched teeth.

Taeffi arrived at the lip and paused. She scanned the tunnel, found the rhythm of those ahead, and slid in smooth. Her body was slender, her crawl deliberate. She didn’t rush. She placed every pull like a climber scaling glass—weight centered, elbows tucked tight. She passed under the worst of the mesh without a single slip.

Chanta burst out first, sand clinging to her skin, eyes blazing.

Millie followed, coughing, scratched, but focused.

Claire tumbled out behind her, gasping but upright.

Taeffi rolled to her feet next, not a scratch on her, breath steady as stone.
Zelda crawled out last, shoulders bleeding and scratched, but head held high.

The cage rattled in their wake—beaten, bent, but conquered.

The crawl was behind them.

---

The Drop Zone

The course ended abruptly at the edge of a sun-bleached platform. Below yawned a sheer vertical shaft—ten feet deep, rimmed in stone, its bottom stretched with a net of thick rope and canvas, hung loose to catch a fall. The pit offered no ladder, no handholds, no gentle descent. Just air—and the choice to leap or lose time waiting.

The net gave nothing freely. Land wrong, and it whipped like a sling.

Zelda reached the edge and didn’t hesitate. She leapt in full stride, arms tucked, knees bent. The net caught her with a thud and a snap—but she used the rebound to flip, bounce, and scramble back up the pit’s far wall without a pause.

Chanta jumped without thinking, landed firm, and sprang out of the ropes like she was born doing it. One burst of speed and she was already running again.

Millie glanced once, then dove. Her landing skidded hard, jerking her to the side—but she caught herself, rolled through it, and clawed her way out before the ropes stopped swaying.

Claire slowed just a hair, gauging the drop. Then she launched clean. The net swayed, but she twisted midair, bounced, and climbed out without wasting a breath.

Taeffi ran up last—and hesitated. Not long. Just long enough. She looked down, misjudged the step, and leapt at the wrong angle. Her feet slammed the net crooked. The recoil hit hard. She spun sideways, tangled in rope, one arm trapped.

A beat passed. Then another. The crowd murmured. But Taeffi gritted her teeth, ripped her elbow free, and clawed upward. Her chest heaved as she pulled herself out of the pit.

The net swung in her wake.

She ran again—but farther behind now.

And the race thundered on.

---

The Ball-and-Chain

It waited at the base of the incline like a punishment forged for giants—an iron ball near as wide as a wine cask, spiked in parts, slick with grit, and bound by a chain thick as a knight’s wrist. The ramp ahead was steep and angled. The goal: drag the weight all the way up, past the crest, to a marked circle in stone. No wheels. No slope tricks. No team.

Only strength. Only will.

Chanta reached it first. She didn’t hesitate. She crouched low, gripped the chain near its base, locked her shoulders—and pulled. Her muscles seized. Her face contorted. But the ball moved. Just a few inches. Then another. She took a step, dragging it behind her like an anchor from hell. The links screeched over stone. Her boots slipped. Her shoulders shook. But she never let go.

Step.

Drag.

Step.

The chain lashed her palms. It left red grooves across her wrists. She grunted through clenched teeth, leaning her weight into every pull, arms trembling, thighs burning. The incline punished her with every foot. But she kept climbing.

Zelda hit the chain next. She didn’t go for strength—she went for grip. She wrapped the chain once around her wrist, braced her legs, and hauled. The ball jerked forward, then again. She leaned into every step, face streaked with sweat, jaw set like iron.

Claire crouched beside hers and snarled as she pulled. The chain caught on a scorched groove in the stone—but she dug her heels in, growled through her teeth, and ripped it loose. Her left arm spasm halfway, but she didn’t stop. She dragged the weight like it owed her blood.

Taeffi reached hers and studied the links like a maester. She took a high grip, timed her steps to each bounce, and never stopped moving. Small bursts. Sharp pulls. Her eyes narrowed with every step. It wasn’t brute strength. It was precision. It was poetry in pain.

Millie staggered to her weight last. She bent, grabbed the chain—and pulled. Nothing. She adjusted, shifted her stance. Again. Still nothing. She crouched lower. Dug her heels. Her arms shook. Her legs buckled. The ball moved an inch.

Then rolled back.

She cried out, tried again, this time using both hands and her full body. It scraped forward—but so slowly it hurt to watch. She collapsed forward, coughing sand, still clutching the chain. She tried to rise. Slipped. Tried again. The ball wouldn’t budge.

Ahead, Chanta reached the summit. Her knees gave out. She dropped to hands, hooked the chain over her shoulder, and let out one last, bone-deep scream.

The iron ball tipped into the circle.

She fell forward, gasping, covered in dust and streaked with red—but unbroken.

Zelda arrived next, one step behind. Then Claire, nearly crawling. Taeffi reached the top last—bruised, shaking, but upright.

Behind them, Millie was still at the base.

She hadn't stopped trying.

But the chain had made its choice.

The ramp had no mercy.

---

The Relic Turn

At the top of the final platform sat a slab of black-veined stone, waist-high and wide as a millstone. It was carved in the shape of a gear, its face etched with ancient runes and draconic spirals, set into a sunken socket lined with iron. The command was simple: turn it once. One full rotation. No trick. No help. Just will.

But the slab weighed near two pounds. It hadn’t moved in hours. And now it waited for her.

Chanta staggered up the last steps and stood before the relic, swayed once—then set her jaw.

She planted both palms on its face and pushed.

Nothing.

Her arms buckled. Her shoulders screamed. Her back trembled like it might give out.

She clenched her jaw so hard she nearly bit her tongue.

She pressed again—harder. Her boots dug into the stone beneath her. Her body curved forward, legs shaking, veins raised, her whole frame locked in defiance.

Still it didn’t move.

Then—a groan.

A whisper of motion. The slab inched clockwise.

Behind her, Millie was crawling—hands and knees up the ramp, her strength drained, her spirit fraying but not broken. Her eyes were glassy, her cheeks streaked with dust and tears. She gripped the stone ledge like it might vanish, hauling herself one painful inch at a time. She wouldn’t quit. But she wouldn’t turn it in time.

The crowd leaned forward, silent now. Breathless.

Chanta reset her grip.

Screamed from somewhere deep in her ribs.
And with every ounce of fury left in her battered frame—

She turned the relic.

A full rotation. One circle.

The symbols aligned.

The slab locked in place.

The bell rang.

Not gently.

Not politely.

But with a thunder that cracked the clouds.

And the arena shook with the name they all shouted:

“CHANTA! CHANTA! CHANTA!”

She didn’t raise her fists.

She didn’t collapse.

She stood—drenched in sweat, blistered, battered, but standing.

The Lady Titan.

Relentless.

First to finish.

Last left standing.

---

From the dais, the herald lifted both arms, voice sharp as steel and echoing across the arena.

“By sweat, steel, and stride—Chanta of She-Dragon Point is now named The Lady Titan of the Kingdoms!”

And the roar that followed shook the very stones beneath their feet.

The Eternal Arena erupted—an explosion of sound and fury as tens of thousands screamed her name. Chanta! Chanta! Chanta! The walls vibrated with it. The stands trembled beneath stamping feet. The sound crashed through the city like thunder down the Spine.

Doves scattered. Drums thundered. Nobles and smallfolk alike rose as one, as if witnessing not a contest’s end, but a coronation born of grit.

Up on the platform, she didn’t flinch.

Bloodied, blistered, her arms torn raw from chain and stone. Her chest rose and fell in ragged bursts.

She did not cry. Did not raise her fists.

She simply stood—unmoving—like the pillar they would all measure against now.

Lady Titan of the Kingdoms.

The first.

The fiercest.

And from this day forward, the name to fear, the name to follow.

No lord had gifted her this. No dragon had borne her here. She had dragged herself to it—one blister, one breath, one brutal step at a time.

And the kingdoms would remember.

Chapter Text

This was the fourth and final day of the Women’s Glory Games.

The Eternal Arena thrummed with noise and heat, its great tiers packed shoulder to shoulder with smallfolk—clothwives, masons, chimney lads, potters, widows, and weathered farmers—all brimming with expectation. Word had spread across every tavern and alley that the women’s joust was next, and the crowd had come eager for hooves, banners, and dust-swept steel.

But no lances had been set.
No steeds were saddled.
No tilt-yard marked the field.

Instead, curious structures ringed the sand. Painted targets hung from scaffold limbs like fruit from iron trees. Smoke pots and colored lanterns waited unlit in the corners. And at the arena’s center, a circle of untouched soil promised something… different.

From her high seat in the Heir’s Box, Rhaenyra Targaryen stood tall in black and red, the ruby at her throat gleaming like an ember. She surveyed the gathering—not as a young woman, but as a monarch-in-making. She did not speak. Not yet. Her silence held the hush of thunder just before the first crack.

In her father’s Royal Box, his small council watched in wary confusion. Grand Maester Mellos leaned forward, whispering behind his sleeve. Ser Otto Hightower frowned behind narrowed eyes. Even the king tilted in his seat with a bemused half-smile, uncertain what his daughter had planned.

They did not know.
Not truly.
Nor did the people.

The eve prior had ended in awe and upheaval. Aleatha—modest, ink-fingered, soft-spoken—had stunned the realm by winning the women’s test of wits glory game. Her mind had sliced through puzzles like a dagger through silk. She had outwitted noble daughters and startled even Archmaester Vaegon himself when he was told. When the final cipher had crumbled and the last key turned, it was Aleatha’s hand that opened the doors.

She, a daughter of the Lower District dragonseed, had become Crown Inventor.

With the title came land, wages, honors—and duty. For now, she too must train a replacement. That was the law Rhaenyra had written. Each elevation bore its own echo. Each gift carried seeds for the kingdom’s renewal. Knowledge, once locked behind stone and scroll, would now pass from hand to hand like flame in dry grass.

But none of that was known to the crowd below.

They had come expecting a contest of lances.
They would bear witness to something more.

Not combat. Not bloodsport.

But a revelation of what had been forged in quiet—by fire, by will, and by women.

They had come expecting gallop and lance.
Instead, they would see something else.

A display not of war, but of legacy.

A show.

***

All of the northern warrior women from She-Dragon Point would take to the field, not for combat—but for spectacle. It was a show of skill, discipline, and defiance. A display of what five moons of training, unity, and purpose could forge.

The Eternal Arena rumbled as the gates of the front entrance opened—and out thundered a flaming chariot, its wheels throwing sparks with every turn. At its helm stood the Lady Titan of the Kingdoms herself, clad head to toe in golden dragon-forged armor, a winged helm crowning her brow. Her white warhorse trotted ahead, regal and steady, while the Hawkeye archer stood tethered behind her in the chariot, bow already drawn.

Behind them came a fleet of twelve chariots, each painted with snarling red dragons and pulled by northern mares bred for strength. In every chariot, two warrior women rode—one guiding the reins, the other secured with a waist tether that allowed free rotation to aim and fire. Their targets were no easy feat: bullseyes set swinging from iron scaffolds, distant planks no wider than a man’s palm, and skyward clay orbs launched on slings.

Arrow after arrow flew. With each strike, a target burst into flames—blue, green, purple, gold—casting a flickering glow over the sand as bullseyes ignited one by one in a blaze of impossible precision.

Then came the champions of the Mounted Melee—the Five Horsemen.

Then came the champions: first, the victors of the Test of Wills—dressed not in armor but in fine tunics embroidered with symbols of perseverance and honor. Next followed the sharp-eyed winners of the Test of Wits, male and female, dressed in deep blue and copper robes befitting minds crowned by logic and memory.

And finally, walking last into the arena with deliberate pride, came the Titan of the Kingdoms once more, golden armor catching every flicker of firelight—flanked by the newly knighted victors of the Squires’ Melee and the Women’s Duel. They moved in lockstep, the sand trembling beneath their boots, the crowd thundering overhead.

When the final target burst in a riot of light—red and gold flames spiraling upward into smoke and sparks—Rhaenyra Targaryen rose from her seat in the Heir’s Box.

She descended the stairs, every step measured and sure, until her boots touched the sand and she walked out to meet her champions in full.

Rhaenyra stood tall beneath the blaze of the final flame, her black and red cloak stirring faintly in the heat of the arena. Her face was calm, but her eyes burned with something fierce—something proud. The sand still shimmered with smoke and ash, and the crowd had fallen breathless with anticipation.

She lifted one hand, and from the side of the arena came Amos Bracken, wide-shouldered and stoic, bearing a heavy chest of dark oak carved with dragons. Beside him, slender and sharp-eyed Samwell Blackwood carried a second box, lacquered red and gold, its hinges bound in brass.

Rhaenyra’s voice rang clear across the Eternal Arena. “Let them come forward. One by one.”

And so they did.

First came the Titans—Chanta and Bennet—the Lady and Lord of Strength. They stepped forward together, the weight of their titles fresh upon their shoulders. Amos Bracken opened the dark chest and withdrew two gleaming war hammers, their heads carved with snarling draconic faces and their hafts wrapped in red-dyed leather.

Rhaenyra turned first to the two Titans—male and female—who had endured more than any, who had bent but not broken.

She nodded once, and Amos Bracken stepped forward with the first warhammer, its dark Valyrian steel gleaming like obsidian in the torchlight. Then came Samwell Blackwood with the second—equally fearsome, equally earned.

Rhaenyra stepped between the two champions and raised her voice so all could hear.

“You bore pain without surrender,” she said, her gaze steady. “You lifted more than stone—you lifted the will of the people.”

Then, with a quiet gesture, she motioned them forward.

“These are yours. Take them. Wield them not in rage—but in remembrance.”

The hammers were not light. But neither had they been.

And in the hush that followed, even the wind seemed to pause.

The Titans bowed as one and stepped aside.

Next came Horyn Waters, the Hawkeye, his gait quiet and unassuming, but his gaze sharp as ever. Samwell Blackwood opened the second box, revealing a sleek Valyrian steel crossbow, its limbs etched with whorls like smoke and tide. Alongside it lay a quiver of black-shafted bolts, each tipped in obsidian.

Rhaenyra lifted the crossbow with reverence. “Your aim struck not only target, but legend. Let these bolts fly where others fear to look.” She placed the bow into his hands. “May your sight remain steady, and your will even more so.”

The archer bowed as one and stepped aside.

Then came the Five Horsemen, each called by name.

“Gorran of Strength,” Rhaenyra declared, her voice carrying across the arena. The bull-shouldered rider stepped forward, broad as a smith’s forge, his chin high. At her nod, an attendant led forth a great black destrier, its mane braided with crimson thread and its hooves burnished like obsidian. The saddle bore Gorran’s sigil—an iron fist gripped in gold. Another attendant followed with a dark steel dagger, thick and blunt-edged, the hilt carved to resemble a clenched hand. “Let your mount carry your strength,” Rhaenyra said, “and your blade bear its name.”

“Drenks of Endurance,” she called next. The man who approached was wiry, long of limb and hollow of cheek, with the calm, weathered air of one who’d outwalked storms. His destrier was lean but barrel-chested, clad in dark leather and silver-threaded tack. The dagger he was given shimmered faintly with a ripple-like engraving down the blade, its hilt wrapped in seal-hide.
“You lasted when others faltered,” Rhaenyra told him. “Ride long, Drenks.”

“Merris of Precision,” she said, and forward came a compact man, square-shouldered and quiet-eyed. His stride was steady, his gaze unwavering. His horse stepped forward with equal care, its hooves barely thudding on the sand. The saddle bore no flourish—only a single line of embroidery so fine it could barely be seen. The dagger Rhaenyra passed him was slim, slightly curved, honed to a needle’s edge.“Your blade knows where to strike,” she said. “Let no movement be wasted.”

“Sedge of Ferocity,” she called, and the crowd murmured as the man strode forward like a storm given legs. His destrier bucked once, then settled—its eyes wild, its flank slick with sweat despite the stillness of the air. Sedge grinned wide and took his place before her as Rhaenyra drew a thick dagger rimmed in saw-teeth from its sheath.
“The wild in you is not a flaw,” she said. “It is a flame. Wield it well.”

“Thar of Discipline,” came last. He moved like an oath made flesh—straight-backed, reserved, quiet. His destrier stepped precisely beside him, every line of tack aligned. The saddle bore carved runes of structure and symmetry. Rhaenyra offered him a dagger straight and unadorned, its steel polished like glass, its grip wrapped in plain grey leather.
“The realm needs those who hold the line,” she said. “Be its edge.”

One by one, the five horsemen turned, each leading his new destrier down the line—strength, endurance, precision, ferocity, and discipline made flesh and steel. The crowd roared with every step.

Then she called, “Ser Milton, Ser Hayden.”

The two newest members of her new Heir’s Guard knelt before her, silver cloaks billowing at their heels. From the box came twin longswords—Valyrian steel, mirror-matched, named long before this day: Fire and Blood.

Rhaenyra placed one into each man’s grip. “Protect not only me—but the heir's I will birth. These are more than blades. They are vows.”

Then came the Sorors—Gayle and Arniss—steel-eyed, fierce, now sworn protectors of her cause. She gave them their own matching swords, not of blood and flame, but of night and day. One gleamed silver. The other shimmered dark as moonless sky.

“To you,” she said, “who guard not with fear but with purpose—carry the dawn and the dusk. The whole of a realm rests between them.”

Then came the victors of the Test of Wills—common men, but no less worthy. Rhaenyra looked upon each and spoke not just to them, but to every soul watching.

“You proved that will is not born of name, but of choice. And for that—your families shall have homes, your children shall have schooling, and you shall have a place at the heart of our tomorrow.” Samwell handed out scrolls of appointment—seals of learning, tokens of crown homes, promises made in ink and flame.

And then—Wilbur and Aleatha, the champions of wit.

Wilbur, gray at the temples, but clever in eye.

Aleatha, still blinking at the awe of it all.

“You solved what others could not. And so you shall build what others dare not. As Crown Inventors, your hands shall shape what we’ve never known.”

Rhaenyra stepped back, her voice rising one final time as the champions lined before her.

“These are the Titans. The Horsemen. The Duelists. The Guardians. The Builders. The Warriors.”

She turned to the arena, to the crowd of thousands, and raised her arms.

“Remember their names. Remember their courage. They are the champions of the realm. And this day, they are yours.”

And as the cheers rose like thunder, Rhaenyra did what she had never done before.

She bowed to them.

The champions of the kingdoms.

And the people wept.

Her father’s small council sat stunned, their faces a parade of disbelief. Lord Beesbury clutched his record book like it might shield him from change. Lord Strong tilted forward, brows lifted. Even Otto Hightower, ever composed, blinked twice—an unmistakable crack in his glass mask.

But Rhaenyra was not done.

She turned once more to the crowd, her voice steady and clear.

“Since this is the last day of the Smallfolk Glory Games,” she said, “I have gifts to share with every man, woman, and child in attendance.”

A hush fell, thick with anticipation.

“First—each of you shall receive one freshly minted copper crown before you depart.”

The crowd erupted. A wave of cheers, thanks, and blessings rolled through the arena like thunder.

She raised a hand, and slowly the crowd stilled.

“In honor of my wedding to Prince Daemon, eight days from now, each of you will also receive a clothing token—redeemable for a new dress or tunic, trousers, and a pair of shoes.”

More cheers. Louder now. Even tears. Families embraced. Children jumped in place.

“And each of you shall receive a meal and treat token,” she continued, “to be used at any vendor stall in the arena today before you leave.”

The crowd exploded again, vendors already lifting ladles and trays in triumph.

But Rhaenyra raised her hand once more.

And they obeyed.

“There is one final gift,” she said, turning slightly to gesture toward the cliffs beside the Dragonpit. “You have all seen the new structure rising there. What you may not know—is that it is a bank. The first of its kind.”

She let the words sink in.

“It is called the Bank of Commons.”

Gasps followed. Murmurs.

“It belongs to the Crown,” Rhaenyra said firmly, “but it was built for you.”

Now the whispers became a wave—disbelief, awe, joy.

“For every smallfolk soul in attendance this day, I have personally opened an account within the Bank of Commons. Each account begins with one silver wolf.”

Voices cracked. Mothers wept. Men dropped to their knees. Blessings were shouted to the sky.

She lifted her hand again, one last time.

“To claim your account,” she said, “you must visit the bank in person. There, you will receive a King’s Landing identification number and card. You will be taught how to save, how to grow your coin, how to invest in your future. You will learn—because learning is your right.”

She looked out over the sea of faces—exhausted, tearful, elated.

“These are my gifts to you. My people. The people of King’s Landing.”

The roar that followed could’ve shaken the heavens. Women clutched babes. Fathers bowed low. Nobles stared, mouths agape. A city moved in gratitude.

She bowed her head.

Then the champions encircled her—armor gleaming, titles earned—and together, they led her from the Eternal Arena, not with pomp, but with pride.

Chapter Text

Her father called the meeting. But the push, the whisper behind the doors, the sudden urgency that scattered her morn’s plans? That was Otto. It always was.

Rhaenyra had been informed by both Rhaenys and Daemon before her ladies’ meeting that morn.

Rhaenys delivered the news with her usual blunt grace—“He’s called the council again. And it’s not your father’s idea.” Daemon only confirmed it, strapping on his sword with a look that promised violence if provoked. “He’s hiding behind your father again,” he said, smoothing his sleeve. “Same dance, different day.”

So she came. Pissed.

She and most of her small council arrived as the meeting began, cloaks sweeping through the great corridor without apology or explanation. Not to make a point—she didn’t need to. She was the point.

She had no time for this. Not with her wedding days away. Not when her schedule was already torn apart by ceremony fittings, guest arrangements, rider formations, and dragon procession rehearsals. She had things to do. Actual, necessary, history-making things. Her wedding wasn’t just an affair of silks and songs—it was a turning point, a reckoning, and she had a thousand moving parts to oversee. Banners, guards, speeches, dress fittings, and at least two lords who were threatening to duel over seating arrangements. She had guests arriving from every corner of the realm, some friendly, most not, all expecting her to greet them like some blushing maiden.

She also had to show her face at the archery competition.

Horyn Waters had earned his place in the final bracket—his scores alone proved it—but he was still a bastard with no family name, and now he faced a gallery of smug noble boys who had signed up last minute. They hadn’t trained. They hadn’t earned it. They expected to win by reputation. But Rhaenyra had promised fairness. And fairness required her presence.

And then there was the matter of coin.

The Eternal Arena had hosted roaring crowds the day before—bodies packed on every tier, smallfolk screaming, laughing, chanting—but this day? She had been told they hadn’t returned to the stands. They were instead lined outside the bank.

And she needed to confirm the amount.

She needed to see the numbers with her own eyes. How many Lady Dragons had already been claimed by the bank to cover the new accounts. How many of her five hundred still remained. She knew damn well that some only came because they were drawn by word of mouth, hoping to open an account and snatch up a silver wolf for themselves.

But she didn’t care—as long as they opened accounts so she could trace them. She had set aside enough coin quietly for every smallfolk in the city to have one. If they had accounts with coin in them, they would work for more. She had been working with her ladies for moons now to ensure that every smallfolk had employment before the end of the next year. It was all part of the plan. There was so much still to be done.

And instead, she was here.

Because Otto Hightower couldn’t keep his nose out of places it didn’t belong.

Daemon led the way down the passage, his steps slow, deliberate, a silent challenge to any man who dared question him. Rhaenyra walked beside Rhaenys, the soft thunder of their heels marking time. Laena followed, composed and unreadable, eyes sharp as ever.

They met Archmaester Vaegon and Ser Laenor just outside the chamber doors.

Vaegon gave her a quiet nod. Laenor leaned forward slightly. “He started without you.”

Of course he had.

Daemon pushed open the doors without announcement.

Rhaenyra stepped through, head high, braid tight, cloak unmoving. She crossed the chamber like it belonged to her—because it did—and sat in the Heir’s chair like a blade being sheathed.

“Father,” she said, clear and cold, “you called for this meeting?”

Viserys shifted in his seat, startled, hands fumbling toward the table. “Yes, I did, I— I just wanted to ask what you were thinking, opening a—”

“The bank,” Otto interrupted, leaning forward, voice louder than it had any right to be. “What was she thinking indeed?”

He didn’t stop.

“The Crown cannot afford to care for every gutterborn mouth in King’s Landing. You are setting dangerous precedent, Princess. One that the Crown cannot afford.”

The room froze.

Rhaenyra stood.

“If you refer to the Crown again as if you wear it—” she snapped, her voice rising—

“I will take your fucking head!”

The words slammed against the chamber walls like a hammer.

Otto blanched.

“There are only two who wear a crown,” she said, shouting now, the heat of every interrupted day spilling into her voice. “My father. And me!”

She stepped out from behind the table, fury in every word.

“I set aside five hundred golden dragons from my mother’s dowry personally for the people. To bind them to the Crown. The Crown my father and I wear.”

“I made a deal with Braavos. The debt to the Iron Bank? Paid. Wiped clean. And Valyrian steel? Back in rotation. Selling at three times what it was once worth.”

“I do what must be done. For the people. For the lords. For the realm. For the Crown.”

She leaned forward now, hands flat on the carved edge of the council table.

“You will no longer summon me like a fucking child to these meetings because you want answers. I give you orders. Not the other way around.”

Otto’s mouth opened, desperately looking for a lifeline from her father—but there was none.

So he came down from his high horse and bowed instead, eyes to the floor.

“Princess… Your Grace… forgive me. I meant no offense.”

She didn’t even look at him.

Her gaze slid to her father—who had flinched. Literally flinched.

Of course he had.

Her voice dropped to a quiet ember.

“Father,” she said. “I was going to tell you about the deal with Braavos. At the wedding feast. It was meant as a gift. For allowing me to marry Daemon.”

Viserys’s expression folded inward—guilt, shame, a sliver of apology.

He reached for her hand and patted it gently. “I’m sorry. I ruined your surprise.”

Then—because he could not help but be himself—he turned to Otto with an awkward, guilty chuckle.

“Well, Otto… seems you worried for nothing.”

Then back to her, blinking like a man trying to understand the fire he’d just seen.

“You got the price of Valyrian steel to go up threefold?”

She nodded once.

He blinked. “Huh.”

***

Daemon & Rhaenyra – War Council in Her Solar, After the Emergency Council:

The door slammed shut behind them.

Rhaenyra tore off her cloak, flung it over the arm of the nearest chair, and paced straight to the wine. She didn’t ask. She poured. The deep red filled her cup in seconds.

Daemon didn’t speak. Not yet. He watched her.

She downed the first half in one breath, then finally turned.

“Well?” she said, fire still in her throat. “Say it.”

Daemon tilted his head. “Why? You already said it better than I would have.”

She exhaled sharply through her nose and leaned back against the table. “He flinched.”

“I saw.”

“He let Otto speak first.”

“He always does.”

She looked down at her cup, then refilled it. This time slower. “I was going to tell him at the wedding. That was supposed to be his gift.”

“He doesn’t deserve your gifts.”

“I know.”

She took a longer sip.

Daemon walked to the table, leaned both hands on the edge, and stared down at the map sprawled across it—marked with pins, ribbon, charcoal lines. King’s Landing, stretched wide.

“Still want to go through with the next steps?” he asked.

Rhaenyra moved beside him. “We have no choice.”

He nodded. “The gold from Braavos is locked. The swords are en route. The learning centers projects in the Lower and Silk Districts are already drawing petitions.”

“And the housing applications?”

“Six hundred submitted. Five hundred approved. Most of them widows, veterans, tradesmen. Exactly the ones you asked for.”

She touched one of the pins near the docks. “And the ships?”

“Three ready to sail. One to Dorne, one to Skagos, one to Hardhome.” He glanced at her. “You still want the crates labeled with the dragon seal?”

“I want them to know where their work comes from.”

He nodded again.

They stood quiet for a beat.

Then Daemon said, “You didn’t ask if you went too far.”

Rhaenyra met his eyes. “Did I?”

He gave the smallest smile. “No.”

She looked back at the map. Her hand slid to the candle at the edge of the table and she pinched the wick, snuffing the flame between two fingers.

“I’m done asking for forgiveness.”

Daemon tilted toward her. “Good. Because they’re out of apologies.”

She didn’t smile. Not fully. But the corner of her mouth twitched.

She took another sip of wine, eyes never leaving the map.

“Then let’s finish this,” she said. “The wedding. The carnival. The bank. The new districts. Let them all see what happens when a crown is worn properly.”

Daemon reached for the pitcher, poured his own cup, and raised it.

“To fire,” he said.

She clinked hers against it.

“To blood.”

***

Rhaenys & Viserys – His Chambers, Before the Archery Match:

Two gold cloaks stood outside the king’s chambers.

They straightened at the sight of her, hands to hilts.

“I’m going in,” Rhaenys said.

Neither spoke. Neither stopped her.

She opened the door herself.

Inside, the room was quiet. No stewards. No scribes. No crown.

Viserys sat alone by the open window, slumped in a cushioned chair. A tray of figs and flatbread sat untouched on a side table. The light from the window caught only the thinning edges of his hair.

“I heard you were resting before the match,” Rhaenys said, stepping inside and letting the door shut behind her.

“I was,” he said. “Now I’m thinking.”

She didn’t sit.

“I didn’t come on Rhaenyra’s behalf.”

He raised his brows faintly.

“I came because I watched you flinch.”

He blinked, then looked away.

“When she stood up. When she defended the people, the coin, the deal with Braavos. You flinched.”

“She was shouting,” Viserys muttered, fingers twitching at the arm of his chair. “There was no need for it to be so—”

“She wasn’t shouting,” Rhaenys said. “Not at first. She only raised her voice after you let Otto run his mouth.”

“She caught me off guard,” he tried.

“No,” Rhaenys said, calm and cold. “She caught you being passive.”

That one hit.

“You knew she was making a deal with them,” she continued. “You just didn’t want to explain it. So you let Otto speak first. Again.”

Viserys exhaled through his nose. “I never meant for it to go like that.”

“She was going to tell you,” Rhaenys said. “At the wedding feast. The Braavosi deal. The Iron Bank debt wiped clean. All of it. It was meant as a gift.”

Viserys rubbed the side of his face, a bitter sound in his throat.

“She wanted to surprise me.”

“She did,” Rhaenys said. “Just not the way she planned.”

He didn’t look at her.

“She defended the realm while you sat there hoping someone else would take the blow.”

“She’s not queen yet,” he said suddenly.

Rhaenys tilted her head. “No. But you made her heir. And she’s already ruling better than you are.”

He said nothing.

“She’s carrying your debt, your smallfolk, your council, your fucking city. And she did it with every eye on her—and still made Otto bend the knee.”

“I never wanted it to be this hard for her,” he said quietly.

“It was always going to be hard,” Rhaenys replied. “But she’s not asking you to make it easy. She’s asking you to stop making it harder.”

She turned for the door.

“She still believes you’re worth the burden,” she said as she opened it.

“But if you sit there again while she burns for your mistakes, she won’t carry you with her.”

Then she was gone.

Chapter Text

One Day Before the Wedding

The sun hung low over the Silk District as Rhaenyra stepped out of her litter, boots striking stone with purpose.

Behind her came Frynne Martell and Lorra Arryn. The heir's guard formed a quiet wall at the entry to Moonwine Walk.

The street was clean and edged with soft lanterns, each etched with the three-headed dragon and a crowned teacup.

At the end stood the first of her new establishments.

The Tea House.

The silver-plated sign swayed gently above the door: a teacup curling steam shaped like a dragon’s tail. Two dragon cloaks in finer livery than usual stood guard beside the entrance, shoulders squared and swords sheathed but visible.

“Only ladies?” Lorra asked as they approached.

“Only,” Rhaenyra said. “No exceptions.”

The guards opened the doors.

Inside, the room was empty—but perfect. The hearth crackled in the far wall, casting warm shadows against the gold-painted trim. Round marble tables stood neatly spaced beneath crystal sconces. Cushions in rich green and rose sat around low benches. The scent was divine—pear brandy, cardamom, and lemon ginger.

And then the men.

Five of them moved through the room, testing trays, wiping glass goblets, adjusting chairs. Shirtless, every one. Bare-chested but not crude—adorned in high-waisted black trousers, gold embroidery at the hems, belts fitted to strong hips. Their skin gleamed from recent oil, muscles defined, expressions composed. No speaking unless spoken to.

One passed by carrying a sample board of crustless square sandwiches and honey-glazed chicken bites. Another poured steaming black tea into tasting cups without spilling a drop.

The menu was pinned to a velvet panel near the hearth:

— Isle of Faces – strong black tea, whiskey, and mint.
— The Reacher’s Reach – apple wine and thyme over chilled leaves.
— Dragon’s Breath – cherry brandy, fire-pepper, and smoked salt.
— Maiden’s Mercy – pear brandy and lemon balm.
— The Gold Cloak – dark ale steeped in clove and spiced tea.
— The Real Moon Tea – hibiscus with wine and a twist of lemon.

For food:

— Square lemon-curd sandwiches.
— Boneless chicken bites, herb-crusted.
— Open pies with mushroom and cheese, or ham and cheese.

Frynne took a bite from a passing tray and raised her brows. “That’s good.”

“They’re ready,” Rhaenyra said, eyeing the servers’ final adjustments. “We’ll return by moonrise. Everyone’s to wear color. No cloaks. No titles.”

“Yes, Your Highness,” Lorra muttered, already sipping The Reacher’s Reach.

They left the Tea House shortly after, satisfied.

A street over stood the second place. The darker one.

The Night Cap.

This one bore no swinging sign. Just a carved moon in dark oak above the door and two silent guards dressed in house black-and-gold, stationed on either side.

Inside was velvet and shadow.

Tables were fewer, the lighting dim. The whole place had been designed for low voices, full bellies, and lingering indulgence. A full bar lined the far wall—bottled wines, casks of rum, and rare ales already lined up for the evening.

Only women served here—curved, poised, efficient. Not overly dressed but not under either. Their hair was styled, their bodices tight, and their skirts slit just enough to tempt.

“This is for Daemon,” Rhaenyra said, checking the liquor shelf herself. “I want Harwin and Laenor to bring him here this evening. He’ll try to wriggle out of it, but they’ll make him stay.”

“Think he’ll behave?” Lorra asked.

“No,” Rhaenyra replied. “But he’ll relax. That’s the point.”

The menu here was different:

— Roast duck sliders with spiced jam.
— Fried goat cheese with onion glaze over beef ribs.
— Caramel almond tarts.
— Baked oyster trays in saffron cream.

For drink:

— The Dragon’s Tail – dark rum, burnt honey, and cherry.
— Storm’s Kiss – lime brandy with sea salt and mint.
— Velvet Flame – cinnamon spirits and blackberry wine.
— Harpy’s Blood – black ale, lemon, and ginger spirits.

The couches were plush. The corners private. No men allowed beyond the ones invited—and even they were escorted in and out by guards stationed for protection.

The women behind the bar laughed quietly, uncorking bottles and testing the taps. Rhaenyra tested none of it. She just watched.

“This one’s his,” she said. “Only his. Let them have the place to themselves this evening. Let the boys eat, drink, wager, and pretend they aren’t terrified of what’s coming.”

She stepped back into the light.

Both houses stood. Ready.

And by nightfall, one would host the fire of the realm’s future queen.

The other, the dragon at her side.

***

Later That Evening – The Tea House:

By moonrise, the Tea House was full.

The air shimmered with candlelight and laughter, soft music played by unseen strings drifting through the upper gallery. Incense of pear and amber burned low in polished bronze bowls. Steam rose from gilded teacups, sugar sticks glinting inside. A warm haze wrapped around every corner of the room, velvet drapes catching firelight, the scent of citrus, spiced meats, and flowered wine thick in the air.

All of Rhaenyra’s ladies-in-waiting were present, gathered in bold color and soft silk, no cloaks, no titles.

Laena Velaryon lounged back, her braided hair woven with gold thread, teasing Tanselle Celtigar over a misplaced bet in the card game between them.

Elinda Massey and Mhaegen Hayford passed a tray of lemon tea cakes back and forth, whispering about the Reachman lord who’d tripped trying to bow that morning.

Barbrey Bolton and Jocelyn Mormont sat across from one another, quietly watching the men pass with their trays—both sizing them up like potential sparring opponents.

Lorra Arryn sipped The Reacher’s Reach with arched brows and sharp eyes.

Kella Borrell, beside her, grinned into her tea.
Gwenys Blackwood and Perriane Bracken shared a bench, trading glares when they weren’t exchanging gossip.

Maris Baratheon leaned forward at a game of cards, her voice low, her smile dangerous.
Aelinor Tarth had refused to play at first—then joined and won twice.

Tyshara Lannister and Darlessa Reyne had the server with the sharp jawline all but flustered as they asked him to repeat the tea descriptions again and again.
Esgred Greyjoy and Alannys Harlaw preferred the Dragon’s Breath and the Harpy’s Blood, making a game of ranking the drinks by how quickly they burned going down.

Frynne Martell had taken over a whole couch, skirt flung over one armrest, claiming three drinks and one plate of boneless bites as hers.
Moriah Dayne sat beside her, hands folded, sipping calmly while her eyes missed nothing.

Their mothers were there as well—each one having journeyed to the capital for the wedding, each one seated in a place of honor. These were the women who had approved the betrothals, who now watched their daughters whisper and laugh in a place built just for them. Some played cards. Some sipped wine. Some leaned back and murmured to one another about the dresses they’d seen in the seamstress wing or who Lady Redwyne’s son was seen leaving the tower with.

And then there were the noble girls of the realm, the rising young ladies brought to court for the wedding festivities:

Lady Sharis Buckler, barely of age, was already leading a betting pool.

Lady Yannis Smallwood had lost three rounds of cards and still declared herself undefeated.

Lady Libby Piper couldn’t stop giggling at the server who kept passing her table.

Lady Marcelle Tumbleton and Lady Johanna Westerling sat close, passing notes between bites of open pie.

Lady Tabitha Footly tried her first drink and coughed so hard that three women rose to pat her back—then asked for another.

At the edge of it all were the most senior and most trusted:

Rhaenys Velaryon, regal and stone-backed, watched with one brow lifted, though her teacup never emptied.

Cassara Darklyn, calm and calculating, took mental notes of everything—every laugh, every whisper, every blush.

Rhaella Targaryen, all charm and silver-eyed poise, played host beside Rhaenyra herself, her hair half-up and eyes ever-dancing.

Lady Miriam Fell, who’d survived three courts and buried two husbands, smiled behind her cup and said little—but listened to everything.

They drank. They ate. They played cards and wagered desserts. They gossiped.

And Rhaenyra? She listened.

She heard who was betrothed but didn’t want to be. Who was pregnant and pretending not to be. Who had eyes for which knight, and which knight was seen visiting a married lady’s window three nights ago.

She learned which houses might back her next reform. Which mothers still whispered about her marriage. Which girls might make useful allies—or dangerous ones.

All while sipping Dragon’s Breath and smiling like the future hadn’t already been decided.

The fire of the realm’s future queen blazed in silence.

And this night, she burned with friends.

***

That Same Evening – The Night Cap:

Daemon arrived just after the moonrise, escorted not by guards but by friends.

Harwin Strong had him by the shoulder, speaking low in his ear with a grin that promised trouble. Ser Laenor Velaryon walked just ahead. The three of them passed under the carved moon above the door, black-and-gold guards giving a respectful nod, and entered the Night Cap.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of saffron, roasted meats, and cherry smoke. The lighting was low—amber-glow lanterns wrapped in gauze, flickering like dusk inside a bottle. A few candles floated in shallow glass bowls across a central fountain carved with moonstone maidens.

It was empty but for them.

Daemon’s eyes adjusted. His smirk came slowly.

Two women—servers—approached with quiet steps and silver trays. One offered the first round of drinks. The other passed them folded cloths to wipe their hands.

No speaking unless spoken to. But everything about the way they moved—the confidence, the subtle tilt of a hip, the practiced placement of the glasses—spoke volumes.

Daemon took his drink and looked around. “She did this.”

“Laid it out herself,” Laenor confirmed. “Drink menu. Food. Even the guards.” He raised a cup. “To the future queen.”

Harwin grinned. “To the husband who’d better stay sharp.”

Daemon only chuckled. “She wants me here so I don’t kill someone before the wedding, doesn’t she?”

“She wants you here so you’ll stop pacing holes into the tower floor,” Harwin said.

“She wants you here,” Laenor added more softly, “so you’ll feel the fire she built—before you stand beside her in it.”

Daemon didn’t reply.

Instead, he turned and surveyed the place. Plush couches draped in black velvet. Silk banners with no sigil, only a waxing moon. Shelves of wine, trays of oysters, sliders, tartlets, fried goat cheese set out across the bar.

The women moved silently through the room, restocking bottles, relighting the sconces, setting decanters with perfect precision. Their bodices were drawn tight, their skirts cut to flash just enough thigh, and their eyes never wavered unless they chose to.

It was not a brothel. It was not a tavern. It was something else. Something crafted—not for men to dominate—but to remind them of pleasure without power.

The rest of the night’s guests trickled in without fanfare.

Three Dragoncloak captains peeled off to the bar, trading coins over a dice game and licking duck fat from their fingers.

Ser Luthor Largent entered next, towering as ever, but nodding silently to Daemon as he passed toward the fire. Corlys Velaryon, already in mid-discussion with Lord Manderly, took a seat beside him. The two were soon arguing over ship routes, trade surpluses, and which sea port served the worst wine.

Archmaester Vaegon lingered near the far end, sipping something dark and spiced, studying the room like a puzzle.

And in the shadowed booth nearest the fountain, Larys Strong played a slow, quiet round of cards with one of the barkeeps and was—unsurprisingly—winning.

Daemon sat.

His cup was refilled without a word.

Harwin pulled Laenor into a dice game at the corner table. A second drink appeared before him without asking. Roast duck sliders were set within reach, and one server passed close enough for her perfume to linger without touching him at all.

By the time the first course was served—almond tarts dusted in cinnamon and warm cider cream—the squires had arrived, seven of them in mismatched cloaks and wide-eyed curiosity.

Clarent Crakehall, Alan Lefford, Titus Peake, Martyn Tarly, Roland Goodbrother, Cyan Snow, and Robb Rivers—all seated together under Harwin’s watchful eye.

Which did not last.

Flaming cinnamon shots were passed down the line, one after the other. Someone dared Martyn to juggle the lemon slices. Roland tried to balance a tart on his nose. By the fourth round, Cyan Snow was deep in debate with a barmaid about whether Bear Island’s mead could be classified as wine or mistake.

“I thought I told you to keep them sober,” Daemon said, barely glancing up as Harwin handed Robb Rivers another drink.

“You said keep them alive,” Harwin grinned.

Daemon didn’t argue. He leaned back against the couch, drink in hand, eyes flicking toward the moon-carved fountain at the center.

The food was as promised—goat cheese bites over seared beef, saffron oysters vanishing by the platter, almond tarts snapped up before the trays touched the tables. The wine was rich, the brandy stronger than memory. The servers moved with subtle grace, pouring refills, clearing dishes, never speaking unless spoken to. The mood was soft, confident, wrapped in velvet and smoke.

Laenor sauntered over with a cup in each hand. “To the last night of freedom.”

“I’ve never been free,” Daemon said, but he clinked the cup all the same.

As the drinks poured and laughter rose, he allowed himself to relax—just a little. Let the boys drink. Let the lords speak. Let the squire from Bear Island attempt a handstand and fall flat on his back to roars of applause.

For one night, the realm could wait.

***

Later That Same Night – The Passage Between

The candle in Rhaenyra’s chamber had burned halfway down when the stone shifted.

It was a soft scrape—barely enough to catch the ear. But she heard it. She didn’t turn at once. Just waited, back straight, eyes on the open window as the sound came again, followed by the creak of a familiar panel hidden in the wall behind her dressing screen.

She didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Then—

“I thought the Night Cap had claimed you,” she said, still facing the window.

Daemon stepped through the hidden door, shadows curling around his frame. “It did. Briefly.”

“Wine not strong enough?” she asked, finally glancing over her shoulder.

“Too strong,” he said. “Too rich. Too many eyes.”

“Even the quiet kind?”

“Especially those.”

She turned fully now, arms folded over her chest, robe drawn in silk and firelight. “And what order brings you slinking through my passageway like some thief in the night?”

Daemon stepped closer, smirking. “Is that what I am now?”

“Only when it suits you.”

They stood close now, breaths aligned.

Her fingers brushed the lapel of his tunic, smoothing nothing. “Did you at least enjoy yourself?”

He leaned in. “Not half as much as I wanted to.”

Her lips curved. “On the morrow, I’ll have my way with you.”

His hand found her waist, the robe parting just slightly beneath his thumb. “And I’ll be smiling through all of it.”

She kissed him—quick and hot—then pulled back with a spark in her eye. “Don’t think I’ll be gentle.”

“I’d be offended if you were.”

Another kiss, this one slower. His hands slipped down, anchoring at her hips. She responded in kind, fingers threading through his hair, pulling just enough to make him smile.

“I should go,” he said, mouth brushing her jaw.

“You should stay.”

He hesitated.

But only for a breath.

Then he stepped back, eyes lingering. “I have one more order to issue.”

He touched her hand—one final press—and slipped back into the wall, stone closing behind him with a quiet click.

Rhaenyra stood alone in the dim light.

Still smiling.