Maekar had a dragon.
That singular fact had shattered everything for Rhaenys. It was enough to make her abandon over a year's worth of scheming and meticulous planning—all discarded in a heartbeat. Every strategy she had painstakingly crafted, every ally she had cautiously fostered, was now useless.
She spent days reevaluating her position, reflecting on what her cousins had been saying all along: ally with Maekar. She had once considered it, briefly. But her pride had driven her to believe she could find another path, carve out a future where she could stand on her own.
But now? It was either Maekar or the nightmare that was Aegon.
Marriage to Maekar. The words echoed in her thoughts—a solution to all her problems. She wasn't wholly averse to the idea. She had to admit to herself, albeit reluctantly, that she was attracted to him. He was powerful, shrewd, and made her blood boil in equal parts fury and fascination. Much like Arianne, she had always felt a pull toward Maekar—a mix of attraction and intrigue.
Perhaps they could have something, she thought. Perhaps, if they worked together, they could have a good, respectful relationship. There was potential there—if they allowed themselves to explore it.
But the idea soured immediately when she considered the whole picture: Maekar's plans to marry Daenerys too. The thought grated on her, and it wasn't just jealousy, though that was certainly part of it. It was the fear of being an afterthought in that arrangement.
She didn't believe he would change his mind—she knew Maekar well enough to understand that once he set his sights on something, it was nearly impossible to make him budge. But she would try. If she couldn't change his mind, she would at least do everything in her power to ensure she wouldn't be pushed aside.
She couldn't be an afterthought. Not in her marriage.
"Your direwolf seems not to like me," Rhaenys said, her eyes fixed on the large white direwolf lounging in the corner of the tent.
"Well, he is quite attached to Daenerys," Maekar replied from his seat.
"Hmm, smart wolf," Rhaenys muttered with a faint smile before turning back to Maekar, her expression shifting to something more serious. She straightened her posture. "I have demands if I am to join you, Maekar. If I am to marry you."
Maekar raised an eyebrow. "You're in no position to make demands," he said.
Rhaenys met his gaze, undeterred. "Then take it as a request."
Maekar smiled, leaning back in his chair, clearly intrigued. "Go ahead."
Rhaenys took a breath, steadying herself before speaking. "I don't want to be treated as an afterthought in this marriage. When you bring Daenerys into this... arrangement you're trying to create, I refuse to be sidelined."
Maekar nodded slowly. "You will be queen. You will have plenty of power."
"No," she countered. "I'm talking about us. You and me. I don't want to be an afterthought when Daenerys becomes part of this... whatever this is."
"Ah, yes, that," Maekar's voice carried a note of understanding. "Are you asking for lovers to keep on the side that I can't..." he began to say.
Rhaenys frowned, clearly offended. "NO..no, that is not what I meant," she said.
She paused, a silence washing over them. "I won't lie, but I am attracted to you, Maekar," she admitted, albeit reluctantly.
"Oh, this is news to me," Maekar replied, his lips curling into an amused smile.
Rhaenys rolled her eyes at his teasing. "I would like to see where this can go," she confessed, her voice softer. "I would like to try..."
Maekar nodded. He hadn't expected her to be so forthcoming, and it was refreshing. "I thought you'd ask for more say in ruling."
Rhaenys smiled confidently. "I expect that too."
He chuckled. "If you're capable, Rhaenys, I'm more than happy to share the burden of ruling. It would be a relief, in fact."
Rhaenys considered his words. It was going better than she had imagined. She took a step forward. "I need more than just words. I need you to make a gesture—something that shows the realm our change in relationship."
Maekar raised an eyebrow. "I thought we haven't even begun yet."
Rhaenys lifted her chin. "We have now."
There was a long silence between them, Maekar regarding her with growing curiosity.
"I know you're using some kind of trick in the jousts," she said, her smile widening mischievously. "I've noticed."
Maekar began to speak, but she quickly held up her hand to stop him. "I don't care what you're doing to win," she continued, her eyes meeting his steadily. "But when you do win, I want you to crown me Queen of Love and Beauty."
Maekar's eyes widened, and for the first time in this entire conversation, he seemed taken aback. Rhaenys smirked, relishing the small victory.
"Do this one small thing," she said confidently, "and I think even you know how this gesture will be seen throughout the realm." She paused, her gaze unwavering. "You know what our dear father plans to announce in a few days."
Maekar stood up, their eyes locked in a challenge neither intended to lose.
After a beat, Maekar gave a nod. "I will win," he said, his voice as steady as his gaze. "And I will crown you Queen of Love and Beauty."
A smile tugged at the corners of Rhaenys's lips. She stepped closer, rising on her toes to place a soft kiss on his cheek. Maekar seemed surprised, though he didn't move away.
"Good luck telling our aunt about all this," she whispered into his ear before stepping back and turning to leave.
As she walked away, she couldn't help the smirk that spread across her face when she heard him mutter under his breath.
"Fuck."
.
.
.
Rhaenys watched the melee field as knights and lords representing their kingdoms walked in, each bearing the colors of their houses. The melee of the banners—an event she had only seen played out between noble houses while she still lived in Dorne—was now a battle between the entire Seven Kingdoms.
It was, indeed, a novelty.
She observed closely, taking note of the men assembled on the field. The Riverlands contingent was completely filled with Aegon's loyalists except for two. On the other hand, the Crownlands banner was just as full of lords loyal to Maekar.
Then there were the Stormlands. Rhaenys couldn't help but chuckle as she looked at them—a haphazard gathering of knights and lords split between Aegon and Maekar. The tension among them was evident, even from her vantage point. If any would break under its own weight, it would be this one.
Rhaenys turned her gaze to Maekar, who stood with four Kingsguard at his side, along with the final five from yesterday's grand melee. He stood tall, dressed in black armor that seemed to command the attention of the entire crowd. She couldn't help but admire how the blackened steel caught the light of the sun and cast it in a dull, dark glow, almost as if it absorbed the light itself.
Her father, seated beside her, murmured something she could just barely make out—something about Valyrian steel.
'Was it Valyrian steel? No, it can't be; no such thing exists,' she thought.
She looked toward Aegon. Her brother's face was pale, his mouth pressed into a tight line, his eyes fixed on Maekar. He looked torn between anger and fear, as though the sight of Maekar was forcing him to relive something—some memory that refused to let him go.
A movement from the corner of her eye caught her attention, and she turned her head just in time to see her aunt enter the royal box. Daenerys moved with the same grace she always did, her silver-gold hair flowing in the breeze, her dress a shimmering shade of gray.
She came and sat beside her.
Rhaenys inclined her head slightly. "Aunt," she acknowledged.
"Niece," Daenerys replied, giving her a nod in return.
There were no other words spoken between them, the tension hanging heavy in the air.
Rhaenys's eyes moved back to the field, and she found herself focusing on the Dornish banner. It was led by her uncle Oberyn. Obara was with him, standing strong, her gaze scanning the field with intent. But to Rhaenys's irritation, so was Gerold Dayne—the so-called Darkstar himself—whose sole focus seemed to be on Maekar, and it made her stomach twist uneasily.
She knew Aegon had planned something for this melee—she could feel it in the air, like a storm brewing just beyond the horizon. She also knew that Maekar was aware of it, that he had his own plans and countermeasures. But she couldn't shake the feeling of dread that had settled in her chest.
Her uncle's words echoed in her mind, and she wondered if this was what he had been implying. She had warned Maekar to be careful, to check for poisons, to keep his guard up. And though Maekar had reassured her, she couldn't help but worry.
Her thoughts were abruptly interrupted by the sound of the herald's voice echoing across the grounds, announcing the banners one by one. The crowd quieted, all eyes turning to the field.
Trumpets blared, and the herald's final words hung in the air for just a heartbeat before they were swallowed by the roar of the crowd.
The melee had begun.
It did not take long before chaos erupted. Already, she could see how the Vale, the North, and the Crownlands seemed to be coordinating their movements. Maekar was standing to the side, engaged in what looked like an intense discussion with Ser Arthur Dayne. From his gestures, it seemed as though Maekar was working to convince him to align the royal banner with the North, the Vale, and the Crownlands.
The struggle between Aegon and Maekar was playing out on the melee ground, a reflection of the greater conflict that she knew would soon encompass all of Westeros.
'Or perhaps it will not,' she thought. Maekar did have a dragon.
'Dragons can be killed,' a voice in her head said, as she was reminded of her namesake, Queen Rhaenys, and hers and her dragon Meraxe's death in Dorne.
The first true clash came when the men of the North, led by Benjen Stark, made their move. Their target was the Reach banner, led by Garlan Tyrell. The Northern warriors charged with practiced brutality as they cut into the ranks of the Reachmen.
Garlan Tyrell tried to rally his men, but the Northerners were relentless. The forces of the Reach struggled to hold their ground as they were battered by the North's aggressive assault. The Stormlands, or at least a faction of it, seeing their allies faltering, decided to lend aid. Their knights charged in, joining the Reach in trying to hold back the North's assault. The clash between them was fierce, knights in their resplendent armor pitted against the unyielding Northerners.
Rhaenys could see the Vale making its move, pushing against the Riverlands contingent. The two sides locked in a brutal stalemate, knights and lords from both regions clashing again and again, neither able to gain a decisive upper hand.
Meanwhile, the Westerlands made their move against the Crownlands, and they were making short work of their opponents. Gregor Clegane, the Mountain That Rides, was leading the charge. He plowed through the Crownlands' knights with the sheer power of his brute strength, the massive bulk of his form almost unstoppable. Behind him, she could see Joffrey hanging back, keeping himself well away from the actual fighting. She could imagine his face under the helm, twisted in fear.
'Why did that fool join?' she thought, watching Joffrey.
The Crownlands were clearly struggling, their knights falling back under the onslaught. It seemed as though none of them could stand against the Westerlands' monstrous champion.
Suddenly, a flash of armor bearing Maekar's white dragon caught her eye, and she saw Lyonel Storm and Brienne of Tarth coming to the rescue of the Crownlands lords—Rykker, Buckwell—all well in need of assistance. They charged into the fray, their swords gleaming as they joined the Crownlands knights and lords in trying to hold back the Mountain.
The Mountain swung his massive sword, aiming a heavy strike at Brienne, who parried it with all her strength, the force of the impact reverberating up her arms. Lyonel seized the opportunity, darting in with a quick, decisive thrust, his sword slipping through the gaps in the Mountain's armor, injuring him. Then Lyonel struck a blow to the giant's head as his helm had fallen off.
The crowd gasped, stunned into silence as the Mountain fell, collapsing to the ground with a heavy thud. The Mountain had fallen. Lyonel stood over him, breathing heavily.
Lyonel had just done what few thought possible—he had defeated the Mountain.
And there, behind the fallen Mountain, was Joffrey, eyes wide in shock and fear. He quickly turned on his heel and ran, pushing past the other knights and lords, eager to get away from the chaos.
Rhaenys couldn't help but laugh at the sight of Joffrey fleeing the melee field, his cowardice on full display for everyone to see.
"Fool," she muttered to herself, shaking her head.
Rhaenys looked to Aegon, who appeared annoyed at Joffrey's actions, but she noticed he was too pleased with himself, his mouth curled in a self-satisfied smirk. She followed his gaze and watched as one of the knights, identifiable by the green and gold of House Tyrell, darted across the field toward a knight from the Riverlands side. Moments later, he was joined by a Florent and an Oakheart.
'What are you planning, Aegon?' Rhaenys thought, her pulse quickening.
Her attention snapped to Maekar, who was locked in a fierce duel with Gerold Dayne.
Gerold was skilled, his sword whirling like a deadly dance, but Maekar was relentless, his strikes pushing Gerold further back with each swing. It was clear Gerold was losing ground, struggling under the onslaught of Maekar's unyielding assault.
But then she saw four knights moving, their gazes fixed on Maekar's exposed back. The realization dawned on her with chilling clarity: they were going to attack him while he was distracted with Gerold.
"No, no, no..." Rhaenys murmured under her breath, her fingers clutching the edges of her chair as her heart raced. She searched for Lyonel, but he was too far away to intervene. Maekar was alone.
'This is Aegon's plan,' she thought, a knot of fear and anger forming in her stomach. Her gaze darted back to the approaching knights, panic rising as they closed in.
Suddenly, a large, imposing figure charged toward the four knights like an unstoppable force. The figure was massive, moving with surprising speed, his form clad in dark armor.
"Who is that?" Rhaenys asked aloud, her voice edged with both shock and hope.
"Sandor Clegane," her uncle answered from beside her.
Sandor's charge was devastating. He barreled into the group of knights, scattering them with the force of his impact. The Tyrell knight went down immediately, clutching his side where Sandor's sword had struck. The Florent barely had time to raise his blade before Sandor struck again, his sword cutting through armor and flesh. The Oakheart tried to move in from behind, but Sandor turned swiftly, his blade finding its mark. Blood sprayed across the field as the Oakheart crumpled to the ground, motionless.
A collective gasp rose from the spectators. Even Rhaenys couldn't help but feel a mixture of shock and awe at the ruthlessness with which Sandor had dispatched the knights. The surviving knight backed away, clearly stunned and wary, but Sandor pressed forward, his sword flashing in the sunlight as he struck again.
The crowd was murmuring in shock, but Rhaenys couldn't tear her gaze away from the scene.
'Well, Maekar did say he had a plan,' she thought as she turned her gaze to where Maekar and Gerold had been locked in their deadly dance, hoping to see Maekar standing tall over a defeated Gerold. But the spot where they had been dueling was empty.
Her breath caught. 'Where are they?'
Rhaenys scanned the field frantically, but Maekar and Gerold were nowhere to be seen, vanished amidst the dust and chaos of the melee.
She looked around.
She could see that the North was now down to just four fighters, their movements still coordinated as they fought off a last group of Stormland knights. The Reach was holding on, but their numbers had dropped to just three. Across the field, the Westerlands were now being assailed by the Kingsguard—Ser Arthur, Ser Barristan, Ser Jaime, and Ser Oswell.
The chaos of the melee was slowly thinning out, the battle turning in favor of those still standing.
'Where is Maekar?' Rhaenys thought, her eyes sweeping across the field again.
And then she spotted a familiar figure—not Maekar, but Gerold. He moved in a strange manner, weaving between fighters, heading toward the edge of the field. There, standing alone and clearly terrified, was Joffrey.
'Perhaps Gerold is going to protect him,' she thought.
But something was off. Gerold's posture was wobbly at first, almost as if he were disoriented, but then it corrected—his steps growing purposeful, his pace increasing as he approached Joffrey.
And then it happened.
In one swift motion, Gerold lunged at Joffrey, swinging his sword with deadly intent. Rhaenys's eyes widened in shock as she watched, unable to comprehend what she was seeing. She saw Aegon standing up from his seat, his face a mix of shock and horror.
Gerold struck at Joffrey, who barely managed to block the first attack with his shield. The clang of steel echoed across the melee grounds as Joffrey stumbled backward, losing his helm.
"Gerold! What are you doing?" Joffrey yelled, his voice cracking as he struggled to defend himself. Gerold didn't answer as he swung his blade again. The next blow hit Joffrey square in the side, the force of the impact knocking him down. He tried to scramble away, but Gerold did not stop, following him, raining down blow after blow, each one striking harder than the last.
Rhaenys's eyes moved to the Lannister box, where Cersei Lannister stood, her face contorted in horror, her hands gripping the railing so tightly her knuckles had turned white. She screamed, her voice piercing through the chaos. "Save my son, you fools!" she cried, her eyes wide with panic.
Gerold continued his attack, his blade mercilessly crashing against Joffrey's armor. She could imagine the bruises forming on Joffrey's body as Gerold's attacks battered him again and again. Joffrey's cries for help grew weaker, his movements sluggish as he tried to fend off the blows with his shield.
Then, suddenly, Maekar appeared—seemingly out of nowhere. Rhaenys's breath caught in her throat as she saw him charging toward Gerold. He crashed into Gerold, pushing him away from Joffrey with a force that sent the Darkstar sprawling to the ground. In one smooth, swift motion, Maekar raised his sword and brought it down, slicing Gerold's throat with a clean, efficient strike.
Blood splattered across the ground. Gerold lay there, his hands clutching at his throat. Maekar stood over him for a moment, his eyes cold, before turning to Joffrey, whose bruised face looked up at him in shock.
And then something she did not expect happened. Maekar knelt beside Joffrey, his expression shifting to something almost akin to concern. The remaining Westerlands knights rushed to Joffrey's side. They took hold of him, leading him away from the field, as Maekar stood back, watching them go.
In the Lannister box, Cersei's cries of worry continued, her voice breaking as she watched her son being carried away. She looked to be on the verge of fainting as she was led away at what Rhaenys believed were Lord Tywin's orders.
Even Daenerys looked utterly confused by Maekar's actions.
Why would Maekar even care for Joffrey, of all people?
'Why had Gerold attacked Joffrey?' Rhaenys wondered, her mind spinning with questions. He looked and acted as if he was a wild animal. She looked over at Aegon, who had left his seat, running out of the box.
As she turned her attention back again she realised the melee was nearing its end, and the once chaotic field had dwindled down to just a few banners. The royal contingent—Maekar, Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Barristan Selmy, Jaime Lannister, and Lyonel Storm—stood strong amidst the fading tumult. Across from them, the Dornish and Northern teams prepared to make their last stand.
The North was the first to move. Benjen Stark led the charge, Greatjon Umber at his side, their blades raised high, while Harrion Karstark flanked them. Ser Arthur Dayne stepped forward to meet Benjen, the two swordsmen circling each other like predators on the hunt. Arthur's strikes were quick and precise, and Benjen, despite his tenacity, found himself being pushed back, barely managing to keep up with Arthur's relentless assault.
Greatjon Umber faced off against Ser Barristan Selmy, the legendary knight moving with grace and deadly precision. Despite his towering frame and brute strength, Greatjon was outmatched by the speed and experience of the veteran Kingsguard. Barristan ducked under Greatjon's powerful swings, his blade flashing as he found openings in the Northman's defense. In a swift, calculated move, Barristan struck, knocking Greatjon's weapon from his hands and forcing him to yield.
Harrion Karstark fought fiercely against Jaime Lannister. Jaime, ever the skilled swordsman, parried every blow from Harrion with ease. With a quick pivot, he sidestepped Harrion's attack, using the momentum to disarm him. Harrion fell to his knees, defeated.
Rhaenys's eyes then fell on Maekar, who was facing her uncle.
The Red Viper moved with the speed and fluidity he was known for, his spear dancing in his hands like a serpent. Oberyn lunged, his spear aimed at Maekar's chest, but Maekar sidestepped, his blade flashing as he countered. Oberyn's movements were quick and graceful, but Maekar's defense was unyielding.
Maekar managed to grab the shaft of Oberyn's spear, using his strength to pull the Dornish prince off balance. In one fluid motion, he swung his blade, striking Oberyn's arm and forcing him to drop his weapon.
Oberyn fell to the ground, breathing heavily, his eyes filled with frustration as he looked up at Maekar. Maekar stood over him, his sword pointed at Oberyn's chest. The two locked eyes for a moment—Oberyn's gaze a mixture of anger and reluctant respect. After a tense pause, Oberyn yielded, and Maekar lowered his sword.
The trumpets blared, signaling the end of the melee. The royal contingent had emerged victorious, their members standing tall amidst the fallen fighters. Maekar, Arthur, Barristan, Jaime, and Lyonel raised their weapons high, the crowd erupting in applause, their cheers filling the air. The banners of the royal team fluttered in the wind, the Targaryen dragon standing triumphant.
Yet all Rhaenys could think about were the events that had transpired earlier. Was this all part of Maekar's plan? How had he orchestrated Gerold's attack on Joffrey?
A thousand questions lingered in her mind, her thoughts swirling in a storm of confusion, suspicion, and awe. She looked at Maekar, standing victorious on the field, and she knew—she would be getting answers soon.
One way or another.