'The wise never place all their eggs in one basket.
Thus, neither should we.'
-Taken from 'A Treatise on Dragons' written by Rhaenar I Targaryen.
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Silent was the carriage ride home.
Despite the family fallout, Rhaenyra noticed her father's face was now contemplative. A marked change, though grief still weighed heavily on those shoulders.
As they pulled into the courtyard and the King descended the carriage steps, a guard came running.
"Your Grace!"
The King groaned.
"What now?"
"Come quick!"
Inside the Red Keep they found much was missing.
In the gallery, only one painting remained: the royal family's portrait.
It felt hauntingly out of place there. Alone, Queen Aemma's shining face, her children with their eyes a blend of purple and blue. The King beaming with forgone pride.
Nearby, a guardsman sat and cradled a bleeding brow.
"Apologies, your Grace. It happened quickly. When the Red Capes came and started to move things, we asked if His Grace had permitted them to touch Prince Rhaenar's things
"That Sari Sicai smiled wickedly and said, 'Permit this!'
"I never did trust the pit fighter. Then they swarmed us with rope and cogel, over before we could draw swords. Not a single man is dead, thank the gods. Though I'm ashamed to say we were completely outclassed."
In the study, the towers of books and shelves of scrolls — copious knowledge Rhaenar had collected during his travels
All gone.
Vanished were the volumes of notes, the countless simulations on how to get through a long, hard winter.
Gone were the designs. The statues and bridges, roads and ships, aqueducts and canals man-made.
Missing, too, was the vault of plays. That backlog of songs to be released over time, performances to fill the crown's treasury over generations.
Nothing remained in Rhaenar's quarters save for the bare furniture that had always been there. Now, it was more a lavish guest room, a far cry from the energy of 15 years of existence.
Upon closer inspection, Rhaenyra realized everything taken had belonged solely to Rhaenar. For example, all his gifts from the over years were left behind.
As such, almost all traces of Rhaenar vanished, leaving eerie spaces.
Then came the report.
Earlier that day, as the King departed, the bells had tolled.
Ships with black sails entered Blackwater Bay in broad daylight.
Droves of people abandoned their homes, carrying all they could, and boarded the vessels.
They left King's Landing and never returned.
The exodus stripped the city of many tradesmen; blacksmith and cobbler and seamstress alike.
It all hit Rhaenyra: the influence of her brother and the sad premeditated manner of the evacuation.
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The small council shared the same unease.
That night they called an emergency meeting.
By whom, no one could say.
Corlys paced the room, restless.
Though he placed his Master of Ships council ball in its designated spot, he refused to sit.
Corlys despised sudden, unexplained gatherings, which were called under vague pretense but offered no clear purpose.
If this were a ship, such disorder would never stand.
The absence of logic was glaring. The full crew wasn't there. No one had bothered to summon Rhaenyra.
'Strange', Corlys thought, 'To wake the King but not his cupbearer?'
As he glanced at the other council members, all seated unlike himself, Corlys noted the gloom in the room.
They stared downward, lost in grave contemplation. A waterwheel churn of troubled minds.
King Viserys entered with a gait that carried weary defiance, a man who had lost too much and resented being roused in the night.
The King surveyed the room, voice sharp and irate.
"Where's Rhaenyra?"
Corlys swayed. "My thoughts exactly, Your Grace."
Then came politics.
"Your Grace," Ser Otto began gravely, "this is the last thing any of us wish to discuss at this dark hour, but I consider the matter urgent."
"What matter?" the King urged.
Otto paused, and the histories held their breath.
"That of your succession. These recent tragedies have left you without an obvious heir."
Corlys turned. "The King has an heir, my Lord Hand."
Otto ignored that and fixed on Viserys.
"Despite how difficult this time is, Your Grace, I feel it important the succession be firmly in place for the stability of the realm."
Lord Lyonel Strong, Master of Laws, spoke resolutely. "The succession is already set by precedent and law."
That's when Corlys, who had been stalking and pacing, said, "Shall we say his name?" He sat down opposite the King with a swagger. "Daemon Targaryen."
Archmaester Mellos, glowing after his unexpected return to the capital, peered at Corlys. "If Daemon were to remain the uncontested heir, it could destabilize the realm."
Lyonel Strong snorted. "Forgive me, Archmaester, but with Rhaenar's renouncement, the realm is already destabilized."
"The realm, or this council?" Corlys said. He could see it clearly — the Oldtown faction, the Tri-factor of House Hightower, the Faith, and the Citadel...
They preferred dragonriders who respected tradition, heritage, and religion.
But a dragonrider like Daemon, who cared nothing for decorum and offered no patronage? That was met with utmost disdain.
'It's no secret Rhaenar was funding both the Citadel and the Faith,' Corlys pondered. 'Will that continue after his detachment from the Crown?'
The complications continued to multiply.
"No one here can know what Daemon would do were he king," Otto said, "but no one can doubt his ambition. Look at what he did with the gold cloaks. The City Watch is fiercely loyal to him — an army of two thousand strong."
The King rolled his eyes.
"An army you gave him, Otto. I named Daemon Master of Laws, but you said he was a tyrant. As Master of Coin, you said he was a spendthrift who would beggar the realm. Putting Daemon in command of the City Watch was your solution!"
"A half-measure, Your Grace. The truth is, Daemon should be far away from this court."
The King raised a finger. "Daemon is my brother. My blood. And he will have his place at my court."
"Let him keep his place at court, Your Grace," the Archmaester said. "But if the gods should visit some further tragedy on you, either by design or by accident—"
"Design?" Viserys cut in sharply. "What are you saying? My brother would murder me, take my crown? Are you?!"
The silence implied more than just Daemon was a concern now, though the men knew better than to broach that subject.
"Please. Daemon has ambition, yes, but not for the throne. He lacks the patience for it."
A soft chuckle came from the walls. There, Prince Daemon watched the meeting in secret.
Such is a perk for those who knew the secret tunnels of Maegor.
"The gods have yet to make a man who lacks the patience for absolute power, Your Grace," Otto said.
The Archmaester agreed. "Under such circumstances, it would not be an aberration for the King to name a successor."
"Well, who else would have a claim?" asked Lyonel.
Corlys watched as if through a dream. What Otto said next confirmed his suspicions.
"The King's firstborn child."
"Rhaenyra?" Lyonel said, baffled. "A girl? No queen has ever sat the Iron Throne."
"That is only by tradition and precedent, Lord Strong," Mellos replied.
Corlys couldn't believe it. This was how far they'd go to ensure Daemon stayed far from the crown! Now he understood why Rhaenyra had been excluded from this meeting.
"If order and stability so concern this council," Lyonel said, "then perhaps we shouldn't break one hundred years of it by naming a girl heir."
"Daemon would be a second Maegor," Otto said, "or worse. He is impulsive and violent. It is the duty of this council to protect the King and the realm from him."
The King glared at Otto, but the Hand remained firm.
"I'm sorry, Your Grace, but that is the truth as I see it, and I know that others here agree."
"I will not be made to choose between my brother and my daughter," the King said.
Corlys seized the moment. "You wouldn't have to, Your Grace. There are others who would have a claim."
Lyonel laughed. "Such as your wife, Lord Corlys? 'The Queen Who Never Was?'"
"Rhaenys was the only child of Jaehaerys' eldest son. She had a strong claim at the Great Council, and she already has a male heir."
Otto scoffed. "Just moments ago, you announced your support for Daemon!"
"If we cannot agree on an heir, then how can we expect—"
Everything inside Viserys boiled over. The irony of these men debating the very options Rhaenar had raised in their earlier argument was almost too much to bear.
"My wife and son are dead!" he shouted. "I will not sit here and suffer crows that come to feast on their corpses!"
With that, the King took his leave.
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Ser Otto wasted no time. As dawn broke, he sealed a letter with the wax sigil of House Hightower.
He needed to vent his fears. And who else but his Lord brother?
"Send a raven to Oldtown. Straight away," Otto said, handing the letter to Archmaester Mellos.
Alicent entered just as Mellos slipped out.
Otto's gaze softened as he saw Alicent's misty eyes. The resemblance to his departed wife was striking. He always hated seeing her sad, and Alicent was her spitting image.
"My darling."
They embraced.
"How's Rhaenyra?" Otto asked gently.
"She lost her mother."
Otto gave a solemn nod. "The Queen was well-loved by all. I found myself thinking of your own mother today."
"Rhaenar's gone," she added.
"We all feel his absence. I know how close you both were."
Alicent's throat tightened. Everything happening at once must be crushing Rhaenyra, she knew.
Yet her caring nature ensured someone else was on her mind.
"How is His Grace?" she asked.
Otto hesitated. He knew Viserys better than most. The immense pain King endured.
"Very low," Otto admitted. "Which is why I sent for you. I thought you might go to him. Offer him comfort."
Alicent gulped, unable to meet her father's gaze.
"In his chambers? I wouldn't know what to say."
She bit her nails.
"Stop that," Otto scolded. "He'll be glad of a visitor."
Then, as though to signal the conversation's end, Otto returned to writing letters. Parting one last thing
"You might wear one of your mother's dresses."
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Wear her mother's dress she did, like an angel spun in green.
Alicent called on the King with a book in hand. In the royal bedchamber, they shared condolences.
Indeed, Viserys was glad for the visit. Alicent's concern provided a rare comfort in bleak times.
Yet any optimism soured the next morning when, during the small council, Ser Otto delivered grim news.
"I have a report I feel compelled to share," Otto began, "Last night, Prince Daemon bought out one of the pleasure houses on the Street of Silk to entertain officers of the City Watch and other friends."
... The claim was corroborated by three witnesses. By all accounts, the evening had been a celebration.
Rhaenyra's ears pricked up. A celebration?
What followed made her sick.
This, apparently, was the toast Daemon gave to his audience:
"King and council have long rued my line in succession. But dream and pray as they all might, it seems I'm not so easily replaced. The gods give just as gods take away. To the King's son:
'The Spare for a Day!'"
To no surprise, this infuriated the King.
As soon as he heard of Daemon's return to the Red Keep, Viserys summoned him.
The cruel darkness of night blanketed the city. In the vast emptiness of the Great Hall, King Viserys sat upon the Iron Throne.
Swords of black iron gleamed in torchlight. The hollow chamber echoed with each measured step of Daemon's fine boots.
Something felt off. The sudden summon, the King's stern brow, the throne like a chair of judgment. The two brothers alone with only the Kingsguard to bare witness.
Daemon broke the ice with charming smile.
"You cut the image of the Conqueror, brother."
"Did you say it?" Viserys spoke softly, though in his mind he could hear Rhaenar~
'Did she beg?'
Daemon remained jovial. "I don't know what you mean."
"You will address me as 'Your Grace,' or I will have my Kingsguard cut out your tongue."
Daemon nodded, seemingly impressed, perhaps even proud.
But his confidence faded when Viserys pressed further.
"'The Spare for a Day.' Did you say it?"
Daemon's dreams of ruling side by side with his brother went crumbling. He envisioned trust, camaraderie, joy — just as they'd shared as young princes.
Now that vision seemed a distant fantasy.
True or not if Daemon made the statement, the fact his brother's first instinct was to distrust him – to deny any benefit of doubt – inflicted a terrible wound.
"We must all mourn in our own way, Your Grace," Daemon said, defeated.
"My family has just been destroyed!" Viserys roared, "But instead of being by my side, or Rhaenyra's — or, gods forbid, bringing Rhaenar back — you chose to celebrate your own rise! Laughing with your whores and lickspittles!"
Viserys trembled with sadness. "You have no allies at court but me! I have only ever defended you! Yet everything I've given you, you've thrown back in my face!"
"You've only ever tried to send me away!" Daemon retorted, "To the Vale, to the City Watch. Anywhere but by your side. Ten years you've been king, and yet not once have you asked me to be your Hand!"
"Why would I do that?"
"Because I'm your brother. And the blood of the dragon runs thick."
"Then why do you cut me so deeply?"
"I've only ever spoken the truth," Daemon said. "I see Otto Hightower for what he is."
That took Viserys aback, "An unwavering and loyal Hand?"
"A cunt," Daemon quipped, "a second son who stands to inherit nothing he doesn't seize for himself."
"Otto Hightower is a more honorable man than you could ever be."
Daemon shook his head. "He doesn't protect you. I would."
"From what?"
"Yourself. You're weak, Viserys. And that council of leeches knows it. They all prey on you for their own ends."
The King held back a scoff, thinking of the strength he'd wielded since that fateful day of the Great Council.
"I have decided to name a new heir," Viserys declared.
"Rhaenar's your heir," Daemon still clung to hope that this was a passing dispute. A silly quarrel like those between King Jaehaerys and his children, "And if he' truly renounced the crown, I am next in line."
"Not anymore," Viserys said, "You are to return to Runestone and your lady wife at once. You will be there for the birth of your child, and you will do so without quarrel — by order of your King."
Daemon smiled faintly at his brother's newfound resolve. But when he took a challenging step forward, the sound of Kingsguard reaching for their swords stopped him.
Never had the distance between them been so tragic.
"Your Grace," Daemon said with a bow.
Just like that, Daemon Targaryen, rider of Caraxes, wielder of Darksister and Prince of Flea Bottom, obeyed without another word.
Viserys watched his brother go, relieved it was over.
As he eased back onto the Iron Throne, its edge sliced his finger.
And the blood of dragons dripped to a cold, stone floor.
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They roused Rhaenyra in the night and led her to a place of family treasures. Hundreds of candles flickered along the edge of a podium where the great skull of Balerion the Black Dread rested.
Rhaenyra found her father hovering a hand over the flames, indifferent to the heat.
"Father."
"Balerion was the last living creature to have seen Old Valyria before the Doom. It's greatness and its flaws. When you look at the dragons, what do you see?"
Rhaenyra frowned.
"What? You haven't spoken a word to me since mother's funeral and now you send your Kingsguard down—"
"Answer me," the King insisted, "it's important. What do you see?"
Rhaenyra pondered for a moment.
"I suppose I see us."
Viserys nodded. "Tell me."
"Everyone says Targaryens are closer to gods than to men, but they say that because of our dragons. Without them, we're just like everyone else."
That answer satisfied Viserys. He gestured to the skull.
"The idea we control the dragons is an illusion. They're a power men should never have trifled with. One that brought Valyria its doom.
"If we don't mind our own histories, it will do the same to us. Targaryen must understand this to be King… or Queen."
Rhaenyra blinked.
"I'm sorry, Rhaenyra. I have wasted years since you were born wanting for sons. You are the very best of your mother. And I believe it, I know she did, that you could be a great ruling Queen."
"Rhaenar's your heir," she said, "Daemon—"
"Your brother has renounced the crown, and Daemon was not made to wear it. But in you I believe. This is no trivial gesture, Rhaenyra. A dragon's saddle is one thing, but the Iron Throne is the most dangerous seat in the realm."
Rhaenyra shivered at what the King said next.
"There's… something else that I need to tell you. It might be difficult for you to understand, but you must hear it.
"Our histories. They tell us that Aegon looked across the Blackwater from Dragonstone, and saw a rich land ripe for the capture.
"But ambition alone is not what drove him to conquest. It was a dream. And just as Daenys foresaw the end of Valyria, Aegon foresaw the end of the world of men."
He sighed, "'Tis to begin with a terrible winter gusting out of the distant north. Aegon saw absolute darkness riding on those winds. And whatever dwells within will destroy the world of the living.
"When this Great Winter comes, Rhaenyra, all of Westeros must stand against it. And if the world of men is to survive, a Targaryen must be seated on the Iron Throne.
"A King or Queen, strong enough to unite the realm against the cold and the dark. Aegon called his dream 'The Song of Ice and Fire.'"
Viserys placed a hand on the dagger strapped at his waist, the Valyrian steel he carried for over a decade.
"This secret… it's been passed from king to heir since Aegon's time. I... did not wish to trouble your brother with this until he came of age.
"Now you must be the one to carry this secret and protect it. Promise me this, Rhaenyra. Promise me…"
Rhaenyra simmered in the revelation, sobered by the vast responsibility.
"I will bear this burden father, but not alone. I will make Rhaenar understand and bring him back."
Viserys slumped. Would knowing of this prophecy really quell such anger? How could one broach the subject? 'I cut your mother open because an ancestor you never met had a dream once upon a time?'
"If only it were so simple, Rhaenyra."
"Let me try, father. I must bring him back. If not for the world, then for our family."
There was no room for debate. Rhaenyra wasn't asking.
Fortunately, the strength his daughter displayed gave Viserys a small sense of relief.
"Very well. Go, my child. For ravens have flown, and the Lords will soon gather to swear their fealty. Whether they bend the knee to you or to your brother, the gods will now decide."