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Chapter Text

Oldtown, 1 AC

The Sept smelled of warm incense and cold stone. Seven thousand candles flickered beneath the towering statues of the Seven, their melted wax pooling like old blood on the floor. The Starry Sept had not seen such a gathering in a generation—not for war, but for peace.

Aegon Targaryen knelt before the High Septon, his hair silver-gold beneath the dome’s stained glass light. His sisters stood behind him, cloaked in royal purple. The dragons were not present, but their absence carried a weight of choice, not weakness.

Oil was poured. Blessings were spoken.

When the Septon raised his hand and proclaimed Aegon as King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, the sept did not erupt in cheers. It merely exhaled, as if holding its breath until the moment passed.

Later, as the bells rang out across Oldtown and the smallfolk lit lanterns in cautious celebration, three men lingered in a private chamber of the sept: Lord Manfred Hightower, the High Septon, and a young, sharp-eyed Maester with only half a chain.

“He could have taken this city in flame,” Manfred said, his voice low. “And yet here he kneels.”

“He has wisdom,” the Septon replied. “Or perhaps he fears what fire would do to faith.”

“He kneels because we allowed it,” said the young maester. “Had you not welcomed him, my lord, the dragon might have found reason to burn Oldtown after all.”

Lord Hightower clasped his hands behind his back. “He is crowned with fire. But fire does not last forever. Faith, though… faith survives the flame.”

The High Septon nodded slowly. “We anoint him. We bless him. And now he believes the crown rests on his head by the Seven’s grace.”

“And not merely dragon wings,” the maester murmured.

“Exactly.” Manfred Hightower looked to the arched window, where the night sky stretched across the horizon. “Let the dragon build his house. We shall build the world beneath it.”

“And when that house burns from within?” the Septon asked.

“Then,” said Hightower, “we will be ready.”

The maester said nothing. But his fingers, curled around the links of his forming chain, tightened.

Oldtown, 25 AC

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good,” said Lord Hightower. “Let the dragons wear our chains while they think they wear crowns.”

“And if succession turns unclear?” the Septon asked.

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

Oldtown, 41 AC

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

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

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

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

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

“And if the king resists?” asked Ryam.

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

“Good,” Ryam murmured. “The Citadel will ensure the message spreads.”

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

Oldtown, 42 AC

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She took the wine, unblinking.

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

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

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

The Citadel, Oldtown – 48 AC

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

“Maegor is dead,” Archmaester Vaelion declared, voice as dry as parchment. “Found split on the Iron Throne.”

“Suicide?” asked Archmaester Theomore of Ravens.

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

A pause.

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

“And the dragons?” asked Theomore.

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

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

Vaelion nodded. “Perhaps we give him books.”

“And silence talk of sorcery, blood purity, and Valyria,” said Ryam.

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

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

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

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

King’s Landing, 92 AC

The bells tolled over the city. Prince Aemon, eldest son of King Jaehaerys, was dead—struck down by a Myrish crossbow bolt on the shores of Tarth.

In the small council chamber, the mood was heavy. King Jaehaerys sat pale with grief, fingers clasped before him. Queen Alysanne stood at his side, silent and stern. Beside her, the white-bearded Grand Maester Elysar studied the room, his expression unreadable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The king closed his eyes. “Then Baelon?”

The room fell still. Elysar gave a shallow nod.

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

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

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

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

The Citadel, Oldtown – One Moon Later

A scroll was laid on a polished table, from their maestor.

“Prince Baelon named heir. Rhaenys passed over.”

Archmaester Vaelion tapped it with one finger.

“Predictable.”

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

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

King’s Landing, 99 AC

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

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

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

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

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

A gallant knight, known across the realm for valor and virtue. Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Loyal, beloved.

But not bred for governance.

The Citadel, Oldtown – Late 99 AC

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

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

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

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

“Otto?”

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

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

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

King’s Landing, 100 AC

Ser Ryam did his duty with the same discipline he brought to sword and saddle.

But administration is not war. He struggled to master ledgers, fumbled with tariffs, and moved too slowly for lords with sharper tongues. Smallfolk still adored him. Lords grumbled. The king grew weary. The old king saw the storm coming.

King Jaehaerys named Prince Baelon as Hand of the King.

Oldtown, Winter 100 AC

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

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

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

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

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

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

No one said the word poison. None had to.

“And the king?” asked the septon.

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

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

King’s Landing, 101 AC

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harrenhal, Summer 101 AC

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

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

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

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

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

Oldtown, Autumn 101 AC

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

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

“It is done,” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

King’s Landing, 103 AC

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

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

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

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

Oldtown, 103 AC

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The girl is favored now,” Eustace said, “but girls grow into women. Women can be shamed, manipulated, passed over.”

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

King’s Landing, 110 AC

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Otto folded his hands. “Make them happen.”

Runciter bowed.

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

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

The bells would ring again, soon.

Chapter Text

Kings Landing – 110 AC

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

That was what they expected of her. The cupbearer. The silent girl. The Realms Delight.

But Rhaenyra was not silent in her mind.

She watched. She listened. Every breath, every glance, every pause in speech was a lesson. This table ruled the Seven Kingdoms, and one day, she might as well—if they let her. And so she learned, one cup at a time.

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

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

To the king’s right sat the Hand, Lord Otto Hightower, draped in grey and silver. His eyes were always calm, always calculating. Otto spoke little, but when he did, the rest followed. He’d risen far for a second son of Oldtown. Too far, Rhaenyra often thought. He spoke with the weight of authority, as though he carried not just the king’s seal but the gods’ judgment. They said that the longer he served as hand, the arrogant he becomes. She did not trust him. Her father did. That was enough reason to be wary.

Beside him sat the Grand Maester, Runciter, his chain clinking softly with every nod. His advice always came laced in history, precedent, and "proper conduct." Rhaenyra had come to understand that he was less healer and more handler - ever nudging her father toward what the Citadel deemed acceptable. He was pleasant, with soft hands and gentler eyes, but his words were too smooth. He reminded her of a cat that had learned how to speak.

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

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

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

Lord Corlys Velaryon, Master of Ships, wore the sea like others wore cloaks—his presence always seemed touched by salt and wind. His dark eyes held the weight of a thousand voyages, and his words were sharp as reefs. Rhaenyra respected him more than most at the table. He was no court flatterer, no craven lord. The Sea Snake had sailed farther than any man in Westeros, his wealth rivaled the crown’s, and his ambitions were carved deep and proud. Some whispered that he had never forgiven the Great Council for passing over his son’s claim, but Rhaenyra saw no bitterness—only focus.

They were kin, after all. The blood of Old Valyria ran in his house as it did in hers. House Velaryon had come from the smoking shores long before the Doom, dragonless but proud, and Rhaenyra often thought of them as cousins in fire and salt. Corlys did not worship the Seven, nor bow easily to tradition. That made him dangerous to some, but to Rhaenyra, it made him honest. She watched him closely, and she knew he watched her in turn—not with suspicion, but with calculation. He was always measuring the tide.

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

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

Rhaenyra did.

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

They would remember her one day. Perhaps not as she stood now, silent in shadow—but as something far greater.

Fire, after all, learns even in silence.

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

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

A pleased murmur circled the table. Rhaenyra said nothing.

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

The council exchanged glances. Plans bloomed in the silence before Otto Hightower, the king’s Hand, finally nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No one looked at Rhaenyra.

She poured for her father and moved quietly behind the long table, her eyes drifting from face to face.

Otto, ever composed, already drafting half the invitations in his mind.

Lord Beesbury, muttering under his breath and counting coin as if it were breath itself.

Lord Strong, unreadable, ever the watchful pillar.

Corlys, who carried pride and salt in his blood, already thinking of sails and tides.

Runciter, whispering like ivy on old stone.

They spoke of her brother as if he were already born. As if the gods had already passed their judgment.

She said nothing. She only watched and listened.

Let them crown their tourney with golden hopes.

Let them write the songs before they’ve heard the cries.

She tightened her grip on the flagon. The wine trembled, just slightly.

And in her mind, she whispered a prayer—not to the Seven, but to older gods. The ones her uncle had spoken of.

She had been seven.

The day her uncle left court, his laughter echoing down the corridor as the doors slammed behind him, something had torn in her chest. Her father had said it was necessary. That Daemon had overstepped. That Otto had advised caution.

But Rhaenyra remembered none of that—only the way her feet had carried her, fast and wild, down through the torchlit halls and out into the city. Past gaping knights and hurrying septas, she had run to the Dragonpit.

To Syrax.

The dragon had been hers from birth. The egg had been Daemon’s gift, slipped into her cradle before the Old King could protest. It had hatched within days, golden-scaled and watchful, coiled around her warmth like a second soul. The king had been furious, of course—but Daemon had only smiled and dared him to take it back.

She had never feared Syrax. Not even then.

That day, weeping and breathless, she had scrambled up the warm stone where the dragon perched. Syrax had stirred, hissed once, and bent her long neck low.

Rhaenyra had climbed on.

They had soared before anyone could stop them—above the Red Keep, above the bay, higher than she’d ever imagined a body could go.

She remembered the wind in her mouth and the way the world shrank beneath them. The bells of the city became whispers. The sea a bowl of black ink.

When they landed, her hands were bloody from gripping too tightly, her hair tangled, her cheeks soaked in tears and windburn. Her father had roared, the Hand had threatened, her mother had wept.

But Daemon had only laughed when he heard.

“A true Targaryen,” he’d said. “Fire answers fire.”

From that day forward, Syrax obeyed her voice and no other.

Rhaenyra blinked, and the council chamber returned to her. The fire crackled. Otto Hightower was murmuring again, voice soft as dust. The Grand Maester nodded.

She did not hate them. Not yet.

The chamber had quieted. Papers were rolled, wine cups emptied, and soon the lords would leave to pen their invitations and polish their armor for the coming spectacle.

The council chamber had emptied. The great chairs sat vacant, and the only sound left was the soft pop of wood settling in the hearth. Shadows stretched across the stone walls, flickering with the dying firelight.

Rhaenyra lingered, as she often did. She liked the silence after the lords had gone—the stillness when the weight of their words no longer hung thick in the air. Here, she could think. Observe. Remember.

She left the council chamber, the echo of heavy doors closing behind her. Rhaenyra walked a pace ahead, her silks whispering with each step, her thoughts still turning over the words spoken and unspoken around the table.

Alicent caught up to her near the windowed passage overlooking the inner yard, her slippers silent against the stone. She moved with the grace of a courtier, every gesture measured, every breath deliberate.

“You were very quiet,” Alicent said, falling in beside her. “I thought perhaps your throat had gone dry.”

Rhaenyra didn’t look at her. “I was there to listen.”

A smile touched Alicent’s lips—gentle, practiced, unthreatening. “They say the Seven gave us two ears, but only one mouth. So we might better hear than speak.”

Rhaenyra’s mouth twitched, but not in amusement. The words sounded like something a septa would whisper to a child. And perhaps they had, once—whispered a thousand times until Alicent had learned them by heart.

“Then the gods have a poor understanding of council chambers.”

A small laugh, quickly stifled. Alicent lowered her eyes. “You shouldn’t say such things. The Seven are always listening.”

Rhaenyra glanced at her sideways. “Are they?”

Alicent sat on the bench beside her, hands folded demurely over her lap. She was always like this—composed, obedient, reciting from the same tired book of wisdom she’d been raised on. The septas had taught her humility, patience, piety. And she wore all three like a second skin.

“They are seven,” Alicent murmured, almost like a prayer, “but also one. The Mother, the Maiden, the Crone… all watch over us.”

Rhaenyra offered a polite smile, but inside she recoiled. It was always the same with Alicent—kindness wrapped in scripture, comfort laced with control. She could never tell if Alicent believed the words she spoke, or if she’d simply never learned anything else.

She wasn’t cruel. She wasn’t clever. She was good, and Rhaenyra could not breathe around her.

“You speak like a septa yourself,” she said, more sharply than intended.

Alicent’s brow creased. “I only meant to say… we’re never truly alone.”

That was the problem, Rhaenyra thought. She wanted to be alone. Alone to think. Alone to question. Alone to remember that not all gods came with carved faces and holy books.

Her silence drew on long enough for Alicent to shift, then rise.

“If you’d like to walk in the godswood later,” she offered softly, “I’ll wait for you.”

And then she was gone, leaving only the scent of lavender oil and sanctity behind.

Rhaenyra stared into the coals.

The Seven had never spoken to her. But fire had.

There was a hidden way beneath Maegor’s Holdfast, a passage sealed by myth and stone. The maesters dismissed it as legend. The septas warned against stories of secret tunnels and dark chambers. But Rhaenyra had walked them.

Her uncle had shown her.

When she was younger—perhaps nine—Daemon had taken her through a passage masked behind a sconce in the Queen’s apartments. They had gone by torchlight, moving past carved tunnels and hidden doors.

She had never forgotten the thrill of that night—or the way the walls seemed to breathe with old magic.

Now, years later, she returned alone.

The tunnel behind her wardrobe opened with a gentle tug. She moved swiftly, barefoot on cold stone, until she reached the ironbound door beneath the Keep—a vault carved into the foundations of the Red Keep itself. Not old like Dragonstone’s volcanic halls, but deliberate. Human. Designed for one purpose.

Worship.

This was no place of the Seven. It bore no statues, no candles, no windows for light to pour in. Only firelight, flickering from the shallow brazier carved into the floor’s center, and a ring of dragons etched around it in polished obsidian.

This was the chamber Maegor built at Visenya’s urging, a sanctum for Targaryens to remember their true gods, far from the eyes of septons and maesters. Only a few had ever known it existed. The old king had walled off its entrances. But Daemon had remembered. And now, so did she.

She knelt by the obsidian brazier as flame licked the edges of the stone basin, her hands warm with its breath. Shadows danced across the carved dragons etched into the walls, their wings like whispers.

In the stillness, she bowed her head, and in High Valyrian, voice soft as silk yet firm as steel, Rhaenyra began:

“Arrax, Firefather, King of the Eternal Flame, Lord of Flame Unending, I call upon your strength. Let your heat kindle courage in my mother’s heart, and burn away the fear.”

“Aegarax, Bloodmother, Queen of the Eternal Ichor, I beg your mercy. Shield the child within her womb. Let no blade of fate pierce her.”

“Vhagar, Warmaiden, Shield of Flame, Hammer of Fury—daughter of fire and blood—stand watch over them both. Let no shadow fall across their bed.”

“Caraxes, Flame of Victory, Winged Conqueror, Wielder of the Red Howl—bless this house with triumph, not loss. Let ambition find its shape in legacy, not grief.”

“Meraxes, Weaver of Songs, Mistress of Dance and Delight—bring joy where sorrow waits. Wrap your arms around our hall with beauty, not mourning.”

“Vermax, Flame of Wind and Trade, Patron of Messengers and Pathwalkers—carry the good news far, and keep misfortune wandering.”

“Meleys, the Wise, Scale-crowned Strategist, Giver of Justice—let this be fair, not cruel. Guide the maester’s hand, and still the trembling breath.”

“Balerion, Lord of Endings, King of Ashes, He Who Rules the Black Beyond—hold your hand, just for this night. Let no soul pass through your gate.”

“Draxtar, Life-Bringer, Planter of the Celestial Seed, Shaper of Living Flame—feed strength into the child not yet born. Let your breath be their first.”

“Onixa, Whispering Flame, Witch-Queen of the Shadows, Keeper of Vengeance—if harm should come unjustly, mark it. And may you answer in time.”

“Syrax, Golden Desire, my own—Lady of Passion and Flame’s Harmony—bind me, now and always. Watch with me. Burn with me.”

“Tyraxes, Huntress and Mother, Giver of Fields and Fertile Flame—bless the womb with bounty. Let your generosity pour through.”

“Tessarion, Dreamer of the Blue Flame, Oracle of the Coming—if a storm is near, whisper its name. Let me be ready.”

“Shrykos, Gatekeeper, Goddess of Beginnings and Ends, let this be a beginning. Not a closing. Let them come through the fire whole.”

“The Seven have seven faces,” Alicent had said earlier that day. “But they are one.”

A tired lesson from tired mouths. What were faces, if they only watched and never acted?

“The Fourteen have flame,” Rhaenyra murmured, “and fire does not sit idle.”

She sat in stillness until the brazier guttered low. Then she rose, heart steadier, voice quiet. She would go back above soon. Back to courtiers, councils, and waiting.

But for now, she had touched something older. Something true.

Chapter Text

Kings Landing – 110 AC

The shadow came first.

Long and sinuous, it slid across the sloped rooftops of King’s Landing like a streak of smoke against the pale morning sky. A moment later, the roar followed—raw, high-pitched, and unearthly, loud enough to rattle shutters and startle crows into flight.

Caraxes had returned.

There was no mistaking him. The Blood Wyrm was like no other dragon in the Targaryen stables—his wingspan wide as a merchant cog’s sail, his neck coiling and twisting like a whip of living flame, his long body built for speed and savagery. His scales gleamed red as garnet and his cry was not the thunderous bellow of Balerion or Vhagar, but a shriek—piercing, hungry, alive.

People looked up from streets and stalls, hands raised against the sun. They did not scatter or scream. This was not the first time they had seen a dragon overhead, and it would not be the last. But they knew this one.

“Caraxes,” a baker whispered, flour-dusted hands gripping the edge of her stall. “The Blood Wyrm.”

“And Prince Daemon’s come with him,” her apprentice murmured, eyes wide.

A murmured chant spread down the crooked lanes:
“The Prince of the City returns.”
“Daemon’s back.”
“Lord Flea Bottom rides again.”

A few daring children chased the dragon’s shadow as it passed over cobblestone alleys, laughing. Old beggars tugged at the sleeves of passersby, muttering, "You'll see. Thieves won’t sleep easy tonight."

Caraxes banked sharply above the Hill of Rhaenys, his great wings slicing the wind. He gave one final scream that sent flocks of pigeons flapping from the sept’s rooftops before descending toward the yawning mouth of the Dragonpit. The ancient dome trembled with the echo of his landing, dust shaking loose from its broken arches.

Daemon slid down from the saddle, his black leathers stiff from the flight, boots hitting the stone with a confidence that made the Gold Cloaks waiting nearby snap to attention. No great retinue met him—only a dozen men in armor marked by their golden cloaks and drawn swords. That was all he needed.

His smirk was as sharp as the dagger at his hip.

“Still standing,” he said, patting Caraxes once before striding toward his horse. “Good.”

The dragon hissed low and coiled into the darkness of the pit, like smoke into a bottle.

Daemon mounted and led his small company down the hill toward the Red Keep. The city welcomed him not with fanfare, but with whispers. With knowing glances. With a sharp intake of breath from a thief who ducked into a doorway. The Gold Cloaks followed behind, not in parade, but in purpose.

Small Council Chamber

The windows of the Small Council chamber rattled faintly with the lingering echoes of dragon wings.

Otto Hightower did not look up.

He sat stiff-backed in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin, jaw clenched so tightly it looked as though his teeth might crack. The shriek of Caraxes had cut through the city like a knife through parchment—that dragon had a voice that couldn’t be mistaken for any other.

“The Rogue has returned,” Otto said flatly.

“Prince Daemon,” corrected Lord Lyonel Strong, always measured. “And it seems he flies Caraxes without trouble. One must assume he is in good health.”

“Health is not the issue,” Otto snapped. “He was banished, not invited.”

Grand Maester Runciter cleared his throat. “The prince has not been officially exiled, my lord. His leave was… unofficially encouraged.”

Otto cast him a withering look.

Lord Beesbury fidgeted with the ledger at his side. “It is true, we have not the coin to feed a second dragon in the city. Not with a tourney planned—gods, the expense already threatens to—”

“I doubt Daemon intends to make himself a burden,” Lord Corlys Velaryon cut in. His tone was cool, edged with salt and steel. “When last he wore the gold cloak, the city slept more soundly.”

“And bled more freely,” Otto replied. “His idea of law is closer to vengeance.”

“And yet the people remember him as the Prince of the City,” Lyonel murmured. “Not without reason.”

Across the table, Rhaenyra said nothing. She poured wine into her father’s cup with steady hands, her face a mask of composure. But inside, her heart had stirred.

Daemon was back. And with him, the smell of smoke and chaos, of sharp steel and sharper wit.

She did not smile, but her pulse quickened all the same.

King Viserys, seated at the head, lifted his goblet and took a long sip before speaking. “Let us not leap to conclusions. Daemon is still my brother.”

“And the realm remembers what happened the last time he was welcomed back,” Otto pressed. “Gold cloaks in the streets, executions at dusk, merchants terrified to open their shops.”

“And crime dropped by half,” Corlys reminded.

“Fear is not governance.”

“No,” the Sea Snake agreed. “But it is effective.”

Viserys sighed. “We will speak to Daemon when he arrives. Until then, let us not quarrel over phantoms.”

The chamber fell into a tense silence. Only the distant sounds of city bells and the far-off rumble of stirred crowds filtered in.

Rhaenyra glanced at the long seat her uncle would one day take, should he ever be allowed to sit among them again.

She remembered how he had once called the Small Council “a room full of old men who think their quills are swords.”
And from the look in Otto Hightower’s eyes, he was sharpening his.

Throne Room

The throne room was quiet, its vastness broken only by shafts of golden light filtering through the stained-glass windows high above. The Iron Throne loomed as it always did—ugly, jagged, patient. But Rhaenyra paid it no mind.

She stood near one of the long windows, gazing out at the city beyond the Red Keep. King’s Landing sprawled like a living thing: smoke curling from chimneys, the far-off sound of hammers and shouts, the glint of water in the harbor.

She didn’t turn when she heard the doors creak open behind her. She didn’t have to.

“Uncle.”

“By the gods, you’ve grown,” came Daemon’s voice, warm and amused. “Are you certain you’re not someone else in a Rhaenyra-shaped dress?”

She turned, arching an eyebrow. “Are you certain you're not still exiled?”

He smirked. “Not anymore. Your father likes to forgive. Or forget.”

“Perhaps both.”

Daemon approached at an easy pace, hands clasped behind his back. His leathers bore the mark of dragon flight—dusty and singed at the seams. His silver-gold hair was tousled by wind, and his eyes gleamed with mischief.

She studied him as he drew near. He looked the same, but not. Older, certainly. Sharper in the face. Yet he still moved like a cat who believed all the world was his to toy with.

“You’ve taken your post again?” she asked, voice lighter now.

“Gold Cloaks are already trembling at my return,” he said proudly. “I mean to clean this city before the tourney. Can’t have whores and cutpurses betting on knights.”

“They'll still bet. They'll just be better hidden.”

“That’s why you’re my favorite, zaldrizes.” He winked.

Her Valyrian was better now. At seven, she had stumbled through the words. At fourteen, she spoke them as though born to them.

He paused, just a beat, then drew a small velvet pouch from his belt.

“For you.”

She eyed it. “Is it poisoned?”

“No. That’s for your septa. This is something finer.”

She opened the pouch.

Inside lay a delicate necklace, forged of Valyrian steel, fine as spider silk and dark as moonless night. At its center was a charm shaped like a stylized flame—a spiral dragon flame. Not too large, but intricately etched.

She breathed, “Valyrio...”

“From the old hoards,” Daemon said. “A true piece. Not a trinket. Part of a set. I’ve been collecting it for years.”

She looked up at him, brow arched. “Years?”

“I knew you'd grow into it.” His voice softened for the briefest moment. “You're not a child anymore.”

She let him fasten it around her neck. His fingers were deft, careful—not the brutal Prince of the City, but something gentler. Almost protective.

“It fits,” she said quietly.

“Of course it fits. It was always yours.”

She touched the flame resting against her collarbone. It was warm—though it should not have been.

“What does it mean?” she asked, studying the charm.

Daemon met her eyes. “This one? Fire. The first element. Arrax’s breath.”

“You remember all the gods,” she said, pleased.

“I remember what matters. We are not sheep. We remember.”

She smiled, but it faded quickly. “Sometimes I feel like I’m the only one who does.”

“You’re not.”

They stood in silence a moment longer, two dragonspawn in a hall of cold stone and rusted blades.

Then Daemon clapped her shoulder lightly. “Come. Your mother will wonder if I’ve kidnapped you.”

“You would’ve, once.”

“I still might.” He grinned over his shoulder. “But you’re too heavy now.”

She laughed—freely, without courtly grace.

And together, they left the throne room behind.

The Queen’s solar was filled with soft light and the scent of lemon balm. Gauzy curtains stirred with the breeze, and cushions were heaped by the windows where Aemma Arryn reclined, book resting atop her belly. She did not look up when the door opened.

“Daemon,” she said, turning a page, “if you've come to propose another ridiculous name for the babe, I swear on the Maiden’s mercy, I shall throw this book at your head.”

“I only said Vemarion,” Daemon drawled, entering without ceremony. “Strong, regal, rolls off the tongue.”

Aemma glanced up, brow arched. “It sounds like a seasoning. Or something you give to a stubborn mule.”

Behind him, Rhaenyra giggled.

“He also suggested Tessarax,” she chimed in. “And Aegrax.”

“I’m innovating,” Daemon declared with a flourish. “Old Valyria was full of strong names. Why should we be limited to Jaehaerys and Aegon and Visenya like a family of sheep?”

Aemma set her book aside and waved them both over. “Come here, you preening menace. And you too, little dragon.”

Daemon bent to kiss her cheek. “You look radiant, good-sister.”

“I look like I swallowed a melon.”

“You did,” he said. “A very royal one.”

Aemma smacked his arm lightly, grinning. “Your poor wife must pity you.”

“I imagine Lady Rhea pities a great many things,” Daemon said, breezily. “None of them me.”

Rhaenyra settled beside her mother and offered a conspiratorial smile. “He’s brought me gifts again.”

Aemma gave her a suspicious look. “Gifts? Daemon Targaryen does nothing without intent. What did he give you?”

Rhaenyra held out the Valyrian steel necklace glinting at her throat. “A necklace. Part of a set, apparently.”

“I call it the Princess’s Ward,” Daemon said smugly. “There will be a ring, a clasp, perhaps even a blade.”

“She doesn’t need a blade,” Aemma said.

“She’s a dragon,” Daemon countered. “She needs teeth.”

“She has you, doesn’t she?” Aemma quipped.

“Exactly,” he said, pleased.

The three of them fell into easy laughter. It felt warm here, in this sunlit room, far from the weight of thrones and titles. Just a girl curled beside her mother, and her uncle sprawled on the chaise like a golden cat.

“How are you feeling?” Daemon asked, more gently now.

“Large. Tired. Kicked from the inside every hour.” Aemma smiled, though her eyes were ringed with weariness. “The maesters say I’m healthy and progressing well. But they always say that, don’t they?”

“They’re cowards,” Daemon muttered.

“I think he should be named Melyrion if he’s a boy,” Rhaenyra offered, trying to lighten the mood again. “It sounds noble.”

“And if she’s a girl?” Aemma asked.

Rhaenyra shrugged. “Syraelle. Velyna. Something with wings.”

“Hmm.” Aemma looked thoughtful. “Let’s not decide until I meet them. I’ll know, I think.”

Daemon watched them both—his niece leaning on her mother’s shoulder, her laughter soft and bright, her face a mirror of Aemma’s younger days. His good-sister had always been kind to him, even when others would not. She did not fear his fire.

And Rhaenyra… she had his fire.

Aemma caught him watching.

“She’s grown, hasn’t she?” she said, nudging his arm. “I expect you’ll be telling her stories next. Dangerous ones.”

“She already knows the dangerous ones,” Daemon said.

Rhaenyra only smiled.

For now, all was well. For now.

Red Keep

The city shimmered in torchlight below, sprawled like a beast at rest—its narrow alleys and steep hills aglow with orange, like veins beneath skin. Daemon sat alone on the terrace outside his chambers, Dark Sister across his lap, a whetstone singing softly as he drew it along the blade.

He liked the sound. Steel on stone. Truth without artifice.

Below, the domed shadow of the Dragonpit loomed—Caraxes slept within its caves, coiled and content. His return had been quieter than expected. No riotous celebration. No fearful stares. The people of King’s Landing remembered him, and more than that, they loved him. He was their prince. The Lord of Flea Bottom, they’d called him once. Prince of the City.

But even princes could be bound.

He set the whetstone aside, jaw clenched as old memories stirred—memories that stank of damp stone and incense and cold hands dragging him down the aisle.

Rhea Royce.

The name tasted like iron in his mouth. Cold and sharp and bitter.

Rhea Royce. A woman of bronze and salt and stubborn chin, with no fire in her blood nor even a drop of silver in her hair. A marriage without fire. Without purpose.

Daemon had asked—no, demanded—a Valyrian bride. Someone worthy of his blood, of his dragon. Gael Targaryen had been of age, or near enough. Sweet, simple Gael—too gentle, they said. Too fragile. But she was still of the blood. There were others, scattered among the lesser houses descended from Valyria: Celtigar, Velaryon, even the Lyseni. Girls with pale hair and strange eyes. Girls who dreamt in fire. One would have done.

Instead, they gave him a Royce.

“A match of duty,” his grandmother had declared. “For the good of the realm.” The Vale had remained apart for too long. This marriage would bring them closer. As if he were some token to be bartered for fealty.

Why him? he had wondered bitterly. His brother had married the daughter of the Lord of the Vale—a true alliance. Daemon was given a minor Royce girl and told to be grateful.

He remembered the wedding. The Septon droning on, though it wasn’t his voice Daemon heard in his memory. It was his grandmother’s—Queen Alysanne—stern and brittle, speaking the vows aloud when he would not. He had stood silent beside the Royce girl in her woolen finery, watching the candlelight flicker in the Sept like the last gasps of a dragon’s breath. He had never once called her wife.

Their mutual contempt had bloomed from there, swift and enduring. She mocked his silks, his swordplay, his dragon. He mocked her hawking parties and her Vale traditions. They lived apart more than they ever lived together. That suited them both well enough.

Caraxes had fared no better in the mountains. The dragon had tolerated the high winds but hated the way the cold clung to his wings. He had never sung there as he did over the Narrow Sea.

Daemon returned to King’s Landing after drifting through the Free Cities, where at least the knives were honest and the women didn’t quote the Seven. Let the Royces keep their damp little mountain keep—he had tasted flame and decadence, and he wasn’t going back to sheep and sermons.

He rose from the carved bench now, adjusting Dark Sister at his hip. The blade rested there like it belonged. Like it had always belonged.

Crossing to the edge of the terrace, he looked eastward. Over the rooftops of the city, the towers, the sprawl of life beneath red-tinged clouds. Flea Bottom simmered with smoke and vice, the way it always had.

Tomorrow, he would begin the cleaning. Thieves, rapists, cutpurses—he’d gut the lot if needed. The Gold Cloaks would follow. They always did.

Kings Landing

By the hour of the owl, the purge began.

Daemon Targaryen wore no crown, but his gold cloak gleamed brighter than any circlet of power. He led two hundred watchmen through the filthy veins of King’s Landing like fire through dry wood—his stride unhurried, his orders clear.

The first to fall were the cutpurses and pickpockets. The city’s usual rats—boys with quick hands and broken teeth—were dragged from alleys, taverns, and the sept steps where they loitered. Hands were taken for repeat offenses. The gutters of Flea Bottom ran red with warnings.

Then came the known criminals—the smugglers, enforcers, and fence-masters who operated with impunity under the noses of lazy guards. Many begged, citing bribes paid to former captains of the Watch. Daemon showed them no mercy. “Their silence was bought. Your blood must pay.”

Debt-dodgers and brothel cheats were next. Men in fine silks—knights, merchants, hedge lords—hauled out of their dens for refusing to pay women who had sold their time and skin. “Every stolen copper is a nail in the city’s coffin,” Daemon said as one lordling was whipped through the Street of Silk.

The smugglers of active grain fared no better. Dozens of casks filled with barley and wheat were uncovered in cellars meant for saltfish. When confronted, the harbormasters stammered about price hikes. One dockmaster had already negotiated with Lyseni traders to sell the food abroad for gold. He was flayed of rank and shackled in the port square.

And still the filth ran deeper.

A pleasure den in the Eel Ward, run out of a noble’s townhouse, revealed nine girls, the youngest barely eight. Not mutilated—but drugged, starved, and perfumed for shipment to Lys. The Gold Cloaks smashed cages, arrested guards, and uncovered silk contracts bearing the seal of Ser Qorren Fell, a minor Stormlands knight with ties to House Fell and a marriage connection to the Dondarrions.

His house colors—green and black—were stripped from the door. Qorren himself was found at the docks, drunk on Arbor Red, preparing to oversee the next “shipment.”

He lived.

“Let him stand trial before the realm,” Daemon ordered, “Let them see who sells their daughters to foreign beds.”

But not all were spared.

Rapists were gelded.

Thieves lost their fingers. Repeat offenders lost their hands.

One hedge knight caught violating a child was flung into Blackwater Bay, weighted by the chains he used on her.

Then came the septons.

From the Septry of the Mother’s Mercy, Septon Osric was dragged weeping, caught in a house of ill repute with coin still clutched in one hand and a girl no older than ten in the other. At the orphanage by Cobbler’s Square, four septas and two septons were caught flogging children and keeping Crown stipends for themselves. The orphans lived on stale bread while the holy ones drank Dornish wine.

Daemon had the holy ones imprisoned, the children freed, and the Crown’s bounty seized.

He spared no dignity for them.

At dawn, King’s Landing awoke to silence, the kind that follows a storm. Torches still guttered along the city’s walls. The heads of criminals and knights lined the cobbled steps of the Dragonpit, while names and crimes were nailed to the gates of each sept, brothel, and merchant hall.

Word raced through alleys and rooftops like wildfire: “The Rogue Prince has returned.”

To the common folk, he was justice.

To the court… chaos.

Otto Hightower would hear tales—exaggerated, twisted—that Daemon had slain nobles in their beds, that he had gutted septons and burned grain stores in madness.

Let them talk.

Daemon returned to the Red Keep as the sun rose. His gold cloak was damp with sweat and blood, his dragon’s shadow trailing behind him on the city walls.

He had not done it for thanks.

He had done it because someone had to.

Tomorrow, the bickering lords in the Small Council chamber would clutch their pearls and cry outrage.

But tonight, King’s Landing has been cleansed.

King’s Solar – Next Day

The king’s solar was warm with lamplight, the air heavy with the scent of melted wax and dusty vellum. Viserys sat hunched over the model of Valyria, a fine brush in hand, dabbing gold onto a minaret while muttering about domes and spires.

The door creaked open behind him.

“Your Grace,” said Otto Hightower, voice clipped, strained. “We have a problem.”

Viserys didn’t look up. “If this is about the harbor tolls—”

“It’s about your brother.”

The brush paused.

Otto stepped closer, a rolled parchment in hand. “This morning two carts of bodies—limbs, torsos, gods know what else were dragged the Dragonpit.”

Now the king turned, slowly. “What happened?”

“The Gold Cloaks raided the city last night. Without warrant. Without command. Led by Prince Daemon himself.” Otto’s tone darkened. “A purge, they’re calling it.”

“Who did they kill?” Viserys asked, already weary.

“Ser Qorren Fell,” Otto began, voice sharp, “a landed knight of the Stormlands, cousin to Lord Fell, with marriage ties to House Dondarrion. Dragged from a dockside tavern like a common brute, beaten to death, and paraded through the streets without so much as a writ of charge. His house colors torn down. His name defiled.”

Otto leaned forward, each word measured with disdain. “And for what? Whispers. Rumors. Daemon’s word.”

He did not pause. “There are tales of a pleasure den torn apart in the Eel Ward. Blood on the walls, screams echoing through the streets. No trial. No summons. Just Daemon and his cloaks.”

“And Qorren himself?” Viserys raised a brow. “Gone. His name spoken in whispers—some say he was dragged from the docks, others that his corpse was one of dozens carted to the Dragonpit before sunrise. The streetfolk talk of severed hands and screams behind shuttered doors.”

“And the septons?” Viserys asked quietly.

 Otto’s lips thinned “Osric, Pollitor, Rodwell—vanished. Their septries were found ransacked. The Faith already whispers of desecration.”

Viserys rubbed his temples.

“The Faith will not be still, Your Grace,” Otto continued. “What will the realm see in this, Your Grace? That the Iron Throne now lies beneath the heel of a rogue prince? That there are no laws in King’s Landing—only Daemon’s whim and Dark Sister’s edge?”

The king’s face was unreadable.

“And this morning,” Otto said, voice rising slightly, “Merchants say their shops were ransacked. Nobles whisper that Daemon did not discriminate—that blood is blood, whether highborn or low.”

He stepped back.

“I urge you to summon the court. Let all hear what happened. Let Daemon explain why King's Landing woke to the stench of death.”

“And if the rumors are false?” Viserys asked, though his voice was hollow.

Otto tilted his head. “Then let him prove them false. Before the realm, before the Faith, and before you.”

The king stared at the window for a long moment, the model city forgotten on the table behind him.

Then he nodded.

“Send word. I want the court filled. The High Septon, the lords of the city, the smallfolk—everyone worth hearing. If there is truth in what you say, it will be heard in the throne room.”

Otto bowed, concealing the flicker of triumph behind his eyes.

“As you command, Your Grace.”

He turned and left, cloak sweeping behind him like a white-and-gray banner of war.

Throne Room

The Iron Throne loomed high above the hall, its jagged shadow cast long by the morning sun spilling through stained glass. The court buzzed with tension—lords and ladies summoned in haste, knights in full harness, maesters clutching ledgers, and septons murmuring prayers. The banners of House Targaryen hung heavy above them, black and red against ancient stone.

Atop the throne, King Viserys sat uneasy in his seat, his crown slightly askew, his fingers drumming the armrest. He looked tired.

To his right stood Ser Harrold Westerling, grim and impassive. To his left—Otto Hightower, robes of grey and white swaying as he stepped forward, parchment in hand, voice solemn.

“Your Grace,” Otto began, “the realm wakes this morning not to peace, but to blood. What was done last night in your name has shaken King’s Landing to its foundations.”

He let the silence settle like dust.

“Two carts of bodies were dragged to the Dragonpit at dawn. Some dismembered, others still bound in manacles. Among them, it is said, were men of noble birth—Ser Qorren Fell among them. A bastard of House Buckwell, too. Septons missing from their posts. Not tried. Not questioned. Simply… purged.”

The High Septon stood at the rear, pale-faced beneath his crystal crown. Septons flanked him like vultures.

Whispers rippled through the hall—accusations, disbelief, and outrage.

Otto continued, voice rising. “Is this justice, Your Grace? Do we now allow the Prince of the City to be judge and executioner of lords and holy men alike? Without proof? Without law?”

He turned, gesturing to the grand doors.

“Let him answer. Let the Rogue Prince speak for his bloodletting.”

The great doors groaned open.

Daemon Targaryen entered not with the pomp of court but with the swagger of a man who feared no hall and no crown. Dressed in black leather and crimson silk, Dark Sister at his hip, and a faint smirk on his lips, he cut a figure of fire and challenge.

Behind him marched six Gold Cloaks bearing no weapons—but dragging prisoners in chains.

The crowd gasped.

Ser Qorren Fell, bruised but alive, walked with a limp, blood dried along his temple. Septon Osric, pale and shaking. Two minor lords, hands bandaged, collars torn. And three brothel-keepers, their finery stained with soot and sweat.

The Gold Cloaks flung ledgers, contracts, sealed parchments, and silver coins before the throne.

Daemon did not bow.

“I was told there would be a reckoning,” he said lightly, eyes sweeping the crowd. “So I brought it.”

Otto stiffened. “What game is this?”

“No game, Lord Hand,” Daemon said, coolly. “Only truth. Truth in flesh. Truth in ink.”

He turned to Viserys. “You wanted order in the city, brother. I gave it to you. Cutpurses hang from the Street of Sisters. Rapists gelded in the alleys behind the Iron Gate. Smugglers await the Wall in chains. And these…” He gestured to the prisoners. “These are the ones who sold children to Lys. Who beat girls behind prayer-house doors. Who profited from silence.”

He pointed to Ser Qorren.

“His seal was found on Lyseni contracts. Nine girls, Your Grace. Sold like cattle. And he was drunk, waiting for the tenth.”

A stunned silence.

Daemon’s voice grew cold.

“No one died last night who did not deserve to. The rest? They stand trial. Let the realm see them. Let them speak. Let the court hear what crawls beneath the silk and gold.”

He turned to Otto.

“Unless, of course, you’d prefer we buried the truth with them.”

Otto’s face went still. No rebuttal. No words.

Viserys looked from Daemon to the prisoners. Then to the evidence.

Then he rose slowly from the throne.

“King’s Landing,” he said, voice gravelled but steady, “is safer this morning than it was yesterday. And that… is no small thing.”

“Your Grace,” Otto began again, voice clipped, trying to recapture the narrative. “Ser Qorren Fell, cousin to Lord Fell of the Stormlands—his seal found on Lyseni contracts, linking him to the trafficking of children. And yet he now stands here bloodied, not buried. I… was misinformed.”

Daemon’s smirk was razor-thin.

The court watched in stunned silence as each prisoner—noble, merchant, septon—was dragged forward. Charges read aloud. Ledgers presented. Witnesses brought. Some wept. Others raged. But none could refute the proof.

One by one, they were declared guilty.

Ser Qorren Fell, stripped of knighthood, was sentenced to die and forfeiture of lands.

The bastard of House Buckwell, once believed dead, stood alive and confessed to hiring thugs to extort and abduct children for forced labor. He was condemned to the Wall.

Three brothel-keepers who sold girls to Lys were sentenced to hang.

And then the septons.

When Septon Joseth and Pollitor were brought forward, the High Septon himself rose from his seat, robes rustling, face pale.

“These men do not represent the Faith,” he declared hastily, voice trembling beneath the crystal crown. “They are apostates. Heretics. I—on behalf of the Seven—denounce them.”

Otto blinked, stunned by the betrayal.

Your pawns, abandoning ship.

He stepped forward quickly, voice urgent. “Your Grace, these are men of the cloth. Surely… exile, penance, perhaps service in the Free Cities—”

Viserys silenced him with a raised hand.

“They used the cloth to hide rot, Lord Hand. If they wore our banners while selling girls, would you spare them too?”

The crowd erupted in murmurs. A few even jeered.

When the sentence came—hanging for the brothel-keepers, the Wall for the lesser accomplices, gelding for the rapists, and execution for the worst offenders—the crowd outside the hall roared its approval. King's Landing had seen justice done—and demanded blood in kind.

The High Septon bowed with barely disguised dread. He was warned, then and there, by the king: “Let it be known that the Faith must police its own, or the Crown will do so.”

Otto Hightower said nothing more. His throat was tight. His jaw locked.

He bowed as decorum demanded, but inside he seethed.

Daemon Targaryen had stolen the moment. Again.

He had turned what should have been scandal into spectacle, and worse, into triumph.

The nobles had seen him as a sword against corruption. The common folk—already calling him “Prince of the City”—now whispered of him like a hero from old Valyria. Gold Cloaks had followed his orders. The people cheered him in the streets. And Viserys, the soft fool, had let it happen.

Otto’s smile was thin. Too thin.

Later that night, in his solar, Otto poured Arbor Gold with trembling hands. The firelight caught the ring on his finger—silver, engraved with the Hightower’s beacon.

He stared into the flames, eyes hard.

“This cannot stand,” he murmured to the dark.

And the fire did not answer.

A shadowed chamber beneath the Sept of Remembrance, late at night

The flickering light of a lone candle painted Otto Hightower’s face in gold and shadow. His lips were tight, his eyes colder than usual.

“You stood before the King and denounced your own,” Otto said. “Septons, septas—your chosen, your flock. You threw them to the wolves.”

The High Septon, older than he appeared in daylight, lowered himself onto the stone bench. “Because they were guilty, Lord Hand. And their guilt endangered everything.”

Otto’s silence was sharp.

“They were sloppy,” the Septon continued. “Greedy. Arrogant. They broke the laws of men in the name of the gods, and worse, they did it openly. With witnesses. With paperwork. What would you have had me do? Defend them and be pulled down with them?”

Otto’s eyes narrowed. “We needed them. We still do.”

“And we will have more,” the Septon said, voice low. “But not if the Faith is seen shielding perverts and slavers. I gave the King a few heads to save the body. Let him believe justice has been done.”

Otto studied him a long moment, then exhaled, slow and bitter. “And the prince?”

The Septon’s smile did not reach his eyes. “Hee may think this victory his. Let him. The people cheer him now, but in time, they will fear what they do not understand. The gods are patient. So are we.”

Otto said nothing. Only his jaw, clenched tight, betrayed the fury stirring beneath.

Excerpt from The Fall of the Seven: A Reappraisal of Faith and Fire

Authored by Vaelarion Maerys, Senior Scholar of the Crown Collegiate of King’s Landing. Written in the 5th year of the reign of Queen Rhaenyra I.

  "The Black Morning of 110 AC," as later chroniclers would name it, marked the first public reckoning between Crown, Faith, and Nobility in what would become the Queen's Long War for Reform. In the seventh year of King Viserys I’s reign, Prince Daemon Targaryen—then returned to the city after a exile—led the City Watch in a brutal purge of criminal dens operating under noble and ecclesiastic protection. Two carts of bodies and body-parts were dragged to the Dragonpit that dawn, a message clearer than any royal decree.

While the court reeled, the High Septon denounced the arrested septas and rogue clergy, casting them off with feigned indignation. Records suggest this was done not from piety, but from fear—the Crown had made it clear that no sigil nor star would shield the wicked. Lord Otto Hightower, then Hand of the King, pleaded for mercy on behalf of the Faith’s servants, but his voice went unheeded. The nobles who were tried and condemned met the axe, to roaring acclaim from the commons.

Privately, resentment festered. It was the first time in living memory that septons were executed by royal command. Many in Oldtown would never forget—nor forgive. But to the people of King's Landing, it was the beginning of justice.