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Chapter Text

Prologue

The pain should have ended her.
She remembered the crunch of her bones between dragon jaws, the roar of Sunfyre, the smug gleam in Aegon’s eye as he watched her getting burned in fire. She remembered her son’s broken body, the crows in the Riverlands, the maesters whispering “kinslayer” as if she were not a mother who had lost everything.

She died screaming not out of fear, but fury.
Fury at a realm that tore her crown from her head and named her monster.

Rhaenyra Targaryen, the Realm’s Delight no more.
Maegor with teats.
Whore of Dragonstone.
Usurper.
Kinslayer.

They had named her such even when she still held restraint. Even when the blood she spilled was not her kin, they twisted truth to fit their hatred. So what would it matter if, she truly became one? If the world would not forgive her no matter her sins or virtues, then let her sins be real and righteous. Let their screams give weight to the names they loved to hiss.

She awoke to silk sheets and sea-salted wind. Her skin was untouched by flame, her bones whole. And beside her, breathing softly in the dark, was Laenor Velaryon her husband in name, not in truth. The air was heavy with the scent of wine, blood, and roses crushed beneath wedding dancers' feet.

Rhaenyra sat up slowly.

She remembered this. The ache in her thighs from the dance, the quiet disgust twisting in her gut. The sobbing Laenor had tried to muffle after Joffrey Lonmouth's skull had been caved in by Ser Criston Cole. The whispered apologies. The cold space between their bodies.

It was her wedding night. Her first.

And yet she remembered her last.

The betrayal of her council.
The fall of Red keep.
The death of Lucerys, Jacaerys, Viserys , Joffrey.
The fire. The fire. The fire.

She pressed her palm against her chest, her heart still beat.

A gift from the gods?
No. This was not mercy.
This was a warning.

She had begged, once. Pleaded. Trusted. Lost.

This time, she would be what they already named her.

If the realm wanted a Maegor, they would get one. But this time with teats and teeth sharp enough to rip kingdoms apart.

She would not fight for the throne.
She would take it.
And burn the liars in her path.

Let the Seven tremble.

Rhaenyra Targaryen had died.
But the dragon had awakened.

Chapter Text

She awoke in fire , not in flame, but in fury.

The crimson canopy above her bed looked like dragonhide soaked in blood. She blinked once. Twice. Then sat up sharply.

The scent of the Red Keep was unmistakable stone and smoke, roses wilting in the warm morning air, and the faint metallic bite of old blood clinging to the walls of her wedding chamber.

Her wedding night.

Laenor Velaryon lay beside her, facing away. His breathing was soft. Still grieving. Still broken. She could hear the occasional stifled sob, even in sleep.

Joffrey is dead.

Criston Cole had beaten his lover to death at their wedding feast. Before lords and ladies and gods. In her father's halls.

And walked away untouched.

Rhaenyra stared at her hands. They were clean. Unscarred. No burns. No blood.

I died.

She remembered fire. The sound of bones cracking in Sunfyre’s jaws. The stink of betrayal as her throne, her children, and her soul were torn from her. The whispers. The names.

Kinslayer. Usurper. Maegor with teats.

And now, here she was. Alive. In silk. In the Red Keep.

A day after her wedding. A lifetime before her ruin.

The gods had thrown her back. Why?

So she could change nothing?

Or so she could change everything.

Her fists clenched and she thinks about Cole.The man who took her virginity and acted like that made her his possession and then hurted her children.

He had gone to Alicent, twisting the truth like a dagger.

“She seduced me. She used her station. I was ashamed.”

A lie.

A lie that Alicent had swallowed eagerly. Used to wound her.

Not only had Criston Cole murdered a knight on royal grounds, at a royal wedding he had been rewarded.

Alicent had made him her sworn shield. Her sword. Her weapon.

The memory lit her spine like wildfire.

She stood, trembling with fury, and walked barefoot across the cold stone floor to the window. The towers of the Red Keep gleamed under morning sun. Below, the city was waking. So many lives moving as if nothing had changed.

They didn’t know. Not yet.

But they would.

Her eyes darkened. “If they already name me kinslayer,” she whispered, “then what does it matter if I become one?”

She had tried to be dutiful. To protect the Velaryon name. To honor her father’s crown. To keep the peace.

And what had it earned her?

A husband too soft to stand with her.
A realm too blind to care.
Children ripped from the skies.

She thought of Laenor now kind, well-meaning Laenor whose grief was real, but whose love had always belonged to another.

He had never shielded her. Never stood for her. Always distant. Always elsewhere. His joy, his sorrow, his life lived behind locked doors and in whispers of other men.

A good friend.
A terrible husband.
A weight around her neck as she tried to fly.

And Rhaenys...

Rhaenys, who had looked at her children like they were stains. Who had never spoken a word of defense, who had let the world whisper Strong and bastards and treason, even as Rhaenyra had risked everything to preserve Laenor’s name.

She had tried to protect him. To preserve their house. To honor their arrangement.

And still, in the end, Rhaenys had believed she killed her son.

Then let her believe it. Let her be right.

“I will go to hell for being a kinslayer,” she said, voice calm, “if it means my children live full, untouched lives. If it means that green never darkens their skies.”

No mercy.
Not this time.
Not for men.
Not for women.
Not for children.

The door creaked open. A face peeked in. Pale, quiet, cautious.

“Lara,” Rhaenyra said, voice softening.

The maid stepped in and curtsied low. “You summoned me, Your Grace?”

She had been only a handmaid once come to court with her mother when Queen Aemma still lived. Sweet, loyal Lara, with gentle hands and sharper instincts than most of the small council. Rhaenyra had trusted her more than any lord.

Alicent had her sent away.

And Rhaenyra had been able to do nothing.

But not this time.

“You are loyal to me, aren't you?” Rhaenyra asked quietly.

Lara looked up and said plainly but devotionally,“You are my princess."

Rhaenyra stepped forward, eyes like burning coals. “I will ask you to do something dangerous. It will take nerve. Precision. Loyalty.”

Lara nodded without hesitation. “Whatever you command.”

Rhaenyra smiled.

A slow, deadly smile.

“You were the only one left at the end,” she murmured thinking of Aegon,“Let us begin sooner this time.”

She leaned in and began to whisper.

The fire in the hearth crackled louder as if it, too, leaned in to listen.

And beyond the walls of the Red Keep, the realm still slept.

But not for long.

Chapter Text

The morning air in the Red Keep was far too still.

Rhaenyra sat in her chamber, the sunlight slanting in through tall windows, casting long shadows across the stone floor. Her hands were clasped before her, unmoving, her expression carved from quiet fury. The fire from the brazier beside her crackled low, as if in reverence.

She did not speak. She only thought.

One plan.One sweeping stroke to remove every thorn, every rot-veined branch that might rise against me.

They had made her into a villain in her past life, so now she would become one with purpose. Let them curse her name. Let the gods look away.

This time, the thorns would not be allowed to grow.

She leaned back slightly, exhaling through her nose. It would begin soon. The wheel would turn. And when the blood dried, there would be no challengers left.

Then

A scream.

The kind that echoed off walls and chilled the air.

Another voice, shouting, rough and panicked: "Hold him down! For the love of the Seven hold him!"

Rhaenyra rose instantly, skirts sweeping the floor as she crossed to the door. Her chambermaids flinched as she passed, their faces pale. She didn’t ask. She didn’t need to. Her feet moved fast through the halls of the Red Keep, her heart steady in her chest.

When she reached the nursery corridor, the scene was chaos.

A maid was wailing, collapsed in a corner with her face in her hands. A small crowd had gathered: guards, nobles, frightened servants. The nursery door stood wide open.

Inside, a Kingsguard Ser Rymon, a minor knight was kneeling beside a crumpled body in white armor.

Criston Cole.

Dead.

Laenor Velaryon lay sprawled on the floor across from him, blood staining his doublet.

Gasps filled the air as two more bodies were found
tiny, still, silent.

Prince Aegon and Princess Helaena.

The room seemed to lurch.

Alicent pushed through the crowd, her face pale and stricken. When she saw her children, a terrible sound escaped her throat a scream that shattered into sobs. She tried to run to them but was held back by a maid and a guard.

"My babies!"

"What happened?!" King Viserys bellowed as he arrived, red-faced, coughing, fury and confusion contorting his features. "Seven hells-- WHAT HAPPENED HERE?"

All turned as a quiet voice rose behind them.
A maid collapsed against the wall, sobbing uncontrollably. "Your Grace!" she managed, voice breaking. "Your Grace , I am Lara. I tend to Princess Helaena. I came to fetch the children for their breakfast… and I… I saw Ser Cole. He stood over Prince Aegon’s body… he… he was muttering to himself. Saying things I-- "

Viserys barked, voice hoarse and quaking, "What things?!"

"He said... he said if it weren't for the boy, for them, Alicent would have been his. That these children are the betrayal. The symbol of everything taken from him." Her voice cracked. "I...I didn’t know what to do. I slipped away quietly. Only Ser Rymon was outside. He told me to get help. I found Ser Laenor."

She pointed to the dead prince.

"He ran in with the guard. They tried to stop Cole. He was… he was raving. He said he had loved Alicent. That they were to wed. But then…" she gasped, breath hitching. "Then that bitch Otto-- his words Your Grace that he sent her to the king's bed. That he sacrificed her to the crown, to whore herself to a king. That these children were born of that betrayal and were bastards and thus, they needed to die."

Alicent gasped as though stabbed. Her face lost all color.

Gasps again. Alicent went deathly still.

"I was frightened," Lara continued. "I didn’t know what to do. I slipped out quietly and ran to find someone. Only Ser Rymon was nearby. He told me to call more help. I found Ser Laenor and we returned together. We tried to stop him."

She broke off, choking slightly. "Criston… he fought like a madman. He kept screaming about how Lady Alicent was supposed to be his, and how Otto sold her to the king. That he’d been used. That these children had to die because they were… symbols of that betrayal."
"She lies!" Alicent cried, shaking her head violently. "She lies, she’s mad! That girl is lying..."

"No," said Ser Rymon, stepping forward, his voice shaking. "She speaks true. I heard it too, Your Grace. Cole said those very words… that the Queen was meant to be his, and that Otto sent you to the king. He called you pure, pious… and damned everyone else. I heard him say it myself before I struck him. He had just run Ser Laenor through. He was distracted. I took the chance."

The silence that followed was deafening.

Alicent shook her head, weeping, backing away from the nursery.

Rhaenyra stepped forward, eyes locked onto Alicent.

"You... you had feelings for him? Still?" Her voice was cold, but a tremor beneath it betrayed the fury boiling just beneath the surface. "My gods, Alicent. When you spoke of Ser Cole before your wedding when we were both maidens, I thought it mere girlish infatuation. But you were in love?"

Alicent trembled, silent.

Rhaenyra's voice rose, sharp and unforgiving. "You made him your sworn shield! Your Kingsguard! After all that? Even after he murdered a man at my wedding-- my wedding! and you… you pardoned him? Was it because you still loved him?"

Alicent took a step back. "I...I did not…"

"Tell me then! Why else would you shelter a kinslayer in white cloak? Why protect him? Why keep him at your side even after he bloodied his sword in jealousy and spite?"

Alicent turned toward Lara, eyes blazing with desperation. "She’s lying. This is all lies!"

Viserys’s voice suddenly turned sharp, cold with suspicion. “Then tell me, Alicent… how did he know?” Alicent froze. “What--” she barely managed, but Viserys stepped closer, eyes narrowed with dawning fury. “How did Cole know that you visited my chambers before our wedding? That night. Those nights. That was a secret only you and I knew. I never told Otto. I never told anyone. So how did Cole know, Alicent?” Alicent opened her mouth, but no words came just a crack in her composure, then another. “Answer me!” Viserys thundered, but she couldn’t. Her face was frozen terror, guilt, confusion all spilling at once.

Then Rhaenyra’s voice rose, suddenly hysterical, high and trembling. “Because of you. Because of your infatuation, Alicent. Because you couldn’t stop playing games of love and lies. My siblings are dead. DEAD! Aegon, Helaena they were babies! And Laenor--” Her voice cracked as she looked straight at Alicent, her eyes wild and watery. “I’m a widow. On the second day of my wedding.” She stumbled forward, hands trembling, voice fractured between fury and grief. “What did you think would happen, Alicent?” she whisper-screamed. “When you made the man who butchered a knight in front of so many people at my wedding no less as your sworn protector? When you kept him at your side, let him stew in madness and poison? You let a sword fester in the heart of this family and now--now everything bleeds.”

“I never meant…” Alicent tried, barely audible, still shaking.

“You never meant to lie? You never meant to use him?” Rhaenyra cut her off, her voice like a whip. “Then why, why was he still here? Why was he whispering such things in the dark? Did you love him still? Did you dream of the life you didn’t have?”

Alicent broke down completely, crumbling under the weight of it all.

Rhaenyra’s final words landed like a curse. “Your heart may have wept for him, Alicent. But now your hands are soaked in my family’s blood.”

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra stumbled into her chambers, the door slamming shut behind her with a thunderous echo. Her breathing was uneven, ragged, and her limbs moved with a jittery, erratic energy. She looked around the room the silks, the carved dragons, the bed that still smelled of Laenor and let out a sound that was somewhere between a gasp and a laugh.

Then, it came again. A laugh. Hysterical. Ugly. Harsh.

“They called me kinslayer,” she whispered to the empty room, eyes wild and glassy. “All those whispering tongues. Kinslayer. Targaryen madness, they said. Rhaenyra the Cruel and Maegor with teats.”

Her voice cracked and she covered her mouth, laughing harder now, as if mocking herself.

“And now I am,” she said, eyes shining with tears. “Now I am one.”

She spun around slowly, laughing through her tears. “Just like him. My father. He butchered my mother without a blade and I… I’ve burned my brother and sister. My father’s children. My siblings.”

She sank down to the edge of the bed, gripping her hair as her shoulders trembled. “Maybe we’ll meet again, he and I,” she whispered. “In the afterlife. A family reunion in the depths of hell. Targaryens, united by sin.”

The laughter died slowly in her throat, replaced by a silence so deep it seemed to swallow the air itself. Her eyes were vacant for a long moment before she blinked, her breath slowing.

Then she stood. Straightened her spine. Wiped her face.

“Ser Rymon,” she called hoarsely. The Kingsguard entered, followed by her handmaiden Lara, both their expressions tight with concern. Rhaenyra didn’t meet their eyes at first. Instead, she reached into a drawer and pulled out a small leather pouch, heavy with the clink of coin.

She held it out to them. “Here,” she said softly. “Gold dragons. Enough to buy freedom from court, from whispers, from war.”

Rymon frowned, confused. Lara looked at the pouch, then at Rhaenyra. “Princess?”

“You have both served me without question. Protected me. Walked through fire and shadow for me.” Her voice cracked, but she steadied it. “You deserve more than gratitude. You deserve a life.”

She pressed the pouch into Lara’s hands and looked between the two of them.

“You can marry now. Or run, if you wish. You’ll always have a place in my household. But if you want to leave… this madness… no one will stop you.”

Rymon looked down, his throat working. Lara blinked back tears.

And for the first time since her wedding night, Rhaenyra smiled soft, tired, hollow.

“You’ve both been brilliant.”

Rhaenyra pressed the pouch of dragon coins into Lara’s hands, the weight of gold soft between them, the silence heavy after her words. "You have both served me with more loyalty than half my blood ever did," she said, her voice still hoarse from her earlier outburst. "Take this. It’s enough for a wedding, a home, a life. And know this, so long as I draw breath, you will always have a place in my household."

Lara blinked, the coins trembling in her fingers. Her mouth parted, but it was Ser Rymon who stepped forward first, his voice firm but low with emotion.

"Your highness," he said, falling to one knee before her, head bowed. "Gold means little compared to the honor of serving you. Your mother Queen Aemma gave us both everything when we were on the brink of death.You could have given me nothing and I would have followed you into fire if only to repay the favour that Queen Aemma did to us."

He looked up then, and there was no hesitation in his eyes. Only fierce, undying loyalty. "You are my princess. And I am your servant always."

Lara, tears welling, followed suit, kneeling beside him. "You gave me more than coin," she whispered. "You and the Queen gave me purpose. Dignity. A name worth serving. I will never forget that."

Rhaenyra looked at them , her knight and her handmaid and something warm broke through the chill in her heart. Not joy. But something like steadiness. Like a heartbeat in a storm.

"Then rise," she said softly. "And stand with me. The road ahead is bloodied and broken. But I will not walk it alone."

And they rose.

Rhaenyra stood before the dying fire, her arms crossed tightly, breath steadying after the storm of emotion.

“Lara,” she said at last, voice soft but purposeful.

Lara stepped forward. “Yes, Princess?”

“I want what happened in that hall today repeated in every corner of the Keep. In the kitchens, the corridors, Flea Bottom, and the court itself. Every whisper, every word spread it.”

Lara hesitated only for a moment. “You mean... about the Queen? About what she did?”

“Yes,” Rhaenyra said, her jaw tight. “Let the realm know that she, the pious Queen was sent to my father’s bed by her own father like a gift-wrapped offering. Let them hear how she bore children while my mother’s blood was still drying on her birthing sheets. Let them hear how she kept a lover by her side all while acting like a devoted consort.”

Lara blinked, stunned by the force beneath Rhaenyra’s composure.

“She played the part of the faithful daughter,” Rhaenyra continued coldly, “while the True Queen , Our Queen Aemma was forgotten. Let the smallfolk decide which woman the gods favor now.”

“I will, Princess,” Lara said, voice low with reverence. “They’ll hear it all. No one will be able to look at her the same.”

“Good.” Rhaenyra’s eyes gleamed in the firelight. “And tell Lord Strong and Ser Harwin that I wish to meet them."

Lara gave a sharp nod and moved quickly toward the door, her pouch of dragon-stamped gold heavy beneath her cloak.

As the chamber grew still once more, Rhaenyra pressed her palm to the carved wood of her desk, breathing slow and deep.

Alicent had tried to steal everything.

Now Rhaenyra would take it all back. With fire, and with truth.

-------------------

The Chamber of the Hand

Lord Lyonel Strong stood stiffly at the edge of the chamber, eyes weary from sleepless hours, beard slightly grayed with ash and thought. The room was dim, torches low, the air thick with the weight of recent death.

Rhaenyra entered without ceremony, her gaze steady despite the pallor on her face. The silk of her gown whispered against stone as she walked, but her voice was steel.

Rhaenyra:
“Have the ravens been sent?”

Lord Lyonel bowing slightly,“No, Princess. The King has… collapsed. The Maesters say his grief overcame him. And in the absence of his word, no missives have left the Red Keep.”

Rhaenyra calmly, "Yes. I heard.”

The memory flickered behind her eyes. Her own hands, steady as stone, had held the goblet. A gentle smile on her lips as she urged her father to rest.

“Drink this, Father. It will soothe your grief. Only water , to quiet your thoughts.”

He drank it all. His breathing slowed. His eyes turned glassy. And then, he slipped into unconsciousness, limp in her arms.

“Sleep, Father. You’ve suffered enough. Let me carry the burden now.”

The flashback faded, giving way to the present where Rhaenyra stood tall, her voice sharper and edged with command.
“The King is not able to rule. And as his named heir, I now take responsibility for the realm. You will send the ravens,” she said.

Lord Lyonel looked at her, measured but unsure. “To whom, Princess?”

“To all of them,” she replied, unwavering. “Every house in the realm. The truth is already flying on the tongues of ravens and whispers in the halls. I will not allow lords to piece together fables when facts are mine to give.” She walked closer, lifting a sealed scroll bearing her personal sigil. “This is to be sent to Driftmark. Another to Lady Laena and Prince Daemon at whatever port or isle she now dwells. They will hear it from me.”

Lord Lyonel’s brows furrowed. “And to Oldtown?”

“Yes,” Rhaenyra said coldly. “A special letter to them. Write that I command the presence of the entire Hightower household. All of them the men, the women, the children. They will come to King’s Landing and answer for what has transpired.”

“Princess… to summon their women and children--” Lord Lyonel hesitated.

“They were the ones who planted poison into the root of this House,” Rhaenyra cut in sharply. “I will dig it all out, root and stem. Now go. Draft the letters. I want them sealed and sent before the sun sets. And inform me the moment the Velaryons arrive, or their banners are seen on the horizon.”

Lord Lyonel bowed, voice steady now. “As you command, Princess.”

Then she turned to Ser Harwin.

He straightened, as if sensing something shift in the air.

“I need someone I can trust,” Rhaenyra said. “Someone with strength and silence. You have both.”

Harwin bowed his head. “You have them, Princess.”

“Then I name you my sworn shield,” she said. “From this day forward. You will guard me and mine with your life. No one passes to me without your knowledge. Not Maester, not knight, not Queen.”

Harwin dropped to one knee. “I swear it before gods and men. My sword and my life are yours.”

She looked down at him not with warmth, but with the satisfaction of a move well-played on the board.

“Rise, Ser Harwin. You are mine now.”

-------------------

The air was still, scented faintly with myrrh and parchment. Rhaenyra sat in her carved chair, ink staining her fingers from freshly sealed ravens. Ser Rymon stood before her, silent but watchful.

She looked up from the map of the city laid before her. Her voice was calm. Calculated.

"You have a brother, don’t you, Ser Rymon? A brother who runs with the street shadows… the mob, as they call them."

Ser Rymon stiffens slightly, then bows his head. "Yes, Princess. He lives in Flea Bottom. Commands… a kind of loyalty."

Rhaenyra nods slowly. "Good. Then I’ll ask something of you ,something the realm must believe happened… not by command, but by wrath."

She rose, walking to the window overlooking the sea, the faint outline of incoming ships dotting the waterline.
"The Hightowers will dock soon. They will disembark, proud and sanctimonious as ever, riding in their carved carriages through the lower city."

She turned back to him, her eyes cold with purpose.
"I want your brother’s people to be there. Waiting. Make it seem as though the Seven's faithful have turned against the most 'pious' house in the realm. Let the whispers rise that the Hightowers, once the beacon of the Faith, whored their own daughter for power."

Ser Rymon is tense. "And what would they do?"

"They will do what enraged men do when they feel betrayed. Let it be said the smallfolk were furious to learn the Queen kept a lover who murdered a prince and princess in cold blood. That the gods themselves turned their faces from House Hightower."

She walked toward him, her voice low and precise.
"I want them attacked once they pass the Spice Market carriages overturned, guards overwhelmed. Some Hightowers must die specially Otto. Others… left too broken to rise again. By the time the Gold Cloaks stir from their wine-soaked barracks, it must be done."

Ser Rymon bows. "It will be done, Princess. They will believe it was justice… the realm’s vengeance."

Rhaenyra gives a faint smile. "No. They will believe it was the gods’ vengeance."

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra sat by the tall window, the morning sun painting golden stripes across her chamber floor. She didn’t look up when Lara entered ,only raised a brow, expectant.

“Well?” she asked coolly.

Lara bowed. “Yes, Princess. I sent a girl to the High Septon at the Red Keep's sept as instructed. She told him that she was deeply troubled that someone like the queen who has committed so many unholy acts was allowed to enter the sept and be near the children learning their prayers. She told the septon that she wondered if such a presence might corrupt them.”

Rhaenyra finally turned, amusement flickering in her eyes.

“And?”

“He was furious. He ordered the queen out of the sept, said her presence was unbecoming. She left red-faced.”

A laugh bubbled from Rhaenyra’s lips sharp and cold. “Oh, Alicent... And to think, the gods haven’t even started punishing you yet.”

She waved a hand. “Spread another whisper, Lara. Something delicate. Say that the Queen wore green again her father’s colors, not her husband’s. In the sept, no less. Is that not blasphemy? A quiet betrayal of her sacred vows? Let the court ponder whether she honors her husband... or still serves her own house.”

Lara nodded and left.

Rhaenyra’s voice remained quieter now, silk wrapped around steel.

“This is only the beginning.”

She rose, stepping closer to the fire, shadows dancing along her face.

“You humiliated me for ten years, Alicent. Ten long years in this very keep. I had to run away from the place that was my own home because of you. But you-- ” her voice curled into a hiss, “you won’t have Dragonstone to run to. No precious boys to keep you company. No Otto to pull your strings. No sept to weep in.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes gleamed.

“I will suffocate you with shame, until every corridor of this keep echoes with your disgrace." Her hands gripped the stone ledge.
“When your precious family crumbles beneath the weight of your sins… when they die, all at once, what then, Alicent? Will you pray to your gods? Or sell your soul to the next monster who offers you power?”

She chuckled again.
“Larys Strong won’t be enough this time. Nothing will be.”

She laughed again, crueler this time. Not loud. Not mad. Just certain.

----------------------

POV: Lara

The corridor was quiet, save for the muffled voices beyond the Queen’s solar.

Lara stood near the arched doorway, eyes lowered, hands clasped. She wasn’t supposed to linger but no one noticed the silent ones. No one ever noticed the shadows.

Inside, the words were loud enough to pierce the heavy doors.

"...attacked on the Rosby road, Your Grace. The convoy never reached the city."

A pause. Then the voice of the guard continued, faltering, unsure.

"Lord Otto… dead. Ser Gwayne. Your cousin Ormund... the entire party. Burned."

A sound escaped the Queen not a scream, not a word. A choked thing, broken and raw. Fabric rustled, something shattered. Perhaps a cup thrown. Perhaps the woman.

Alicent's sobs followed. Uncontrolled. Ugly. Real.

Lara did not move.

Finally.
She stared through the cracks of the door, her eyes hard.

The Queen was on her knees. Alone. Undone. Her hair uncoiled, face streaked with tears. A disgrace in all but name.

Lara thought of Queen Aemma. Of the cold sheets she’d been left in.
Her blood had not even dried before this green whore slithered into the king’s bed like a serpent in silk.

You deserve to burn, Lara thought. May the Seven carve your soul until it screams.

But not yet.
Not before her Princess had her vengeance in full.

Lara stepped away from the door with quiet purpose, her lips curving just slightly.

She would like to hear this.
Oh yes!! Her princess would want every detail.

Without a word, Lara disappeared into the stone shadows once more, her silence a prayer to the old Queen... and a promise to the new.

-----------------------

The chamber smelled faintly of salt and seaweed, Driftmark's scent clinging to those who had just arrived. Rhaenys held her daughter in a fierce embrace, Laena’s face buried in her mother’s shoulder, her quiet sobs muffled by layers of velvet and grief. Rhaenyra paused at the threshold, her eyes trailing to where Daemon stood apart from them, speaking in hushed tones with Corlys Velaryon.

She did not look at him. She could not.

Rhaenyra moved forward, her footsteps slow, steady, as if each step helped her cage the storm still churning in her chest. Corlys turned as he saw her and gave a respectful nod, though his eyes shadowed and uncertain searched her face for something.

“Princess,” he greeted. “We came as soon as we heard. Gods… is it true?”

She inhaled. “Yes,” she said simply. Then turned to all of them. “I owe you the full truth.”

Laena pulled back from her mother, wiping her tears, and looked at Rhaenyra with quiet dread. Daemon was silent, but his violet eyes burned into her profile.

The fire had dulled to embers in the chamber, casting long shadows on the faces before her Corlys, proud and quiet, and Rhaenys, cold-eyed and watchful. Rhaenyra stood tall, her hands folded neatly before her, but her voice carried an undercurrent not sorrow, but iron.

“There are things you deserve to know,” she began, her tone even. “No rumors. No court whispers. The truth.”

Neither spoke, so she went on.

“Alicent Hightower,” she said, her lip barely curling, “was never the innocent little maid the realm liked to believe. She and Ser Criston Cole had been lovers for years. Even after her marriage to the King, they continued their affair.”

Rhaenys flinched barely but Corlys’ jaw tightened.

“She let Cole believe she was forced to marry Viserys,” Rhaenyra continued, “that it was never her choice, and that she still belonged to him in secret. But the truth was fouler than that. Otto sent her to the King’s chambers long before the marriage. My father… believed she sought him out of affection."

She met Rhaenys’ eyes.

“But Cole, foolish and devout as he was, snapped when he learned she had lied. That Otto had offered his daughter. That Alicent had not been seduced by duty but ambition.”

Rhaenyra’s voice lowered.

“He called her children blasphemous. Tainted. Said they were born of sin and lies. He killed them Aegon and Helaena in their cradles.”

Rhaenys’ lips parted, horrified. Corlys muttered a curse under his breath.

“A maid caught him. She ran for help. Leanor heard the screams and came to stop him. He did try to stop him. But Criston Cole killed him for it.”

There was no tremble in her voice when she said it. Only steel.

“A fellow knight slew Cole in turn, stabbed through the back before he could do more harm. But it was too late.”

A beat passed. Her voice softened then, cold and bitter like snowfall on graves.

“My father demanded the Hightowers come to the capital. Otto was to answer whether he had truly sold his daughter’s maidenhead for a crown. The King… he had to know if the woman who bore his children ever had a choice.”

She looked down, briefly.

“But they never made it here. The smallfolk or maybe Faith's people or beyond ambushed their party on the road. Accused them of blasphemy. Of unholy acts under the guise of piety. They slaughtered them all.”

She said it simply. Let the weight hang.

“Otto. Hobert. Gwayne. Their household. Dead. Some died at once. Others bled too long before help could come. My father collapsed upon hearing it. He hasn’t spoken since.”

She looked at Corlys now.

“I know what Leanor was to you. If you wish for a Velaryon funeral… not a Targaryen one… I will understand.”

Silence. Even the fire dared not crackle too loud.

“I will ride with you to Driftmark,” she added gently. “After the children’s funeral.”

Another silence stretched.

Rhaenyra did not weep. She had no tears left to give. Only truths. Only offerings. Only the weight of everything stolen and everything yet to claim.

----------------------

POV: Prince Daemon Targaryen

The sky was grey, sunless, and heavy with smoke. The scent of burning incense mingled with the salt of the sea breeze, though none could mask the thick grief that hung like a shroud over the courtyard of Red keep.

Daemon stood apart close enough to witness, too far to reach. His arms remained crossed, tense beneath his black cloak, while his eyes never left the woman cloaked in red and black before the three shrouded bodies.

Laena clung to her mother, her sobs muffled by Rhaenys’ shoulder. Her grief was raw, loud, and unrelenting, and Daemon had no right, not right now to claim space beside her. He hovered like a forgotten shadow at the edge of this grief, his place unspoken, unwelcome.

Viserys stood in silence, his features carved from grief and guilt. A small tremble had overtaken him. If not for Rhaenyra at his side, her gloved hand wrapped around his arm, her body still...he might have collapsed altogether.

She held him up.

But her eyes... her eyes betrayed nothing.

Not a flicker, not a tremble. As the wind tousled her silver hair and her mouth moved in High Valyrian prayers, there was only one word Daemon could find for her: unreadable.

And still, beautiful. Regal. Unbreakable.

He remembered another pyre. One that lit a long ago. The pyre of Rhaenyra' still born siblings. She had burned them. Again and again. A girl of barely ten , holding back her tears with clenched fists and a jutting chin. He had stood beside her then, arm around her shoulder, offering silent strength. Same way not long ago , she had burned her mother and her another sibling. Even then he had stood beside her giving her strength and support.

Now, there was no place beside her. No shoulder she would lean into. Not after everything.

Daemon’s gaze lowered to the three bodies:

Aegon, the boy that would have been a threat to Rhaenyra , one who got his throat slit like an offering to angry gods.
Helaena, the child with eyes like glass, the girl Rhaenyra called her sweet sister , now silenced.
Laenor, the dragon who burned too early, caught between a blade and a man's madness.

And Ser Criston Cole his name unspoken but his shadow long. The silent cause of it all.

Daemon heard the whispering from the nobles.
“Cole went mad.”
“He struck down the children.”
“Alicent was having an unholy relation with him.”
“Otto sent her to Viserys… before her marriage…”

He looked at Alicent then collapsed on the stone steps, held up only by the arms of her septa. Her weeping shook her body. And still, Rhaenyra made no show of contempt. She stood apart from Alicent but offered no cruelty.

That was the thing with her now. Her mercy looked like silence. Her cruelty, indistinguishable from kindness.

Laena had pulled herself from her mother’s arms and now clutched at Rhaenyra, her sobs softer but still loud enough to pierce the ceremony. Daemon watched as Rhaenyra returned the embrace gently, warmly, one hand stroking Laena’s hair as though she hadn't left with the man who she herself loved and wanted to marry. How she supported Viserys with one hand and held Laena in another as if she didn't need anyone to support her. As if she needed no strength.

Daemon clenched his fists. That could have been his place, if he had just waited.If he had not left with Laena , he could have stood beside Rhaenyra and gave her the support that she needed but will never ask for.

If he hadn’t left her.

And now, it was too late. He could see it in the way she never looked at him. In the way she stood beside Viserys with the loyalty of a daughter and none of the pain of a spurned woman.

The crowd hushed.

Rhaenyra stepped forward, towards the pyres. She raised her hand. Syrax, looming above the stone ridge, let out a low guttural sound and opened her maw.

Daemon watched the fire take them.

The flames licked up the silks, devoured the white of Helaena’s shroud, the gold of Aegon’s, the black of Laenor’s.

Three fires.

Three bodies.

Daemon’s eyes burned. Because he knew this was the fourth time.

She had burned her stillborn siblings before she even knew what death was.

She had burned her mother and another sibling.

And now
She had burned her husband of a day And her half siblings.

How much death must she carry?

He had thought her made of fire. But now, watching her face illuminated by the blaze, he knew.

She was made of ash.

And there, beside the crackling pyres, Rhaenyra whispered prayers. Her voice in High Valyrian drifted upward, toward the gods who never answered.

Daemon turned his face away. He could not bear to watch her.

Not because she would break.

But Because she never would.

She had already burned everything soft in her.

And she was not done.

Chapter Text

The Small Council Chamber

The chamber was warm with candlelight, though the air felt colder than ever.

Rhaenys' POV

The council chamber was heavy with the scent of smoke and rain , mourning still clung to the Keep like a shroud. Yet Rhaenyra walked in not as a grieving woman but as something else entirely. Regal. Measured. Untouchable. Her black gown bore no jewels, only the silver clasp of the dragon, and yet she held the attention of the entire room without lifting her voice.

When did she learn to wear silence like a blade? Rhaenys wondered.

Rhaenyra took her seat at the high table, Viserys’ right hand, not his left and inclined her head. “We begin.”

The smallfolk had torn House Hightower from the roots, and Oldtown was leaderless. Rhaenyra addressed it like one might address an open wound.

“I have spoken with Archmaester Vaegon and Septa Rhaella,” she said coolly. “No kin of the Hightower line remain. Oldtown’s power has fractured, its Faith weakened, and the Citadel now answers to the Crown. The city cannot go unguided.”

Lord Beesbury raised his head in startled reverence when she turned toward him. “Your House has stood loyal since the reign of King Jaehaerys. You have stood with my father , with the Crown. I ask now: will House Beesbury take up the stewardship of Oldtown in the name of the Crown?”

The old man blinked, speechless for a breath before rising to his feet, voice thick. “I... would be honored, Princess. We will not forget this.”

Beside her, King Viserys gave a slow nod. “It is a wise decision. Let it be written and sealed.”

Rhaenys found herself staring not at Viserys, but at the girl beside him. A girl no longer. She speaks like her grandsire once did. Commands like a conqueror’s heir. When did this happen?

And then came the blow Rhaenys had not braced for.

“I must ask,” Rhaenyra said, voice like calm fire. “With Ser Laenor gone… am I right in thinking that your heir will now be Lady Laena and, eventually, her firstborn?”

Rhaenys froze. So did Corlys.

Rhaenyra continued, serene and unreadable. “If that is the case, and her marriage to Prince Daemon proceeds, it shall be a Crown affair. The bride price, dowry, and all formal contract matters will be reviewed by the Crown. Such is the law for royal unions.”

Corlys gave a respectful nod, though his brows furrowed. “Of course, Princess. We are honored.”

Laena, quiet beside him, murmured, “I understand. I will not shame my House.”

Rhaenys said nothing, only stared.

How can she speak so calmly of a man she once loved, or perhaps still does? The softness between Rhaenyra and Daemon had never been voiced, but a woman with eyes could see it. Could feel it in the air when they stood too close.

And yet now… she doesn’t even flinch.

---

Daemon’s POV

She never looked at him. Not once. Not when she spoke of his wedding, nor when she dictated the terms like a master commanding a vassal.

“She wanted to marry me once,” he thought. “And yet she speaks of my marriage as though she’s never held my hand in fire.”

When Rhaenyra declared the Crown’s right to oversee the match, Daemon simply watched her. Where is the flicker? Where is the storm behind her eyes?

Gone.

When Laena shyly nodded her agreement, Daemon stole another glance at Rhaenyra. She met his eyes finally, only for a breath and what he saw unnerved him.

Not coldness.

Not pain.

Nothing.

You burned your mother’s pyre with my hand holding yours. You wept into my shoulder like a girl lost in the waves. And now, you are stone.

He looked down.

You burned your mother and your brother. Then Laenor. And now, even this-

And he realized it then, people close to her... souls close to her. Burned by her hand, or by her command. One pyre after another, and still she stood tall.

---

Lord Strong’s POV

Lord Lyonel Strong had seen many heirs. Some had promise but not discipline. Others, obedience but no will.

Rhaenyra had always been flame: brilliant, uncontrolled, a danger to herself. But now…

Now, she was the fire made flesh. Still. Bright. Unforgiving.

She discussed the ruling of Oldtown like she was discussing grain.

She spoke of Prince Daemon’s marriage like she were a Queen dictating terms for a distant cousin.

Where did the girl go?

She didn’t once flinch when Laena’s name was spoken. Not once when wedding matters were raised. Not once when Viserys gave his assent to all she proposed.

This is not just an heir. This is a ruler. A Queen without crown or ceremony.

And for the first time, he understood: Rhaenyra Targaryen would not allow history to deny her.

-----------------

Alicent stood in mourning silks, eyes swollen red from weeping. Her hair was unbound, and her hands trembled as she gripped the edge of the table where little Aegon’s toys still lay untouched, lifeless, dust-settled. She had wept and screamed until her throat had bled, but none of it could change the truth.

Her children were dead. Her father was dead. Her name, once whispered in court with reverence, was now spat with fury in the halls of Oldtown and beyond.

She heard the door open behind her, slowly, deliberately. A shadow moved across the floor, cast by a man old and sick with grief himself. King Viserys stood at the threshold, leaning on his cane, his face ashen but unreadable.

"You sent for me?" Alicent rasped, eyes already damp.

Viserys did not answer immediately. He walked in silence toward the room, his steps echoing. When he finally looked at her, the silence cracked.

"Tell me the truth, Alicent," he said, voice barely above a whisper but sharp as a blade. "Why did you do it?"

Her brows furrowed. "Do… what?"

"Do not play the fool. Why did you do this? Why did you betray me away, deceive me? Why did you take Criston Cole to your bed? Why did you let him poison our children with his madness? Why did you let your father whore you to me , to the crown?"

Tears ran down her face again. "I didn't-"

"Liar!" he roared, louder than he had spoken in moons. The Queen flinched.

"I gave you everything. A crown. A name. A place in history. And you repaid me with betrayal."

She staggered forward. "I did nothing. I swear it. I loved our children. I tried"

"You wore green," he interrupted bitterly. "At Rhaenyra’s wedding. The one time I asked you to stand by me, to wear the colour of my house ,the colour of your husband.... you chose Hightower green. War colours. A silent declaration. Was that love?"

She opened her mouth, searching for an excuse, a justification.

He leaned forward. "The first thing a septa teaches a girl is to honour her husband’s house. That is what I asked of you, not war, not politics. Loyalty. And even that… you couldn’t give."

She fell to her knees, hands clasped. "They’re all gone. Aegon. Helaena. Father. I have nothing left. You are my husband-"

"And yet you were never a wife," Viserys spat. His eyes were wet, but the fury made them gleam with something terrible.

He turned away, grief anchoring his voice low. "I should annul the marriage. Gods know I have cause. But where would you go? Your house is ashes. Your kin dead. And I… I do not cast out dogs when they are broken."

Alicent’s shoulders crumbled.

"You are forbidden from leaving the Red Keep," he said coldly. "Your rooms will be guarded. No letters sent. No visitors received without royal leave. Your power is gone. You are Queen in name only."

She gasped as though he had struck her.

"I remain your husband only in the eyes of the gods," he said. "But even the gods would not forgive what you’ve done."

He turned, walking to the window, staring out into the distance where pyres still burned faintly beyond the walls the dead Hightowers, Aegon’s ashes, the screams of a city that had risen in fury.

Viserys stood still for a long time after Alicent had left the chamber no longer his queen in spirit, if not in name. The doors shut behind her with a hollow echo, the silence in the chamber weighing heavier than his own failing bones. He found himself staring at the fire, watching it flicker, and for the first time in years, he didn’t feel the warmth of it.

He sank onto the carved seat near the hearth, a weary hand rising to his brow.

"What have I done, Aemma ?" he whispered into the quiet.

He could still hear Rhaenyra's voice that day… defiant, proud, so full of fire. She had begged him, warned him not to marry Alicent. Told him that her heart was false. That it would tear their family apart.

He hadn't listened. Blinded by grief. By comfort. By the illusion of peace.

And now his daughter had lost everything.

Her sworn shield murdered a knight at her wedding. Her brother and sister killed. Her husband… gone. Her world turned to ash.

All because of Alicent.

All because he let that viper into his home, into their bloodline. He had been a fool. A king in name, but a man too weak to see.

A tear slipped down his cheek, the salt stinging more than he expected. He had not wept in years. Not for Aemma. Not even when his body began to rot beneath his own crown.

But now, he wept for Rhaenyra.

He thought of how she'd stood there in the hall after the fire chin high, back straight, cloaked in smoke and loss. She had not flinched, had not wavered. She had carried their name like steel in her spine.

"Like a queen," he whispered, reverently. "My daughter… my Rhaenyra."

He recalled the way she had spoken of Daemon’s marriage to Laena without emotion, without hesitation. The girl who had once chased her uncle through the halls and lingered too long by his side was gone.

And perhaps, he thought, that was her only flaw; her foolish love for Daemon, a love that now seemed extinguished. Maybe that loss had taught her what he never could: that strength was forged in solitude.

"Even that weakness… she’s shed it," he murmured. "She is perfect now."

A bitter smile pulled at his lips.

He had doubted her once. Questioned if a woman could rule, if the realm would ever accept her.

But now, with fire and fury behind her eyes, Rhaenyra had shown herself more king than he had ever been.

He looked down at his hands trembling, twisted, a king’s hands in name only. And then he looked to the flame.

"I gave you a crown, my daughter. But you… you’ve earned it."

And for the first time in years, Viserys Targaryen felt the stirrings of peace within his crumbling chest.

He closed his eyes and whispered, "Dracarys to them all."

Chapter Text

The dining table in Maegor’s Holdfast was quieter than usual. Only Rhaenyra and Viserys remained, the rest dismissed under the guise of a private father-daughter meal. Silver plates of roasted quail sat untouched, cooling in the stale silence. Viserys’ face was thinner, pale and drawn by loss, but his eyes flickered with recognition as Rhaenyra laid her goblet down and leaned in.

"I’ve been thinking," she began softly, "of Queen Alysanne’s projects her care for the people, the mother's houses, the protections for women and children. We abandoned all of it… perhaps not by your choice. Alicent had neglected those projects but now that her shadow no longer stretches over the realm" her tone was careful, almost gentle "I wish to take the mantle left by Alysanne. With your permission."

Viserys stiffened, but the name Alicent lanced through him like ice. The ghost of betrayal lingered still. He said nothing for a moment, and when he spoke, his voice trembled with grief and pent-up fury.

"Then take it. Take it all. The power, the authority, the seat of the highest lady in the Red Keep, it is yours, Rhaenyra. Use it as you see fit. Let no man or memory stop you."

Rhaenyra inclined her head serene, but calculating. The Queen's seat was hers now. In name, in power, and in the eyes of the realm.

King Viserys had not been seen outside his chambers for days.

After that quiet dinner in Maegor’s Holdfast, where Rhaenyra had invoked the name of Alysanne with soft reverence and sharper truth, the King had dismissed all council matters and granted her every authority due the highest lady of the Red Keep. The Queen's seat once Alicent's was now indisputably hers. There was no ceremony. No announcement. Just a subtle shift in the corridors of power, and everyone servants, stewards, lords adjusted without protest.

And then, Rhaenyra started planning.

---------------------

Council Chamber, Early Morning

The sun had barely breached the towers of the Red Keep when Lord Strong entered the smaller council chamber. He found her already there alone, seated at the head of the table, quill in hand, ink-stained fingers tapping against parchment.

She did not rise.

“Lord Strong,” she said, without looking up. “Sit.”

There was no softness in her tone, but no sharpness either. Just command, coiled and calm.

Lyonel obeyed. The door shut behind him with a low thud.

“I have a proposal,” she began, eyes meeting his now. “One that concerns Flea Bottom. Specifically, the brothels.”

His brow lifted, but he remained silent.

“We buy them.”

He blinked. “All of them?”

“The Crown will own them, regulate them, and tax them. In return, the women within will be protected medically and legally. No forced work. No children. Clean spaces, trained midwives, Crown-backed safety.”

He stared. “You want to make the brothels… royal property?”

“I want them safe,” she corrected. “And profitable. As they already are, only now, the profit will not line the pockets of pimps, but fund the city’s restoration.”

She pushed a second scroll toward him.

“A public labor plan,” she said. “The people of Flea Bottom will be paid by the Crown to clean their own streets. Coin in their hands. Dignity in their work. And in time, a cleaner, safer city.”

He studied her. There was something in her face not warmth, not calculation. Purpose.

She no longer moved like a girl trying to prove herself. She spoke like someone who already owned the game.

Her lips curved. Not a smile. A flicker.

He nodded once. “ they are sound.”

She leaned back, satisfied. “I have someone in my mind who can manage the transition.”

“You trust them?”

“I trust their greed. And theirr hatred of chains.”

Silence lingered.

As He stood to leave, he hesitated at the door. He looked back at her Rhaenyra, clad not in silk and gold, but simple red velvet, a dagger at her belt, and the weight of kings in her eyes.

“You’ve changed,” he said softly.

She didn’t look up from her writing.

“No,” she replied. “I’ve only stopped pretending.”

--------------------

Guardroom in the Red Keep, Late Afternoon

The clang of steel boots on stone echoed as Ser Rymon entered. He had expected to be summoned by her.

But there she was Princess Rhaenyra, already standing by the arched window that overlooked the city, her hands clasped behind her back, the wind catching the loose strands of her hair like the banners of a coming storm.

He bowed. “Princess.”

She turned slowly. No smile, no preamble.

“I want Mysaria removed,” she said. “Quietly. Bloodlessly, if possible.”

Ser Rymon hesitated. “She’s well-guarded. Her spies are loyal.”

“I’m not asking for war, Ser Rymon. Just precision.”

She stepped forward, voice cool and unhurried. “Tell her that the Crown thanks her for her service, but she’s relieved of it. The crown doesn't need someone loyal to Otto hightower. She is to leave the city by nightfall. Her holdings are now mine.”

“And if she refuses?”

Rhaenyra’s gaze was level. “Then I want her taken to the dungeons under cover of night and left to rot until she begs to be sent to the Stranger.”

Rymon gave a slow nod. “And her successor?”

“Bring her to me,” Rhaenyra said. “Tonight. She’ll serve the Crown’s new purpose.”

His brow lifted. “You trust her?”

“I don’t need to trust her. I only need her to understand that her survival depends on me.”

She turned back toward the window, her voice lower, as if speaking to the wind.

“Mysaria played her game well. But that board is cleared. A new order begins now.”

Rymon bowed once more, this time deeper. He left without a word.

------------------

The Wedding of Daemon Targaryen and Laena Velaryon

The skies above Driftmark blazed red and gold as the sun dipped low, casting a molten glow upon the sea. The wedding of Prince Daemon Targaryen and Lady Laena Velaryon was held on the high cliffs above the water, where the wind tangled in silks and swept dragonfire into the sky like blessings from the old gods.

Vhagar roared once, low and ancient and every soul present stilled. She circled once in the distance, a shadow against the flame-streaked horizon, as the ceremony began.

Rhaenyra arrived late.

But not rudely so.

She descended from Syrax in a slow, elegant arc, her silver-blonde hair braided in Valyrian style, her gown black as shadow, trimmed with red so dark it nearly disappeared into dusk. Her arrival silenced the courtyard more effectively than any king's herald. Not a girl now. Not the defiant heir who once scowled and sulked in court. Something else. A stillness too sharp to be mistaken for peace.

King Viserys attended, pale and tired, draped in royal silks that hung too heavily on his thin frame. He was flanked by his guards and maesters, a glimmer of gold flickering on his brow, yet his eyes kept drifting toward his daughter, silent and poised among the nobles. Rhaenyra stood with all the elegance and restraint of a true princess, her face unreadable, the soft lavender of her gown echoing old Valyria’s lost splendor. She did not smile, nor weep. She stood.

When the vows were spoken and the crowds clapped, Rhaenyra too joined not out of joy, but out of duty. She offered Laena a polite nod when the lady turned to her with a faint, hesitant smile. To Daemon, she offered nothing. Not even a glance.

She stood beside Daemon without invitation.

As if she had always stood there.

As if she always would.

Not his wife. Not even his betrothed. Just his niece on paper. But no one could miss the way Daemon looked at her: like a man pulled from one storm and cast into another. Like he had won and lost her all at once.

Laena smiled with grace, radiant in Velaryon silver and seafoam green, and took her vows with effortless charm. She carried herself with confidence, with laughter and beauty, a woman born of salt and flame. Daemon played his part, saying the right words, pressing the traditional kiss to her lips, and placing his hands over hers before the Septon.

The court clapped. Lords and ladies murmured admiration. Velaryon guards raised their spears in salute.

But Rhaenyra did not clap.

She only inclined her head slightly, regal, restrained, the ghost of a smile touching her lips.

As the feast began, she sat at King's right, near enough to be seen. Her laughter was soft, her eyes sharper than blades. She drank little, spoke less, and when she met Daemon’s gaze across the firelit hall, something ancient passed between them.

Daemon’s new bride toasted to the prosperity of House Targaryen.

Rhaenyra raised her goblet in return. “To fire. And to knowing when to let it burn.”

Rhaenys, watching from the high table, said nothing for a long while.

Only her eyes moved from Laena’s silk-draped smile, to Daemon’s conflicted silence, and finally to Rhaenyra, who sat like a queen in exile and did not care who noticed.

From afar, Prince Daemon’s eyes found her. For a moment, the wind shifted, and her hair lifted with the salt air. There was a shadow of something lost in his gaze not love, not longing, but recognition. A recognition of the storm that had passed between them and the calm that now held firm.

After the feast, Rhaenyra departed without fanfare, her dragon circling once above the sea before vanishing into the mist.

Rhaenys watched the girl with narrowed eyes, noting the way she carried herself....no longer a child, no longer a girl scorned. She had not cried. She had not raged. She had stood beside the man she once wanted and acted like his niece, nothing more. That frightened Rhaenys more than any tantrum ever could.

“She’s changed,” the Queen Who Never Was murmured to Daemon later that night, when the revelry had begun to thin and the wine ran deep in their veins.

“I know,” he said.

And neither of them slept easy.

Chapter Text

The first thing she felt was warmth.

Not the kind that fire breathes or ambition burns but something steady. Alive. Real.

Rhaenyra’s eyes fluttered open to the soft golden hue of morning light pouring through her chamber windows. The Red Keep, though colder than Dragonstone, seemed gentler in these early hours. Beside her, chest rising and falling in a rhythm that matched the hush of her thoughts, lay Harwin Strong.

He was on his back, one arm loosely draped across her waist, hand splayed at her hip like even in sleep he sought to anchor her. His face was softened by slumber, jaw slack, lashes long and boyish against the scarred ruggedness of his cheeks. She took him in fully, achingly as though it were a dream she feared might fade.

Last time, she had not held him enough. Had not told him enough.

He had burned. And she had watched from afar helpless, aching, too bound by crown and chaos to save what had once made her smile without reason.

Not this time.

Slowly, her fingers brushed the curve of his jaw, tracing the line of his beard, pausing at the faded scar above his temple. She pressed her forehead to his shoulder, breathing him in. No ash. No smoke. Just him.

“I missed you,” she whispered. “Gods, I missed you.”

He stirred then, voice gravelled by sleep, “Hmm?”

She smiled faintly. “Nothing. Go back to sleep.”

But his arm tightened around her, pulling her against him fully. “You were watching me,” he murmured. “You always do that when you're thinking something dangerous.”

She huffed a laugh. “Not dangerous. Just... grateful.”

His eyes opened slowly, warm brown catching hers. “You’re not usually this gentle in the mornings.”

“I'm not usually given a morning like this,” she replied, voice soft, almost reverent.

He reached up, tucking a strand of silver-gold hair behind her ear. “You’ve been different lately. Colder , taking charge of everything. More authoritative.And when you look at me-”

“I finally realised that I need to gain all the power that I can if I want to actually rule after my father,” she said plainly.

Harwin stilled.

Rhaenyra reached for his hand, threading her fingers through his. “I realised that nobody will let me be on the throne just because my father named me his heir , I will need to snatch the power and most of all , i realised that people are not permanent in your life. Thus, you shouldn't waste precious time that you can spend with them."

He smiled then slow, deep, like he didn’t quite understand her words but felt their weight. “Well then,” he said, pulling her atop him with ease, “let’s not waste this one.”

She laughed, genuinely, body melting into his as she let herself feel the joy of being alive, with him. No politics. No dragons. No deaths.

Just skin and warmth and the promise of a second chance. Rhaenyra lay curled against Harwin’s chest, her fingers tracing idle patterns across his bare skin, her mind unusually light. The light was not that deep outside, but in here, in his arms, it felt warm safe.

She lifted her head slightly, looking up at him through lashes heavy with sleep and mischief. “I’m going to marry you,” she whispered softly, a secret vow hidden in the hush of night.

Harwin blinked, then let out a low, amused laugh. “Shouldn’t you ask me first, Princess? Or better yet…” He smirked. “Shouldn’t that be my line?”

She raised her chin defiantly, eyes glittering with playful command. “No,” she said with mock severity, “I am your Princess. I shall marry you. That’s an order.”

“Oh really?” Harwin grinned, a teasing lilt in his voice. “An order, is it?”

Before she could answer, his arms tightened, and he rolled her beneath him, fingers flying to her sides. Rhaenyra squealed laughed, properly laughed, something she hadn’t done in what felt like lifetimes. Her laughter echoed off the stone walls as he tickled her mercilessly, grinning like a boy.

“Harwin! Stop it! Gods, stop or I’ll--”

“You’ll what?” he asked with mock danger, hovering above her with a raised brow.

“I’ll have you thrown in the dungeons,” she gasped between giggles. “For insubordination!”

But her threat died on her tongue as he leaned down and kissed her, softly at first, like a whisper. Then deeper, slower ,the kind of kiss that said we have time now.

When they broke apart, she rested her forehead against his. “This time,” she murmured, her voice barely above a breath, “I won’t let the world steal you from me," knowing in her heart that it won't be possible but wishing it all the same.

And in the hush of that sacred moment, Harwin simply held her, and kissed her again.

-------------
The sun hung low beyond the slanted windows of Maegor’s Holdfast, casting golden threads across the Queen’s solar. Rhaenyra stood alone for a moment, her fingers running slowly across the velvet drapes, the weight of her decision humming beneath her skin. Her heart was calm, but resolute.

She turned at the sound of the door opening, Ser Harwin was already waiting outside, but she had insisted this moment be hers alone.

Viserys sat hunched in his chair near the fire, a blanket over his lap and Maester Gerardys at a distance, scribbling some useless record of bloodletting or elixirs. But when his eyes lifted to meet hers, they softened. For a moment, he looked not like a king burdened by time and ailments but like her father again.

“My sweet girl,” he greeted, voice raspy but warm. “You’ve not visited me all morning. I was beginning to worry.”

“I was… gathering my thoughts,” she said carefully, approaching him and kneeling beside his seat, taking his hand in hers. “And I have made a decision. One I wish to share only with you, first.”

Viserys tilted his head slightly, his expression caught between curiosity and concern. “Is it about Daemon? Or the court’s murmurings? Or-”

“It is about my future, Father,” she interrupted gently. “I do not wish to mourn forever. I have thought long and deep… and I would be wed again.”

The King’s eyebrows lifted in surprise but it was not disapproval that met her. Only a breathless stillness. “Wed again? So soon?” he murmured. “And whom have you chosen?”

She held his gaze as her voice softened. “Ser Harwin Strong.”

The silence that followed stretched long. And then laughter. Weak and crackling, but sincere.

“Breakbones?” Viserys wheezed with a grin. “By the gods… that is unexpected.”

She smiled, unable to stop herself. “He has always stood by me. With strength. With loyalty. I do not love easily, Father but I trust him. And I believe, in another life… I may have loved him all the same.”

Viserys studied her face. Perhaps it was the way she looked when she spoke of Harwin or perhaps it was the peace he saw in her eyes for the first time in many moons but his features melted into warmth.

“You have my blessing,” he whispered. “With all my heart. May this union be full of joy and sons, and none of the grief that’s shadowed your youth.”

She blinked away a sudden sting in her eyes. “Thank you, Father. That means more than I can say.”

---

The atmosphere in the small council chamber was expectant, hushed, with a tension just below the surface. Lords and maesters sat in their usual seats some upright and attentive, others wary and watchful. The sun streamed through the high windows of the Red Keep, but the air felt thick.

King Viserys Targaryen sat at the head of the table, clad in robes of black and gold, his crown settled firmly upon thinning silver hair. His illness showed faintly in his trembling fingers, but today, his voice was strong.

“I have called this council,” he began, “to announce a decision that concerns the future of the realm, and of my House.”

All eyes turned toward him. Lord Lyonel Strong, seated a few chairs down, subtly straightened.

The King continued, gaze drifting for a moment toward his daughter seated beside him...Rhaenyra, proud and composed in black and red, a dragon in bloom.

“It is my will,” Viserys declared, “that Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, my heir, shall be wed to Ser Harwin Strong, son of Lord Lyonel, heir to Harrenhal.”

A stunned silence fell.

Ser Harwin, standing behind his father, shifted, but his face remained steady if slightly flushed. Lord Beesbury blinked rapidly, and a murmur passed between a few councilors, until Lord Lyman leaned forward.

“Your Grace,” he said cautiously, “might I ask… Ser Harwin? A bold match.”

“A strong match,” Viserys said with a thin smile, pun clearly intended. “My daughter has chosen him, and I approve wholeheartedly. Ser Harwin has proven his loyalty in service to her, and to the realm.”

Lord Strong long occupying the Hand's seat remain silent.

Lord Corlys Velaryon, seated near the end of the table, raised his brows but said nothing. The sea knew when to make waves, and when to watch.

“Is the matter of blood and station not to be considered?” someone ventured from the shadows.

“It has been,” Rhaenyra replied coldly, before her father could speak. “And what of strength? Of honor? Of devotion? Ser Harwin is all these things, and more. He is mine.”

Viserys gave her a proud nod. “The match is made. The banns will be announced. And the royal wedding shall be held within the coming moon. Let it be written the blood of the dragon shall marry the strength of the riverlands. Her children will take the name Targaryen and her second child will take the name Strong after coming of age."

The council had no choice but to bow their heads in agreement. And though whispers would begin the moment the doors closed, the order had been given.

The princess would marry her knight. And the realm would watch.

---------------

The godswood was quiet that afternoon, filtered in golden sunlight, the red leaves whispering secrets of ages past. Rhaenyra stood alone beneath the heart tree, her hand pressed against the ridged bark, letting its coolness anchor her resolve.

She had asked Daemon to meet her here not in her chambers, nor his, not in the council hall where titles weighed heavier than truths, but here, in the quiet place where Visenya had once knelt in prayer before her conquest.

She turned at the sound of boots brushing over fallen leaves.

“Princess,” Daemon greeted, voice gentle.

“Prince,” she replied evenly, though her lips curled faintly at the edges. “Or shall I say Lord of the Narrow Sea ?”

He gave a small chuckle, the sound tugging at memories older than the war. “You could say that. Though my title changes every few moons these days.”

A pause lingered between them like held breath.

“I heard you are to wed Ser Harwin Strong,” Daemon said at last, his tone soft. “Congratulations are in order.”

Rhaenyra’s smile was faint but sincere. “Thank you.”

A longer silence, almost expectant.

Daemon looked away briefly before speaking. “I owe you an apology.”

Rhaenyra arched a brow.

“For abandoning you,” he said plainly. “For letting you stand alone while I ran from... everything. From us.”

She nodded slowly, fingers curling at her sides.

“There was a time I wanted to hate you,” she admitted. “And for a while, I did. Not for marrying Laena but for how easily you stepped away, how easily you let me go.”

Daemon’s eyes searched hers. “And now?”

“I no longer hate you,” she said softly. “Nor her. In truth, I wish you happiness. All of it. As much as I have found with Harwin.”

Daemon’s mouth tightened, unreadable.

“Maybe,” she added, “our time was never meant to be. Or perhaps… not yet.”

His lips parted, but before he could speak, she raised a hand and continued.

“But I did not ask you here for ghosts. I asked for the future.”

Daemon blinked, slightly startled. “Go on.”

She turned, voice sharper now, her regal tone returning like a blade unsheathed. “The Stepstones. You won the war there once. But the victory was not complete. The islands remain a threat, scattered and lawless. I wish to change that.”

“You want another war?”

“I want control,” she said. “Secured ports, loyal banners, safe passage for trade. I want peace bought with fire and held with blood.”

Daemon’s brow lifted. “And you want me to lead the campaign.”

“Yes. The realm knows your name brings fear. Let them remember why.” She stepped closer. “And in return, I will grant holdings from the Stepstones to your secondborn child. Another portion shall be given to my third. That way, both our legacies hold power in the Narrow Sea. I have already talked to father and he has given his permission as well as signed the decree."

He was quiet for a moment, studying her, as if seeing her anew.

“You sound like a Queen.”

“I intend to be remembered as one.”

Daemon’s smirk was wistful. “And what of Harwin? Does he know the fire he’s marrying?”

Rhaenyra tilted her head. “He does. And he does not fear it.”

Daemon gave a slight bow. “Then I will not stand in your way.”

“Good,” she said, brushing past him, her silken sleeve trailing his arm like a ghost of the past.

As she walked away, she didn’t look back.

And for the first time in a long while, neither did he.

Chapter Text

Alicent's Inner Turmoil-- Red Keep, secluded chamber

The room was dark, the curtains drawn tightly, as though the sun itself had turned its face from her. Her fingers trembled as they clutched the edge of her shawl, lips parted in silent prayer or was it grief? Her tears had dried to salt on her cheeks, yet her eyes still burned.

"Where did I go wrong?" Alicent whispered aloud into the silence, her voice cracking. "I was the faithful one... the dutiful daughter, the devoted wife, the pious Queen." She pressed her forehead against the cold stone wall, her shoulders quaking.

She had never lain with anyone other than her rightful husband. It had never been her sin. And yet... here she was, cast out like filth.

"It was her....the whore of a stepdaughter who bedded knights and uncle alike, who paraded herself through brothels with her head high and her virtue lost." Her voice became venomous.

But what of the accusations? The maid... the guard... How had they known of her visits to the King’s chambers in the dead of night? Only three had known herself, her father, her husband. She swallowed hard.

“They were lying… they must have been lying…” But doubt slithered like a snake in her gut. “Or… or someone betrayed me. Someone of my blood.”

The shame scorched her from the inside out. She, a daughter of the Faith, expelled from the sept like a criminal, dishonored and reviled by the very clergy she had once served. Her lips quivered as she recalled the High Septon's cold condemnation-- “The Mother’s mercy is not blind.”

And her family… her father, her brother, her uncle, her aunt slaughtered like pigs by the smallfolk. Or so the whispers went. But she knew the truth. Rhaenyra had orchestrated it all. That scheming witch had unleashed the city’s dogs upon them and then wrapped herself in the veil of righteousness. She had lied in the court.And the realm had believed her.

Alicent curled her arms around herself, rocking gently.

---

Even he- her gentle, sweet husband had turned on her. He had shouted at her. Accused her of betrayal. Betrayal? After all her sacrifices? After all the years she had given to his aching, rotting body, bearing his children, tending to his weakness? Was this her reward?

“I gave everything for this realm,” she whispered, bitter. “I gave my body, my dignity, my dreams. I gave up on an handsome knight when I was a girl, because my father said the King needed a wife. And now…” Her eyes burned again.

Her children. Sweet Aegon, with his golden curls and bright smile. Gentle Helaena, always so curious, always so kind. Dead. Ripped from her. She didn’t know how but she was sure that it was Rhaenyra who had done this. Just like how her father had warned her once , that she will kill her children because they were a threat to her.

And now she, that woman sat in command of the Red Keep as if she were Queen. Issuing orders, altering laws, walking the halls with her head held high like she had been crowned. But Alicent knew the truth.

She was no queen. She was a harlot draped in dragon silk.

Alicent stared into the mirror, eyes red, cheeks sunken. “They call me a whore?” she spat, voice rising. “Me....who served the gods, who kept her vows, who gave herself for the realm?”

“She is the one who defiled Ser Criston Cole, who made him betray his sacred oath. She is the one who lay with her uncle like a common harlot. And now-- now she marries Harwin Strong, another knight, another sweet-faced fool.”

She laughed, a low, broken thing. “How convenient. She always gets what she wants. Her little knight. Her uncle. Her crown. And now Ser Harwin.”

While Alicent daughter of the Seven, wife of the King was left with ashes and shame.

She had done everything for the good of the realm. Everything. She had bent her will to the Seven, folded her desires into silence, obeyed every command the Faith placed upon her shoulders.

She bore children not out of love, but duty. She prayed until her knees bled, swallowed pride and pain alike, and still, still all she received in return was grief. Her father and kin, butchered. Her children, torn from her. And now even her husband, the man she had served with quiet loyalty, looked at her as if she were filth. What had she done to deserve this? Was it a sin to be faithful? To be dutiful? No, this was the fault of that harlot.

Rhaenyra.

It was her fault, all of it. That spoiled, scheming girl who dared to smile with blood on her hands. She must have done it, she must have murdered her children, like her father once warned. But how? How could she have known? Alicent had been careful. Only her, her father, and her husband knew of those visits to the King's chambers. How did that wretched girl find out? How did she orchestrated that when she is nothing more than a spoiled whore who doesn't know anything about duty and sacrifice.

The rage surged like a tidal wave hot, blinding, uncontainable. With trembling hands, Alicent seized the candlestick on her bedside table and hurled it across the room. A mirror shattered. She grabbed the basin and flung it against the wall, water soaking the carpet. Her screams tore through the air like a wounded animal’s howl. “It was her! It was her!” she shrieked. “She did this she took everything from me!”

The maids rushed in, startled by the noise, but Alicent was beyond reach. She knocked over the chair, clawed at the bed curtains, her hair falling loose, her face wild and twisted with grief. One maid tried to grab her shoulders, to soothe her, but Alicent’s nails lashed out, drawing blood from the girl’s cheek. The others hesitated, frightened.

And then suddenly her strength vanished. Her knees buckled beneath her, the world spun, and the room grew dim. With one last gasping sob, she collapsed to the floor, unconscious, consumed by grief, rage, and sheer exhaustion.

-------------------

Rhaenyra sat by the window, moonlight casting sharp lines across her face, one hand curled around a small pouch of crushed herbs, dark and bitter-scented. She held it out without turning.

Lara stepped forward silently and took it, her rough maid’s fingers brushing against the silk of the princess’s nightgown. She did not ask. She never did.

"Mix it into her food," Rhaenyra said quietly, her voice devoid of emotion. "Every third day. Just enough that no seed takes root again."

Lara hesitated only to nod.

Rhaenyra finally turned her head. Her eyes, though calm, burned. "I cannot trust my father, Lara. He says he’s cast her aside, that she remains only as wife in name, but I've watched the way he used to look at her , how easily she used to disarm him with those doe-eyes and trembling lips. A few tears, a whispered prayer, and he will forget every promise he's ever made."

Her jaw clenched.

"I’ve let her live, Lara. That was mercy. But I will not let her breed another Hightower into our line. I will not risk her bearing another boy, another claim, another mouth to whisper poison into his ear."

She stepped forward, closer to Lara, her voice a hushed blade now.

"If my father is weak enough to go crawling to her bed again, then the consequences will not fall on him. They will fall on us. On me. On my children. And I swear to the gods old and new, that will not happen."

Lara, the last shadow of Queen Aemma’s memory, clutched the pouch tighter and bowed her head. She would do what was asked. Just as she always had.

She stood still for a long moment after Lara slipped out, the pouch already passed into trusted hands. That girl had served her mother before her, had wrapped Aemma’s hair in lavender-scented cloth and whispered prayers to the Mother at her birthing bed. Lara had never failed her. Never spoken more than was needed. And now, once again, she had obeyed without question.

But Rhaenyra’s thoughts were no longer on Lara. They were on what must be done next.

She would kill her father with her own hand before she let that one-eyed kinslayer be born again.

The thought was not born of rage, it was clarity. Cold. Clean. The kind of steel that sharpens beneath grief. She would not allow Aemond’s shadow to rise again, not through another child birthed from Alicent’s cursed womb. No new son would bear that same name, that same hunger for dragons, for blood. Not while she still breathed.

She would burn the cradle herself. Slit the babe’s throat if it meant Lucerys could rest in peace.

Her sweet boy’s laughter still danced at the edge of memory, soft as the sea foam that had swallowed him. She would not let that memory rot beneath the heel of another. Not another Hightower child. Not another ghost with violet eyes and a blade behind his back.

Blood for blood. Womb for womb. Life for life.

---

Rhaenyra’s Chambers - Night

The candlelight cast long shadows over the stone walls, flickering like silent witnesses to secrets too dangerous to speak aloud. Rhaenyra sat by the hearth, not in her silks, but in a dark riding cloak, half-buttoned, her hair undone. She looked like a shadow of the girl who once laughed freely in these halls.

The door creaked open.

Ser Rymon and his brother, Ser Alor, stepped in, removing their helms. They bowed in unison.

“You called for us, Princess,” Rymon said, his voice calm but alert.

Rhaenyra stood slowly, her gaze locked onto his. “I did.”

There was a pause. Then, softer, “Your loyalty to me… to my mother’s memory… it has not gone unnoticed. The way you’ve guarded me, aided me, and done so without seeking gain, it will be rewarded.”

Rymon exchanged a glance with Alor, but his words were firm. “It is not for reward, my princess. It is an honor to serve the daughter of Queen Aemma. She saved my and my brother’s life when no one else would have. You carry her fire.”

Rhaenyra's expression softened, just for a breath.

“I need that fire now,” she said quietly. “I need you both again… for something graver than anything before.”

Rymon straightened. “Command us.”

She moved closer, her voice low and cold. “This task… must never be spoken of. Not in jest. Not even in dream. It is a sin in the eyes of everyone.”

The flames crackled louder. Alor stiffened beside his brother.

“Do you accept?” she asked, eyes like steel.

Rymon didn’t hesitate. “We swore ourselves to you, Princess. Speak the command.”

Rhaenyra nodded once, slow. “Then listen carefully…”

-----------

The council chamber was hushed, lit by the golden sun pouring through the stained glass. King Viserys sat upon the Dragon Throne, thinner now, more spectral than regal, yet still clinging to the crown with brittle fingers. His breathing was shallow, but his eyes were alert, if only barely.

Lord Lyonel Strong stepped forward, the master of whispers heavy with grim news. “Your Grace… my lords… I bring word from the west. A tragedy has befallen House Lannister. Lord Jason, along with his kin, his wife, his twin, even his steward perished in a fire that consumed the lower halls of Lannisport. Only a distant cousin, Ser Gerald Lannister of an offshoot line, lives to carry the name.”

The council gasped. Viserys’ lips parted in disbelief. “Jason…?” he whispered. “Seven hells…”

Rhaenyra lowered her gaze. “May the Mother cradle them gently.” Her voice was soft, steady. Her brow furrowed in practiced grief.

But inside, the storm was still.

Another one falls.

This time she will not let a single one go.
Each and every traitor will die.

Hightower gone, Lannister gone and next will be that Borros Baratheon , the person who was partially responsible for her sweet Luce's death.

Ser Rymon had done his part. And his brother, the flamebearer, had played his role with equal loyalty. She made a mental note to reward them both perhaps a tract of land near the Rosby border. They’ve earned it. And I will need them again.

A flicker of satisfaction threatened to reach her lips, but she controlled it , masking it as a wistful sigh. A faint curve of the mouth that suggested fond memory, not quiet triumph.

“Ser Gerald of the distant lannister line,” continued Lord Lyonel Strong, “has sent a raven pledging fealty and requesting to renew oaths to the Crown. He awaits your word, Your Grace.”

King Viserys exhaled slowly. “He shall have it. Tell him to come directly at my daughter's wedding and swore his oath to both me and my heir."

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra’s POV

The chambers smelled faintly of myrrh and roses, the scent heavy enough to mask the tang of the iron braziers burning in the corners. Outside the open balcony, King’s Landing’s bells tolled a slow, deliberate peal not for mourning, but for marking the joining of houses.

Amanda Arryn stood behind me, fussing with the fall of my train as if she were adjusting the winds on a ship’s sail. “If the embroidery sits uneven, the whole gown will look crooked when you walk,” she said, voice calm, precise. She had always been like that a cool river beside my fire.

Three other ladies hovered about Laena Velaryon pinning pearls into my hair, a girl from House Redwyne smoothing the crimson silk sleeves, another kneeling to ensure the dragon-stitched hem stayed free of dust.

“Make certain the pearl clasp is tight,” I told Lyra, eyes fixed on my reflection. “If it falls, every gossip in the hall will whisper it was an omen.”

Amanda’s lips twitched. “Let them whisper. It will keep them busy from plotting.”

I allowed a faint smile but didn’t look away from the mirror. “Plots never sleep, Aunt. Not even for weddings.”

I had inspected every detail of this day myself from the silver-gilt cups to the tapestries brought up from Dragonstone, from the seating order of the lords to the placement of the minstrels. Nothing was left to chance. Not the colors. Not the vows. Not the guest list.

The seamstress brought forward the final piece: a thin, weighty circlet wrought in the style of Queen Alysanne’s diadem. I touched the cool metal before allowing Amanda to place it atop my head.

“How does it sit?” I asked.

“Like a crown,” Amanda said softly, and for a moment our eyes met in the mirror.

It was not vanity that drove this precision, but purpose. This wedding was not only to bind myself to Ser Harwin Strong, but to bind the court to me, to remind every whispering lord and wary bannerman that the heir of the Iron Throne was no simpering girl.

Somewhere down the hall, the doors opened and closed, the rustle of servants, the echo of booted feet, the scent of spiced wine drifting in. I let the sounds wash over me, steadying my breath.

“Everything is in place, Princess,” Amanda assured me, stepping back with a small bow.

“Yes,” I murmured, my fingers brushing the dragon embroidery on my skirts. “Everything is exactly as it should be.”

--------------

Alicent’s POV

The sept doors swung open, and the murmur of the crowd hushed into a reverent silence, all except for the pounding in my own ears.

There she was.

Not in white, not in the pure, sanctified shade that the Seven had ordained for a maiden’s wedding but in the brazen colors of her house. Blood-red silk spilling like a wound down the aisle, black panels heavy with golden dragons embroidered so boldly that the candlelight danced upon their scales. Even the train glimmered with threads of molten gold, as if to scream her name at every step.

Of course she would.
Rhaenyra had never known humility. Never known how a woman ought to conduct herself modestly, chastely, as a wife should. She flaunted herself in silks that clung like sin, as if to boast of all her misdeeds before the gods themselves.

I could hear the quiet gasps from the more pious lords and ladies, though most dared not speak. She had them in her palm now, the same way she had my husband smiling that serpent’s smile, turning every tradition into an ornament for her vanity.

Seven save us. I folded my hands tightly in my lap, murmuring a silent prayer to the Mother for mercy and to the Father for justice. But the words tasted bitter in my mouth, like ash.

I remembered my own wedding day , the white, the vows, the burden I carried with dignity because it was my duty. I had given up my girlhood dreams of a knight’s love for the realm’s good. And here she was, striding down the aisle draped in rebellion, as though her wanton life were a crown of glory.

The gods see, I told myself. They see, and they will judge.

But as she drew closer, the light catching in her hair like molten gold, I felt the familiar knot in my stomach twist tighter. The crowd looked at her not with disdain, but with awe. And that...that was the worst sin of all.

-------------------

Harwin’s POV

The music shifted soft, slow, a swell of strings that carried through the sept like the first breath before a storm.

And then he saw her.

Rhaenyra.

She walked arm in arm with King Viserys, the two of them side by side like a vision from some old song a king and his heir, a father and his daughter. Her gown was not meek nor pale, but fierce in its beauty: the deep red of dragonfire, the black of a midnight sky, golden dragons coiled and glinting with every step. She wore her colors as a crown would wear its jewels, and in that moment, Harwin thought there was no woman in all the realm more fitting to be called Queen.

The torchlight caught in her hair, setting it ablaze in molten gold, and her eyes, those clear, sharp eyes were fixed on him. Not the crowd, not the gawking lords and ladies, not even the septon waiting at the altar. Just him.

Gods, he’d faced battlefields without flinching, but this… this near undid him.

As she came closer, Harwin felt the weight of the moment settle in his chest. This wasn’t just the princess he’d sworn to protect, the woman he’d loved in stolen moments and quiet glances. This was Rhaenyra Targaryen , heir to the Iron Throne, dragonrider, and the one he would now call wife.

The King placed her hand in his, warm and sure. Harwin bowed his head in respect, but when he looked at her again, he saw the faintest smile tug at her lips. And in that smile was a promise not of an easy road, but of a shared one.

Seven hells, he thought, if the gods had made anything more beautiful, they’d kept it for themselves.

----------------------

The sept was hushed, save for the low chant of the septon’s voice as he spoke of the Seven and the sacred bond of marriage. The candles flickered in their sconces, casting light across gold-threaded banners and faces turned toward the altar.

Harwin’s calloused hands held hers, warm and steady. His grip was firm, not in possession, but in promise. She could feel the faint tremor there not fear, but the weight of the moment.

"Do you, Ser Harwin Strong, swear before gods and men to take this woman as your lawful wife, to honor her, protect her, and stand with her until the end of your days?"

Harwin’s gaze never wavered. “I swear it,” he said, voice rough but certain, as if the words came not from his mouth but from somewhere deep in his bones.

Rhaenyra studied him the curve of his jaw, the earnest fire in his eyes. Harwin was not like the others who had stood near her for ambition or power. He loved her, fiercely, without condition. That was a rare thing in her world… and something she would not waste this time.

The septon turned to her. "And do you, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, swear before gods and men to take this man as your lawful husband, to honor him, support him, and bind your fate to his?"

Her lips curved faintly. I bind my fate to no one, she thought, but Harwin… Harwin was different. She would share her road with him, if not her crown.

“I swear it,” she said, voice clear, carrying across the sept.

The septon bade them join hands fully, winding the ribbon of House Targaryen’s black and red with House Strong’s blue and grey. It was a symbolic knot, meant to bind them before the gods though in Rhaenyra’s mind, the true bond had been forged in whispered confessions and stolen nights long before this.

When the septon pronounced them husband and wife, Harwin leaned down, kissing her with a reverence that made the court lean forward, some smiling, some whispering.

And though Rhaenyra knew half the room saw only the heir securing a loyal sword-arm and the other half a knight elevated by love, she also knew this the game she played was hers alone, and Harwin… Harwin was now both her shield and her chosen.

----------------

The Great Hall of the Red Keep had been transformed into a celebration worthy of a royal union. Banners of black-and-red hung alongside the blue and grey of House Strong, each shimmering in the glow of hundreds of candles. The air was rich with the scent of roasted boar, spiced wine, and honeyed fruits, while the minstrels played a steady, lilting tune that rolled like gentle waves through the crowd.

King Viserys, flushed with wine and joy, stood at the high table, goblet raised. His voice, though no longer as strong as in his youth, carried over the assembled lords and ladies.

“To my daughter, the Realm’s Delight,” he said, pride softening the deep lines on his face. “And to Ser Harwin Strong, her loyal protector, and now her husband. May their days be long, their children many, and their hearts forever bound.”

The hall erupted into applause and the clinking of goblets. Harwin inclined his head in gratitude, while Rhaenyra offered her father a smile warm enough to convince any who didn’t already know her game.

When the roar of approval began to ebb, Rhaenyra sat at her place beside her father,her dark silk skirts spilling around her like molten shadow, the golden embroidery catching the light. The room stilled with anticipation ,she rarely spoke in such moments without purpose.

Her eyes found Alicent across the high table. The queen in just name for that was what most now whispered of her sat stiff and tight-lipped, her red gown impeccable, though its brightness seemed to dull under the banners of black and red.

Rhaenyra’s smile was sweet, almost girlish. “Your Grace,"she said, voice carrying in a tone that was warm yet precise enough to be heard by all. “What a beautiful gown you wear tonight.”

Alicent’s expression froze, the smallest twitch of her jaw betraying that she sensed the venom coiled in the compliment.

“I see you’ve at last embraced the colors of your husband’s house,” Rhaenyra went on, tilting her head in mock thought. “Black and red do suit you far more than the green of Oldtown.” She paused, just enough for the court to catch the glint in her eyes. “If only you had done so sooner… perhaps my sweet siblings might still be here with us today.”

The hall went deathly silent for a breath, then filled with a murmur of shifting silks and quickened whispers. Those who knew the court game caught the barb instantly. Others, including Viserys, heard only the tremor of sadness in his daughter’s voice and took it for grief.

The king’s gaze softened, his hand reaching as if to comfort her. “Ah, my dear girl,” he said quietly, “they are with the Seven now.”

But the court… the court was not fooled.

Daemon, seated just a few places down beside Laena, leaned forward, lips curved in a wolfish grin. “A fair point, niece,” he said, voice low but audible enough to ripple through the crowd. “Loyalty should always be worn for all to see. Colors tell more truth than words.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes flicked toward him, a silent spark of amusement passing between them. A private acknowledgment. A shared strike.

Laena gave a little shake of her head beside him, though a faint smile touched her lips. Harwin, seated at Rhaenyra’s other side, simply set his hand atop hers beneath the table steadying her, grounding her though his eyes never left Alicent.

The queen’s fingers clenched around her goblet, knuckles whitening. She forced a smile, though her voice, when it came, was cool and clipped. “It is fitting to honor the house of one’s husband,” she said. “Though not all of us… find it necessary to honor every custom.”

A polite laugh rippled through the hall the kind that covered discomfort.

Alicent’s polite smile was already stretched thin when Rhaenyra leaned forward, her voice honeyed.

“Oh, Your Grace,” she said with that practiced sweetness, “you definitely follow the customs only when they suit your circumstances.”

Alicent’s green eyes flashed, but before she could reply, Daemon’s chuckle rolled down the table like a lazy wave.

“Of course,” he drawled, lifting his goblet in mock agreement, “Her Grace doesn’t follow all customs. If she did, she would never have been able to visit a widower in his chambers… without a chaperone.”

The words hung in the air, sharp enough to draw blood.

A few of the younger lords and ladies stifled their laughter behind jeweled hands. Others stared fixedly at their plates, unwilling to be seen reacting.

Alicent’s jaw tightened. “You speak dangerously, my prince,” she said, tone clipped, but her gaze darted briefly toward Viserys, who remained oblivious smiling, sipping his wine, still caught in the glow of the celebration.

Daemon only smirked, eyes glinting. “Dangerous? No. I simply… observe.”

Rhaenyra gave a soft laugh, swirling the wine in her cup. “Indeed, uncle. Observations do tend to reveal the truth though not all enjoy seeing it.”

It was a masterstroke: a public flaying draped in silk and courtesy, leaving Alicent sitting rigid and humiliated, her piety stripped bare as the hypocrisy it masked.

The message had been delivered, sharp as a knife wrapped in silk. Daemon’s smirk deepened; Rhaenyra merely sipped her wine, the picture of innocence.

And the feast went on, but every lord and lady present would remember that moment the Crown princess and her uncle striking in perfect unison, their words cutting with the ease of long-honed blades.

---

From the far end of the hall, Lady Meryll Florent watched the exchange unfold over the rim of her cup. She’d been in enough courts to know when words were meant as weapons and to see who stood beside whom when the blades were drawn.

Her gaze lingered on the Princess and the Rogue Prince, their laughter mingling as naturally as though no years or marriages had passed between them. Laena sat serene at Daemon’s side, Harwin Strong comfortably at Rhaenyra’s, yet when the moment came to gut the Queen’s pride, Daemon had been her swiftest ally.

“Strange, isn’t it,” murmured Lord Redwyne beside her, “how the Princess and her uncle fight as one, even now?”

“Not strange,” Lady Meryll replied, her eyes still on them. “Some bonds don’t break for vows… or crowns.”

The music swelled, masking her words from all but her companion but the thought lingered, sharp as the steel glint in Daemon’s eye when he looked at his niece.

---

Alicent’s hands tightened around her goblet as Viserys’s voice carried over the hall, warm and resolute.

“There will be no bedding ceremony tonight,” the King declared, rising heavily to his feet. “I will not see my only child subjected to such base humiliation by those she will one day rule.”

A ripple of polite applause passed through the lords and ladies, the sound grating in Alicent’s ears. Her jaw clenched, a smile frozen to her face, though her blood simmered beneath it. Of course. Even here, on her wedding night, Rhaenyra must be wrapped in silks and spared every indignity.

Alicent could still remember her own wedding night the smirks, the drunken calls, the hands that had tried to lift her skirts as part of the “tradition.” She had borne it all in silence, because it was her duty, because it was what a queen must endure. But Rhaenyra? No, Rhaenyra would glide past such things as though the rules bent for her alone.

And yet, after whoring herself to her uncle in some vile brothel for all of King’s Landing to gossip about, the girl still held her head high, unashamed, as if the Seven themselves had blessed her. It was obscene.

And then, like a dagger between her ribs, his words echoed again. My only child.

As if not mere moons ago there had been two more - her perfect, beautiful children. Aegon, so bright with promise, and gentle Helaena, both gone before their time. Their memory snuffed out, their names unspoken, as though they had never been. Erased from the Red Keep as surely as their bodies had been laid in the ground.

Her nails bit into her palms as she forced herself to drink, the wine sharp on her tongue. The hall laughed and celebrated, the music swelling, but to Alicent it was only a mockery. All of them had moved on, all of them danced in the light of the harlot’s happiness.

And then, from across the tables, she caught it Daemon leaning ever so slightly toward Rhaenyra, murmuring something that made her lips curl into that knowing smile. A flash of mutual amusement passed between them, unspoken and infuriating. Harwin sat at her side, oblivious to it, while Laena spoke to another guest, unaware.

But Alicent saw.

She saw the silent understanding, the bond that had never been broken. It was enough to make her blood run hot with rage. The court might think this was Rhaenyra’s night, but to Alicent it was only a reminder she was alone in this den of vipers, and every serpent’s head turned toward the Princess in red and black.

And she would not forget.

And she would not forgive.

Chapter Text

The grand chamber hummed with the muted murmurs of lords and advisors settling into their seats. At the head, King Viserys presided, but all eyes, whether willing or not, drifted often to Rhaenyra seated beside him. She was no longer a mere shadow of the queenly duties she had claimed, she was becoming the mind behind the crown, poised and measured in every word.

When the Master of Coin spoke of the kingdom’s strained treasury, Rhaenyra raised a calm hand. “My lords, while austerity is prudent, let us not starve the wheels of commerce. Instead, we should focus on strengthening the markets, particularly in Flea Bottom, where opportunity and hardship walk hand in hand.”

A murmur rose, but Rhaenyra met it with a steady gaze. “The people there can be our strength, not our burden. Let us invest wisely.”

Daemon, leaning back with a faint smile, exchanged a glance with her approval or challenge, none could say.

Viserys nodded solemnly. “Wise words, my daughter.”

Across the room, subtle shifts showed some lords uneasy, especially those loyal to the old guard. But Rhaenyra’s voice, measured and precise, left little room for dispute.

-------------------

Later that evening, in the quiet sanctuary of her solar, Rhaenyra sat with Lara, her most trusted maid. The soft candlelight flickered over the heavy tapestries, but Rhaenyra’s face was focused, almost unreadable.

Lara spoke hesitantly, “Your Grace, your moonblood has not come these past two months. Should I call for the healer that Prince Daemon brought here at your request?”

Rhaenyra’s eyes narrowed slightly, a quiet hope stirring within. She had asked Daemon to bring a personal healer, one she could trust more than the maesters of the Citadel, whose loyalties were always uncertain.

A faint smile touched her lips. The timeline holds. I will have my heir, my eldest son, my pride.

Her thoughts drifted darkly. This time, he will not bow his head before anyone. No king’s guard, no Criston Cole to raise his hand against my children. Those days of fear and pain will not touch him.

He will be the perfect Targaryen prince born of fire and blood, not some shadowed Velaryon echo. This time, the crown will rest firmly on the head of my blood, unchallenged and unbroken.

She gave a small nod. “Yes, Lyra. Bring the healer. But keep it quiet for now, this is only for those who must know.”

As Lara bowed and left, Rhaenyra allowed herself a rare moment of calm. Her legacy would be preserved, and this time, no one would dare call her son anything but the true Targaryen prince.

-----------------

The door to Rhaenyra’s solar opened softly, and in stepped a calm, composed woman clad in simple yet elegant robes the healer sent by Prince Daemon at Rhaenyra’s request. Her name was Elenya, known for her discreet manner and unmatched skill with delicate matters of health.

Rhaenyra rose to meet her, masking the nervous hope flickering inside her.

Healer Elenya smiled gently as she approached. “Your Grace, I have brought what you requested. If you will allow me, I will begin with a simple examination.”

Minutes passed in quiet focus as Maester Elenya conducted her careful checks. Then she met Rhaenyra’s gaze, her expression soft but certain.

“Yes, Princess,” she said quietly. “You are with child. Your body bears the unmistakable signs."

Relief and joy swelled within Rhaenyra’s chest. She nodded once, steadying herself.

“This time,” she thought fiercely, “no shadow will mar his birth. No hand will strike him unjustly. My son will be the true heir of fire and blood.”

Maester Elenya inclined her head respectfully. “I will remain at your service throughout, Your Grace. Discretion and care will be my watchwords.”

Rhaenyra’s lips curled into a small, determined smile. “Thank you, Healer Elenya."

---

The fading light of dusk painted soft hues on the walls as Rhaenyra sat quietly by the window, her hands nervously twisting the edge of her gown. Harwin stood nearby, restless, sensing the weight in the silence between them.

Finally, she looked up, eyes glistening with a mixture of hope and fear. “Harwin… I have something to tell you. Something precious.”

His gaze softened instantly, and he took a gentle step closer, his voice low and steady. “You can tell me anything. I’m here.”

She took a deep breath, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m with child. Our child.”

For a heartbeat, Harwin simply stared, disbelief melting into overwhelming joy. Then a smile broke free soft, vulnerable, filled with wonder. He reached out, trembling slightly, to cup her face with rough, calloused hands. “You’re going to give me a son… or a daughter.”

Rhaenyra nodded, tears shimmering at the corners of her eyes. “Yes. Our precious child."

Harwin’s thumb brushed gently over her cheek. “I never dared to dream this day would come. You’ve carried so much pain... but now, we have hope.”

He pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her fragile frame, and she rested her head against his chest, feeling the steady, warm beat of his heart beneath her ear. “This time,” she murmured, “I won’t lose him. He will be ours, safe and strong.”

Harwin pressed a tender kiss to her hair. “I promise you, with everything I am—I will protect you both. No shadow will touch our family.”

Her fingers curled into his shirt, holding him as if anchoring herself to this moment. “I’m scared... but with you, I feel brave.”

He smiled against her hair, voice thick with emotion. “You’re not alone. We face this together, always.”

As the night settled around them, in that quiet room filled with whispered promises and beating hearts, a new future was born one woven with love, courage, and the promise of a child who would carry their fire forward.

------------

The great hall was dimly lit by flickering candlelight, the rich scent of roasted meats and spiced wine filling the air. Viserys sat at the head of the table, his worn but regal features softened by the quiet comfort of family. Rhaenyra took her seat beside him, a subtle glow in her eyes that hadn’t been there before.

Between sips of wine, she met her father’s gaze steadily. “Father, there is something I wish to share with you.”

Viserys inclined his head, curiosity sparking in his eyes. “Speak, my daughter.”

Rhaenyra’s voice was steady but tender. “I am with child. Your grandchild is here.”

A rare smile broke across the king’s face, the lines of worry easing as warmth flooded his expression. “By the Seven, this is joyous news indeed. You carry the future of House Targaryen within you.”

He reached across the table, briefly taking her hand in his, a gesture of quiet pride and love. “Know that I stand behind you, behind both of you. Your strength honors the legacy of our blood.”

Rhaenyra’s lips curved in a grateful smile. “Thank you, Father. Your blessing means everything.”

Viserys leaned back, the weight of his years balanced by newfound hope. “This child will be raised with all the honor and protection of the realm. And you, my daughter, will be the queen the kingdom needs.”

The hall seemed to brighten, not just with candlelight, but with the promise of a future forged in love, resilience, and the unbreakable ties of family.

---------------

The council chamber was heavy with anticipation as the lords and ladies of the realm gathered, their faces marked by a mixture of curiosity and caution. At the high seat, King Viserys sat solemnly, his eyes briefly meeting those of each councilor before he rose to speak.

“My lords and ladies,” Viserys began, his voice steady but carrying a rare warmth, “I bring you joyous news. Our Princess Rhaenyra, my daughter and the rightful Heir , is with child. A new heir to House Targaryen is growing within her.”

Murmurs rippled through the chamber some faces brightened with hope, others masked their surprise, and a few exchanged skeptical glances.

Lord Beesbury, seated near the front, inclined his head respectfully. “A blessing for the realm, Your Grace. May the child live long and strong.”

Lord Celtigar gave a small, approving nod. “Such news brings much-needed light in these dark times.”

Yet across the room, a few whispers betrayed dissent. One aged lord murmured to his neighbor, “The boy will be the true hope for the Targaryen line.”

Ser Strong, standing near the door, met the eyes of several lords with a calm, confident gaze, the weight of the announcement clearly settling upon him as well.

King Viserys raised his hand for silence. “Let all know that this child shall be nurtured with the full support of the Crown. Let there be no doubt Rhaenyra and her family hold the future of Westeros.”

The chamber settled into a respectful hush, the significance of the moment unmistakable. The road ahead would be long and perilous, but today, hope had taken root once again.

---

Rhaenyra sat quietly in the solar, the fading light casting soft shadows across the room. Daemon entered, his footsteps light but certain. After a moment, he broke the silence.

“I heard you are with child,” he said quietly, meeting her gaze.

She nodded, a small smile touching her lips. “Yes, I am.”

He took a step closer, voice sincere. “Congratulations. I know I wouldn’t be there for you during your pregnancy like a husband should but know this I will be here for you, like family. Always.”

Rhaenyra’s heart softened at his words. For all his faults, for all the storms between them, this was the truth she couldn’t forget. Neither in her previous life, nor in this one, had she been able to remain angry with him. Her kepus loved her, fiercely and unyieldingly, and always returned.

“I appreciate that,” she replied gently. “The healers you brought at my request they’ve been more than enough. I’m in good hands.”

She glanced at him, a hint of playfulness in her voice. “So, when are you and Lady Laena going to give me a cousin?”

Daemon’s smile was tinged with sadness. “Laena is not ready yet. She’s still mourning her brother.”

Rhaenyra nodded in understanding, the weight of loss lingering between them. Yet in that quiet moment, a fragile hope took root for the future, for family, for something better.

Rhaenyra’s smile lingered for a moment longer before her gaze sharpened with purpose. “Have you started preparing for the campaign to secure the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea? Ensuring the Crown’s safety and control over those waters?”

Daemon’s eyes met hers, the weight of duty settling back onto his shoulders. “I have. The last war was won, but it was never fully secured. The Stepstones remain a danger a haven for pirates and mercenaries. If we don’t act decisively, the Narrow Sea will never be safe.”

She nodded. “Exactly. That’s why I want you to lead the campaign. Your experience, your command, it’s needed now more than ever.”

He allowed himself a brief, proud smile. “And what’s in it for me? Surely, the Crown will not send me into battle without reward.”

Rhaenyra’s voice softened but remained firm. “A portion of the Stepstones will belong to your secondborn child. Another portion to my third. It will bind our houses and secure our legacy. Just like I mentioned before , the terms remain the same."

Daemon considered her words carefully. “A wise plan. And it will keep the peace in the Narrow Sea long after we are gone.”

Their conversation deepened, strategies unfolding between them like pieces on a board, each move calculated not just for war but for the future of the realm.

Daemon leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, eyes narrowing as he weighed the challenge ahead. “The Stepstones are treacherous, small islands scattered like broken teeth between the Narrow Sea and the Summer Sea. Their rocky shores and hidden coves make them perfect for pirates and outlaws. We’ll need a strong naval presence, fast ships patrolling the waters constantly.”

Rhaenyra listened intently, nodding. “And the local lords? Will they support us? Many of these islands have fractured loyalties, with small houses more interested in their own gain than allegiance to the Crown.”

“That’s where diplomacy must meet strength,” Daemon said. “We’ll need envoys to secure alliances and assurances, while our fleets make clear the Crown’s authority cannot be challenged. The pirate bands must be hunted down relentlessly, but the local lords should see the benefit of peace, trade routes open, no longer prey to raiders.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes flickered with determination. “We should also strengthen the fortifications on the key islands, station garrisons. I will arrange for resources from King’s Landing and Driftmark to flow towards those efforts. We cannot afford to lose control once it is gained.”

Daemon smiled slightly. “You think like a queen already. The rewards you promised , portions of land for our children , royal children that will seal the loyalty of many. Blood ties are powerful.”

She returned his smile, but it was tinged with quiet resolve. “Our children will inherit a realm safer than the one we came into. A realm where they can grow without fear.”

He studied her, admiration softening his features. “Then we have work to do. I’ll begin organizing the fleet immediately and send envoys to the Stepstones and neighboring holds. This will not be an easy campaign, but with your support, it will succeed.”

Rhaenyra’s voice lowered, intimate yet resolute. “And I will be here, securing the realm from the capital, ensuring nothing threatens us from within. Together, we will protect our family and our legacy.”

Their hands brushed briefly on the table, a quiet promise sealed between them, a partnership forged in ambition, love, and shared purpose.

----------------

The chamber was dimly lit, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the heavy wooden table where Rhaenyra sat, her posture poised and commanding. Across from her, King Viserys regarded her with a mixture of curiosity and respect, while Lord Strong’s steady gaze betrayed his keen attention.

“Father,” Rhaenyra began softly but firmly, “I have given much thought to the future of our dynasty the foundation upon which our realm will stand for generations. It is clear to me that we must embrace pure primogeniture: inheritance following the line of the ruling monarch, irrespective of gender.”

Viserys’s brow furrowed slightly, but he nodded slowly. “The realm has wrestled with this question for too long. And you believe this will bring stability?”

“Yes,” she said without hesitation. “The law must be unambiguous. The crown’s heir, whether prince or princess, should be the rightful successor. This will prevent factions from sowing discord over contested claims. The ruling monarch’s word must be final, beyond debate.”

Lord Strong leaned forward, voice measured but supportive. “It will also clarify succession, which could forestall civil strife. A necessary step for the realm’s peace.”

Rhaenyra continued, her gaze sharpening, “There is another matter dragons. I propose that only those who bear the Targaryen name have access to these beasts. The power of dragons must not fall into uncertain hands.”

Viserys exchanged a glance with Lord Strong before speaking. “You speak of the Velaryons?”

“Yes,” she confirmed. “Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys are loyal, but the future is unpredictable. Should Princess Rhaenys pass, who can guarantee the loyalty of their heirs? The dragons are symbols of our dynasty’s power and must be kept within our bloodline.”

Viserys nodded gravely. “A prudent measure. The dragons represent the strength of House Targaryen. No other house should wield them.”

Rhaenyra felt a surge of quiet triumph. “Then it is settled. With your blessing, Father, I will draft the necessary decrees.”

The king’s voice was steady. “You carry the weight of our house well, my daughter. Let these laws mark a new era, one of clarity and strength.”

Lyonel’s approving glance met Rhaenyra’s. “The realm will watch closely. But with such resolve, there is hope for lasting peace.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes gleamed with determination. “That peace will be built upon unyielding foundations the blood of our house, the rule of law, and the power of dragons. Nothing less.”

The three shared a solemn moment, the future of Westeros silently crystallizing within that room.