Chapter Text
Red Keep 112 AC
Rhaenyra Targaryen
The Heir's Tourney was a grand spectacle, a convergence of splendor and merriment reverberating across the Seven Kingdoms. Draped in their finest silks and velvets, lords and ladies arrived in stately carriages and splendid horses. Minstrels and bards filled the air with melodic strains, weaving tales of heroic deeds and tragic love. The clash of swords and the thundering of hooves set a rhythm that quickened the heartbeats of all in attendance.
Actors donned elaborate costumes, enacting grand performances that drew gasps and cheers from the crowd. Merchants, their stalls a riot of color and sound, hawked their wares—exquisite jewelry, exotic spices, fine cloths, and sturdy weapons. The smell of roasting meats and freshly baked pies mingled with the scent of crushed grass and sweat, creating an intoxicating atmosphere of celebration.
The smallfolk, dressed in simple garb, cheered and screamed angrily. Children, their faces smeared with dirt and joy, chased each other through the crowds while their parents clapped and shouted encouragements to their favorite knights. The sound of their jubilation was a roaring tide, rising and falling with each tilt and joust.
Singers and dancers wove through the crowd, their voices clear and strong, their movements graceful and entrancing. Knights in glittering, polished armor strode about, their plumes and crests fluttering in the breeze, each a paragon of chivalry and might. The sun glinted off their steel, turning them into living statues of silver and gold.
The tourney grounds were expansive, and an almond-shaped amphitheater was designed to accommodate thousands. The stands rose in a tiered formation, giving every spectator a clear view of the action below. The earth had been trampled flat and covered with straw to soften the falls of unseated knights. In the center, the lists stood tall, flanked by colorful pavilions where knights prepared for their bouts.
The tourney grounds themselves were a spectacle. Banners fluttered in the warm breeze, a riotous display of heraldry that proclaimed the presence of noble houses from all reaches of the realm. From the Reach came the green and gold of House Hightower, their sigil of a white tower crowned with flames stark against the sky. The Riverlands were well represented, with the leaping silver trout of House Tully and the ancient dead weirwood of House Blackwood waving proudly beside the red stallion of House Bracken.
From the Crownlands, the seahorse of House Velaryon and the red crabs of House Celtigar added their colors to the mix, while the Westerlands sent forth the golden lion of House Lannister and the proud grey boar of House Crakehall. Each sigil and banner told a story of loyalty and heritage, a reminder of the power and prestige of these noble families.
House Blackwood's banner was particularly striking; the dark branches of the weirwood tree spread against a field of white, held aloft by a squire no older than thirteen, his face a mask of pride and concentration. Nearby, the banner of House Bracken, with its red stallion rampant on a golden field, was equally impressive, the colors bold and fierce.
Knights prepared for the tourney with solemn rituals, checking their armor and weapons and conferring with squires and fellow warriors. The sigil of House Tully, a silver trout leaping on a field of blue and red, adorned many shields and surcoats, a reminder of the House's enduring strength. House Hightower's knights, resplendent in their white and gold, moved with an air of quiet confidence while the sea-green banners of House Velaryon, bearing the silver seahorse, signaled the presence of warriors from the sea.
House Celtigar's knights, with their red crabs on fields of white, and the proud warriors of House Westerling, bearing the golden lion and white field, stood ready. The Marbrand knights, their sigil a burning tree on an orange field, added a touch of fiery determination to the assembly. Each House, each knight, was a piece in the grand mosaic of the tourney, a testament to the rich tapestry of the Seven Kingdoms.
As the day wore on, the excitement grew, the anticipation of the jousts and melees building to a fever pitch. The Heir's Tourney was not just a contest of strength and skill but a celebration of the realm itself, a gathering of its greatest and most noble, a living, breathing testament to the enduring spirit of Westeros.
Rhaenyra ran through the bustling crowd, her crimson gown billowing around her like a flame as she darted toward the royal box. Her heart raced, not from the exertion of running but from the anxiety of being late. As she approached the box, she slowed her pace, lifting her chin to regain her composure and smoothing the fine silk of her dress. With the grace expected of a princess, she ascended the steps and slipped into her seat beside her dear friend, Alicent Hightower.
Alicent greeted her with a warm smile. "You almost missed the opening," she whispered.
"I know," Rhaenyra replied, trying to mask her breathlessness with an elegant sigh. "I was delayed."
She glanced around, taking in the presence of the small council and the distinguished guests. The Velaryons were resplendent, their silver hair gleaming in the sunlight, a perfect match for their sea-green and blue attire. The Targaryens of Summerhall had also arrived; their dragon lord heritage is unmistakable in purple eyes and silver-gold hair.Aemon looked on impassive, the sole member of the Valyrian blood without the silver hair and purple eyes.
Rhaenyra's aunts sat in a row, each more beautifully adorned than the last. Viserra's maroon dress was rich and opulent, Rhaella's orange gown shone like the autumn sun, Saera's white dress was a masterpiece of delicate embroidery, Daenerys wore a stunning purple that matched her eyes, Aerea shimmered in silvery fabric, and Maegelle's deep blue attire was as dark as the night sea. Rhaenyra's gaze lingered on her cousin, Prince Aemon, whose black hair was pulled back severely, his nearly black eyes devoid of emotion as he stared at the tourney field. He wore a leather gambeson with a black wolf's pelt draped over his shoulders, and both Viserra and Saera clung to him, the former clutching his arm while the latter held his hand gently.
King Viserys rose from his seat, his voice booming over the crowd. "Welcome, one and all, to the Heir's Tourney! We know many of you have traveled long leagues to be here, and I promise you will not be disappointed!" His words were met with a roar of approval from the crowd. "When I look at the fine knights assembled here today, I see a group without equals in our history. And this great day is made more auspicious by the news I am happy to share: Queen Aemma has begun her labors!" The crowd erupted in cheers and applause. "May the luck of the Seven Faces of God be granted to all!"
As the king sat down, Alicent leaned towards Rhaenyra. "I thought Prince Aemon would have left after his argument with King Viserys."
Rhaenyra sighed, a touch of exasperation in her voice. "I do not know what Aemon is thinking, and I gave up trying to care."
Alicent's expression grew serious. "That folly will do you no favors at court, Rhaenyra. It is best to try and figure such things out."
Rhaenyra's frustration bubbled over. "Aemon is supposedly the best swordsman and horse rider in the Seven Kingdoms. I do not understand why he does not compete."
Alicent pondered this for a moment. "I do not know either. But I know that the other squires and knights were equally disappointed. They had hoped to face him. The greatest swordsman and horse rider in the Seven Kingdoms merely sitting back to watch. Looking at who might be a future challenge on the battlefield. Somehow, it feels even more terrifying to stare at the prospects rather than fighting them."
Rhaenyra looked back at Aemon, who remained impassive, his dark eyes fixed on the field. "Perhaps he is afraid of losing," she said softly, almost to herself.
Alicent shook her head. "The Night King? Afraid? No, Rhaenyra, I think his reasons are his own, and until he chooses to share them, we can only speculate. The Greyjoy Rebellion and the Reyne and Tarbeck Rebellion sought an end to anyone questioning your cousin's strength." Alicent eyes glanced at Aemon, just as Rhaenyra had. "Prince Aemon Targaryen, son of Daemon Targaryen, Prince of Summerhall, and Protector of Summertown, the Night King. Seven Kingdoms united in fear of Prince Aemon Targaryen," she said just above a whisper.
The conversation was interrupted by the blare of trumpets, signaling the start of the first joust. Rhaenyra pushed thoughts of her enigmatic cousin aside, focusing on the knights preparing to tilt. The tourney was about to begin, and with it, a day of excitement and spectacle that would be remembered for years to come.
On the field, a knight of House Bracken mounted his steed, a massive destrier with a coat as black as midnight. Across from him, representing House Westerling, another knight took his place, his armor gleaming in the sunlight, adorned with the sigil of a white lion on a golden field.Rhaenyra looked to Ser Harrold who looked to his own cousin in the fields with pride.
The two knights lowered their visors, and the crowd fell silent, anticipation thick in the air. At the marshal's signal, they spurred their horses forward. The ground trembled beneath the thunderous hooves as the knights charged, their lances held steady.
In a heartbeat, they collided, the wooden lances striking with resounding force against the shields. Splinters flew, the sound of cracking wood echoing like thunder. Both knights remained mounted, their steeds wheeling around for another pass. Ser Westerling barely stayed on as he had shifted a great deal on the saddle and had nearly fallen off. The crowd erupted into cheers and gasps as he rushed forward, grabbed second lance from his squire, and spurred his horse forward with thrice the force.
Again and again, the knights charged. Each pass was a dance of power and precision, their lances shattering upon impact, sending fragments of wood spiraling into the air. The Bracken knight, fierce and relentless, held his ground, but the Westerling knight proved more skillful. The two rushed towards one another in the fourth pass, and when the lances slammed into the other’s shields, splintering wood exploded across the battlefield. With a final, decisive strike, the Westerling aimed his lance with unerring accuracy, driving it into the Bracken knight's shield with such force that the knight was lifted from his saddle and sent crashing to the ground. SPlitinger wood was stuck in the space between his helm and his shoulder. Blood gushed from the wound as he screamed.
The crowd roared in approval as the victor raised his shattered lance in salute. The fallen knight was helped to his feet. Squires aided him as a trail of blood began to form, and the squires rushed the Bracken to a maester. As the field cleared, a knight from House Baratheon rode forward, his horse prancing with restless energy. He stopped before the royal box and lifted his lance skyward.
"Princess Rhaenys Targaryen," he called out, his voice carrying across the stands, "I humbly ask for the favor of the Queen Who Never Was."
All eyes turned to Rhaenys, who rose with regal grace and approached the edge of the box. She took a laurel wreath, its green leaves shimmering, and placed it upon the knight's lance. "May good luck and fortune favor you, cousin," she said, her voice warm and clear.
Rhaenyra had forgotten that Rhaenys mother was a Baratheon in blood and thus making Rhaneys cousins to the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands.
The Baratheon knight smirked, his confidence evident. "I would accept, Princess, if I thought I needed it," he replied, a playful glint in his eye.
The crowd chuckled, and Rhaenys returned to her seat with a smile. The knight turned and rode back to the field, ready for his next challenge.She could hear Saera whisper to Aemon that Viserys had the right to claim the head of the Baratheon for openly supporting Rhaenys in still favor of her being Queen. She heard as Aemon responded evenly, saying that if Viserys did such things, it would quite all words but win him no favor, for it would anger that breeds, and it would win the wrath of House Baratheon, not the wisest of things win the Riverlands were so openly distrusting of the Crown as well.
Rhaenyra leaned closer to Alicent, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. "I hear Lord Stokeworth's daughter is being promised to the young Tarly squire."
"Do you mean Lord Massey's son?" Alicent asked, her brow arching in curiosity.
Rhaenyra nodded. "Yes, the pair will marry soon after he wins his knighthood."
Alicent smirked. "Best get on with it." Alicent said absentmindedly. Rhaenyra followed Alicent gaze and saw that her friend was looking at the Tully section, her cousins, if Rhaenrya was not a mistake, through her late mother. "I also heard Lady Elinor is hiding a swollen belly beneath her dress."
Rhaenyra gasped, her eyes widening in disbelief. "Truly? I cannot believe it!"
Before they could continue, the herald announced the next joust. "Lord Borros Baratheon will face Ser Criston Cole!"
Rhaenyra noticed Aemon shift in his seat, and his posture suddenly became rigid. His eyes narrowed, and she could see a flicker of intense, barely concealed rage. His face remained stoic, a mask of indifference, but the hatred was unmistakable, simmering beneath the surface like a coiled serpent ready to strike. She glanced back at the field where Ser Criston Cole was preparing for the joust, wondering what could have sparked such animosity in her cousin. She could hear one thing, one phrase that Aemon said with barely restrained strained rage. "Kingmaker."
Rhaenyra watched with bated breath as Ser Criston Cole and Borros Baratheon took their places on opposite ends of the tourney field. The crowd hushed in anticipation, and the tension was palpable. The two knights spurred their horses into a gallop, charging towards each other with lances poised. The earth shook beneath the thundering hooves, and in an instant, the clash came.
In a single pass Ser Criston had won.
Criston Cole's lance struck true, splintering upon impact with Borros Baratheon's shield. The explosion of wood and splinters was like a burst of lightning, fragments flying through the air in a deadly spray. Borros was unseated, flung from his saddle with a brutal force that sent him slamming into the ground. The crowd gasped and then erupted in a mix of cheers and shocked exclamations as Baratheon lay still for a moment before struggling to his feet, visibly dazed.
A good thing to be sure for a man with no fame and a House with less than he. But not the best when Lord Borros was Lord of the Stormlands and a lord paramount.
Aemon did not look pleased.
Rhaenyra had never heard of this Criston Cole, but whoever he was, he had certainly made a powerful enemy in Aemon Targaryen. Aemon's cold, nearly black eyes followed Cole's every movement with a burning intensity that Rhaenyra had rarely seen. Aemon was not a man whose enmity one sought lightly, but Cole seemed undeterred, his skill in the joust undeniable.
Aemon said nothing as the announcer announced Daemon's coming. Two dozen horses and knights of dozens of different houses and colors and pedigrees came forth from the side, proudly standing on their mounts. Daemon rode his own silver horse, matching their silver-blonde hair, in his black Valyrian steel armor. She knew not how Daemon had gained Valyrian steel, but it was through Daemon and Aemon that the House of the dragon had more than any other living House.
His black armor gleamed in the sunlight, a striking contrast to the golden cape that flowed behind him. His helm was adorned with a three-headed dragon, a symbol of his lineage and his fierce pride. Daemon passed a dozen knights that stood proud and strong before finding the familiar green that matched the green flames of the Hightower itself. Daemon chose his opponent with a pointed gesture, singling out Gwayne Hightower, the son of Otto Hightower and brother to Alicent.
"Why did he choose Gwayne? He is not a great knight," Aerea spoke in High Valyrian, loud enough for all in the royal box to hear but only for those of the Valyrian Houses to understand.
"He is not choosing Gwayne for skill but to enrage the man who fathered him, Aerea," Aemon clarified.
Saera nodded along while looking forward. "By doing so, he makes no friends in the Reach or Riverlands, neither for him nor you, Aemon."
Aemon said nothing for some time. Rhaenyra looked at him and saw him not looking at Daemon, but rather, his eyes remained on Criston Cole. Cole's dark eyes showed contempt and bloody rage. "I care not what the Reach nor the Riverlands think of me. The Riverlands were only made a kingdom by the will of the Conqueror, and the Reach is still as flammable as it was during the Field of Fire."
The idea that Aemon could burn down an entire kingdom with little care or effort was not settling. And it forced her to have some more pity for this Criston Cole, for he somehow managed to gain the ire of the rider of Balerion.
"I'll wager five golden dragons on Daemon," Lord Beesbury declared, his voice carrying over the din.
Rhaenyra thought it a sure bet. Daemon was a formidable knight, and his confidence was unshakable.
The two knights readied themselves and charged with a signal. Their lances struck with a resounding crash, splinters flying as wood shattered upon impact. Neither was unseated, their skill and strength evident. The crowd roared in approval, hungry for more.
Four more times, they clashed, each pass a testament to their endurance and skill. They rushed to their losing side as fresh lances were given, and once in hand, the horses charged forward with thrice the force, barely even slowing for the turn. With each round, the tension mounted, the knights growing visibly tired. Their lances met in a flurry of splinters and wood, but neither yielded. It seemed as though either could emerge victorious, their determination unwavering. The sound of the lances slamming and splintering was grand and deafening as each time, right before the lances struck true, the crowds quiet with bated breath as if lusting for such an explosion of wood.
On the final pass, Daemon's strategy shifted. Instead of aiming for Gwayne's shield, he directed his lance toward the horse. Right as Gwayne’s lance was to slam into Daemon, Daemon leaned forward, riskily almost allowing Gwayne’s lance to pierce between the gap of the helm and chest place, which would have killed Daemon, and aimed the lance into the horse. The lance struck true, plunging into the horse's flank. The animal buckled, its legs collapsing beneath it. Blood squirted freely from the wound as the lance broke off, and most of the long wood was now embedded into the horse. Gwayne Hightower was thrown high into the air, his body twisting before he crashed to the ground with a sickening thud. The impact was harsh, and his fall resonated through the stands.
The crowd was momentarily stunned into silence before erupting into chaos. Some cheered Daemon's ruthless tactics, while others murmured in disapproval. Rhaenyra's gaze shifted to Alicent, whose face had gone pale, her eyes wide with concern for her brother. It was dishonorable to win in such a way, but it was a win nonetheless.
Daemon removed his helm, his face a mask of triumph. He raised his lance in salute, his expression unrepentant. Gwayne Hightower was helped off the field, but his pride and body were bruised.His face was covered in blood and dirt.
Rhaenyra couldn't help but admire Daemon's prowess, even as she recognized the calculated cruelty in his actions. It was a reminder of the brutal nature of the games, where honor and victory often clashed in the most savage ways. Rhaenyra watched as her uncle came up to the royal stands to speak to them upon his horse. She noticed that neither Aemon nor their aunts rose to meet them.
Rhaeynra got from her chair and walked up to her uncle below them, pointing his lance toward the box. "Well done, uncle," she congratulated him.
"Thank you, my princess," he said with his condensing smirk. He then turned to Alicent with a sly smile. "I'm fairly certain I can win these games, Lady Alicent. Having your favor would all but assure it." Rhaenrya turned to see Alicent right next to her; Rhaenrya did not even know Alicent had followed her, so lost was she as she wished to speak to her uncle.
It was a cruel thing to ask, to make the sister of the defeated reward you with her favor, and the fact Daemon was a prince made it so she had no option but to comply with a smile on her face. Alicent placed her laurel on the lance as it slid down to the hilt. "Good luck, my prince," she said somberly.
Once Daemon trotted off, Rhaenyra heard Aemon speaking to their aunts. Daenerys did not look happy, and she sounded less so. "Your father really is a prick, isn't he?" At that, all the Valyrians in the royal box laughed loudly while all others looked on in confusion.
"He finds humor in the darkest of ways," Aemon defended with little effort.
Saera then turned to Aemon, her eyes narrowing. "He stabbed the horse, a cheap tactic, as well as nearly crippled the son of the Hand of the King, while also going forth and asking for the favor from the sister of the man who he nearly killed."
Aemon looked on," It is as I said; he finds humor in the darkest of ways. But wins us no favors."
Rhaneyra was surprised that Laenor spoke next. "Is that fear I hear, my dear cousin?" Laenor mocked.
"Caution, Laenor," Aemon said, turning to Laenor. The two looked at one another, and Rhaenyra could see a smile on Ameon's lips for a second. She had heard since the Tourney of Harrenhal, Laenor and Aemon had exchanged letters, the pair being the only males of similar ages who rode dragons and both being adept swordsmen; she supposed the rumor was true. "Despite what you think, it is not the wise or strong man who wins battles but the most prepared man. The question is, is my father prepared to anger the second most powerful man in the content by both harming his son and asking his daughter to reward the action with her favor."
Laenor's smile turned into a serious gaze, something Rhaenyra had never seen before, something that looked distinctively Aemon in solemness. "Daemon is a dragon," Laenor said with a calm voice.
Aemon nodded along. "Far easier for a dragon to kill a man than the reverse, but it does not mean it is impossible, unlikely, yes, impossible, far from it." Laenor nodded his head once and turned back to the tourney.
The tourney grounds had become a cauldron of blood and steel as the jousts grew increasingly brutal. Knights clashed with ferocity, lances shattering and swords clanging. One bout ended with a knight of House Redwyne driving his lance through the eye slit of a knight from House Fossoway, the green apple crest now forever stained with blood. Another match saw a knight from House Yronwood disarmed and then slain with a brutal slash to the throat by a man from House Mooton. The crowd's cheers had turned to horrified gasps and murmurs as the brutality unfolded.
Rhaenyra saw the Grand Maester whisper something to Lord Otto. He looked solemn and said no words as he whipped something to her father. Her father grew serious and rose without a word, following the pair outside the royal box.
Rhaenyra's heart pounded as she watched these vicious encounters; the crowd's bloodlust mirrored the knights' grim determination. She saw the faces of the slain, men who had entered the lists full of pride and hope, now lifeless on the field. Amid this chaos, her uncle, Prince Daemon, prepared to face his final opponent, Ser Criston Cole.
The announcer's voice rang out, "Ser Criston Cole, the Knight of the Blackhaven, will face Prince Daemon Targaryen, the Prince of the City!"
Blackhaven she had known that name; she had known that castle; it was turned into one of the walls and outposts to the Dragon Gate in the Dornish Marches, the Dragon Gate that belonged to Summertown and Summerhall, ruled by Aemon. Blackhaven was once ruled by House Dondarrion, a House that was killed by her uncle Daemon. Is that why Aemon seemed to know the man already, for House Cole was under the former rulers of Blackhaven, and Daemon had caused bad blood between them, another blood feud like the Hightowers, Royces, and Tullys that Aemon inherited from his father?
Ser Criston Cole had somehow gained the ire of Aemon, who ruled the castle that Ser Criston hailed from, and had beaten Lord Borros, his liege lord, in a joust. Ser Criston Cole was not the wisest of men if somehow came to negative contact with both the two men you least wished anger in the Stormlands where Ser Criston was from.
Rhaenys sipped some wine and placed it on the small table to their side as she looked at her husband. "Daemon should end this quickly. The day has grown dreadfully boring already," Rhaenys said to her husband, Corlys.
"It is not my father who will end this," Aemon said, his eyes never leaving Criston Cole.
"You think your father will lose to a landless knight?" Rhaneys laughed at Aemon. But his eyes show no emotion; he never turned back to their cousin. "And here I thought you had faith in your father. Boys are to hope their fathers are victorious in all things."
"The link between hope and nativity is almost transparent, cousin. And both mean little when faced with truth and reality," Aemon said evenly.
"Care for a wager then, my prince," Corlys said. Rhaenys could see that to Corlys, he would be making coin off of Aemon, and that was a glorious prospect to most; no one had beaten Aemon in any regard in years, and winning a wager was a better win than most had gained. "Five hundred golden dragons?"
Aemon said nothing for some time before looking to the pair, readying to fight once more. "Make it five hundred thousand, and we have a deal."
Rhaenyra looked at Aemon in shock; she was not the only one. Corlys' eyes narrowed at him. "That is a lot of coin for a simple wager."
Aemon's voice was even, far too calm for her liking. "A wager that you are sure is in your favor. If you are so certain, why not bleed me for as much as possible and use the money to build more ships," Aemon offered.
Corlys leaned ever slightly forward, his eyes looking to Daemon. "So be it. Five hundred thousand dragons."
The two combatants stood on opposite sides of the field, their armor gleaming in the sunlight. Daemon's black armor was adorned with a golden cape and the three-headed dragon sigil, while Criston Cole wore a simpler, yet equally imposing, suit of plate.
The signal was given, and they charged. Their lances met with a thunderous crash, splintering into shards that flew through the air. The force of the impact nearly unseated both men, but they held firm. They circled and charged again and again, their lances exploding on impact with the other's shield in a rain of wooden splinters.
Both men wavered in their saddles on the fourth pass, struggling to maintain their balance. The fifth charge saw Daemon's lance snap with splitters exploding on all sides, nearly blinding Daemon, snapping near the base while Criston's lance struck true but failed to unseat the prince. By the sixth pass, both knights were visibly weary.
Daemon's lance struck Criston's shield with such force that it shattered completely, while Criston's lance hit Daemon squarely, causing him to teeter and grind against the metal divider. Daemon’s legs still fastened to his mount, forcing him to still ride the horse as his body rode the metal divider from where the two lances met all the way down. The ringing sound of Valyrian steel was louder, an echo with no end nor beginning like a ringing going from the Grand Sept, as he rode the metal to its completion and the force and speed of his horse’s run launching Daemon off the metal divider and several feet forward as he collapsed to the ground in a heap.
The crowd gasped as Daemon finally lost his grip and fell to the ground with a resounding crash.
Rhaenyra watched with fear and fascination as Aemon's cold eyes remained locked on Criston Cole, his expression unreadable but filled with a calculating intensity.
Daemon rose from the ground, his face a mask of fury. "Bring me my sword!" he bellowed. Dark Sister was handed to him, its Valyrian steel blade shimmering ominously. He strode towards Criston Cole, who had dismounted and armed himself with a morning star, the spiked ball swinging menacingly on its chain. No man in history had a Valyrian steel sword and full Valyrian armor, and the dark ripples of Valyrian steel gleamed so very menacingly on Daemon as his sword was pointed at the victor of the joust.
The announcer spoke loudly. “Prince Daemon wishes to continue in a contest of arms!”
Ser Criston leaped from his horse as he was given a shield with ten circles on a field of scarlet, likely the sigil of House Cole, and a morning star as a weapon in his opposing hand. The two men faced each other, and the crowd fell into an anxious hush. Daemon struck first, Dark Sister slicing through the air with deadly precision. Criston dodged, the morning star whistling past Daemon's head as he retaliated. The dance of death began, each man moving with lethal grace and intent.
Criston swung his morning star in a wide arc, forcing Daemon to duck and weave, his black armor flashing in the sunlight. Daemon slashed at Criston's side, but the knight deflected the blow with his shield. Criston's morning star came down again, crashing into Daemon's wooden shield and splintering it. The splinters slammed into Daemon’s helm, and if he had been looking towards it would have under his eyes. Daemon discarded the remains, his face set in grim determination.
Daemon lunged; Dark Sister aimed at Criston's heart, but Criston twisted away, the blade grazing his armor however, Valyrain steel was not something to take lightly as the Valyrain magics in the steel aloud it to cut through the knights armor, almost cutting through completely as a scar of a cut was now deep in the armor. The sound of the Valyrain steel as it sliced through lesser steel echoed through the arena. Criston countered with a vicious swing of his morning star, catching Daemon on the shoulder and sending him stumbling. Daemon recovered quickly, swinging his sword in a deadly arc Criston narrowly blocked by swinging his morning star down on to the flat of the blade of Dark Sister and sending the strike towards the ground.
“How is that even possible.” Laenor spoke loudly interrupting them. “I’ve never even heard of someone doing something like that before.”
Rhaenya looked on in confusion. “What do you mean?”
Aerea leaned in forward to watch the fight better. “Ser Criston knew that blocking Dark Sister was suicide, so he slammed the morning star onto the flat of Dark Sister while it was already in a swing. The amount of skill, speed, and ability to track the movement to perfectly time your counter is impossible for any man, let alone a man facing Valyrain steel, which is far lighter and faster than all metals should be. I would not even be able to do something like that. Tracking a sword with enough precision to not hit the blade but the flat? No man should be able to do that. Luck was more than just on his side with that.”
Aemon said nothing for some time as he leaned forward as well. “It was more than just luck.”
The clash continued a blur of steel and fury. Daemon's strikes grew more desperate while Criston's movements remained controlled and precise. Daemon went for the same strike as before, and Ser Criston went to block the strike with the morning star as he had, but Daemon, seeing this, feinted the strike so that all of Criston’s strength was already into the block and could not change his motion. Daemon sent Criston sprawling to the ground with the feint and a swift kick to the chest that sent him back several feet. Daemon stood over him, gloating, his sword raised for the final blow.
But Criston was not finished. With a sudden, powerful movement, he swung his morning star into Daemon's legs, crashing down the prince. Criston quickly mounted Daemon, his morning star poised for the killing blow. Daemon went for a knife hidden on his leg as Ser Criston moved forward, so his knees were pressing Daemon’s arms down. Ser Criston still had the morning star ready to slam into the opening in Daemon’s helm. Daemon struggled, but Criston's weight and position were too much. The fight was over.
Daemon relanted as the crowd cheered and roared. Ser Criston turned around as the crowd continued to roar, and he slowly rose to his knees. He threw the morning star to the ground in a show of submission and reached to help up Daemon. Daemon lay on the ground, defeated but glaring up with undiminished fury. Daemon swatted the hand away and helped himself up. Criston stood, the victor; he raised his shield heil into the air for all to see the sigil of House Cole. The crowd erupted in cheers and shocked silence, the brutal display leaving a lasting impression on all who had witnessed it.
Rhaenyra glanced at Aemon, who still watched Criston Cole with that same cold, calculating gaze. Whatever history lay between them, it was far from over, and Rhaenyra could sense that this would not be the last time the two would clash. But she heard the name again, the word that Aemon had said before. "Kingmaker," he spat the word with venom and spite. Aemon then turned to Corlys. "I thank you for your donation, good cousin."
Rhaenyra watched as anger and frustration came over Corlys. Still, before they could continue, Rhaenyra saw as Lord Otto returned from wherever he went with the Grand Maester and her father and whispered something to Lord Beesbury, then to Lord Corlys, and slowly, the information provided passed from person to person. When it reached Aemon, she saw him sigh, his shoulders sagged, and she heard him say these words. "Now it begins," he whispered to Saera. She nodded her head. She looked to her sisters, and each one grew more serious. Each one of the Targaryens of Summerhall seemed to be resigned to something they truly dreaded.
Viserys Targaryen
It was deep in the night, and the sky was shrouded in a thick blanket of clouds. The Red Keep loomed ominously against the dark horizon, its towers and battlements casting long shadows over the courtyard. He walked through the Red Keep and had recently laid his wife to rest. Just by the coast, outside the city, on the top of the highest hill looking over the Blackwater Rush. The winds were harsh, the waves unforgiving as they slammed into the rocky cliff, and the seawater sprayed high enough in the sky that only dragons could reach them.
King Viserys had earlier stood beside the funeral pyre, his heart heavy with grief. His wife, Aemma Arryn, lay motionless atop the pyre, her face serene in death; her lower body was covered with more red than black to help hide the blood of the Grand Maester cutting directly into the womb. The memories of their life flooded his mind, each a dagger to his heart. Their marriage had been one of political necessity, but over time, they had found true companionship and love in each other. Now, she was gone, along with their son.
He had done it for Aegon’s Dream. Aemon could secure their future but Aemon could not do so if he is worried of Westeros. Aemon needed to leave and Viserys needed an heir for both his succession and for Aemon’s attention to no longer focus on the fact his father may one day be king.
He killed his wife.
Blood gushing out of her. Almost as though her stomach was an open bowl as he saw her innards and the maester tried to obtain Viserys’ heir.
Viserys had killed his wife.
With a heavy heart, Viserys called forth his dragon, Sheepstealer. As it approached, the beast's eyes glowed with a deep, almost sorrowful intelligence. Sheepstealer's scales, muddied brown, the coloring of earth his wife would return to, she was a queen she deserved to be buried with royalty, but only the ashes of the Targaryen kings could be placed in the Grand Sept, his wife's remains would be brought to Dragonstone. Viserys reached out a trembling hand to touch the dragon's rough scales, drawing strength from the ancient creature's presence.
He couldn't do it, not to Aemma.
He could not burn her; she wasn't truly gone.
It was such a finality to letting Sheepstealer burn her resting form. He turned to his daughter; Rhaneyra looked to be ready to cry but fought the tears, her eyes puffy, her face red. She stood next to Daemon as he held her. Daemon looked to be sympathetic and quiet, but his face was unreadable. Viseyrs turned to Aemon, but his dark, Stark-like features showed no emotion, his face brooding, and his dark eyes looking to the horizon as the winds passed through his cloak. His aunts, Saera, Viserra, Aerea, Maegelle, Rhaella, and Daenerys, stayed close to Aemon. As he took a deep breath, his eyes grew hard and harsh, almost as if he had accepted a great and terrible burden.
Viserys wished to sob, wished to cry. "Dracarys," he commanded, his voice breaking, just barely above the whispering winds.
Sheepstealer's maw opened, and a torrent of brown fire erupted forth, engulfing the pyre in a blaze of earth-brown and leathery hues. The heat was intense, but Viserys did not flinch. He watched as the flames consumed the body of his beloved wife, the pain in his heart mirrored by the searing heat. It was a cruel finality, the fire reducing her to ashes, but it was the way of their people.
As the flames roared, consuming the last vestiges of the woman he had loved, Viserys felt a part of himself die with her. The pain was unbearable, a gnawing emptiness that settled deep within his chest. He had lost not only his wife but also their son, a double blow that left him reeling. It was a grief that no king should have to endure, yet here he was, a broken man in a crown, watching the fire devour all that he held dear.
Tears streamed down his face, unbidden and unrestrained. He stood there long after the flames had died down, staring at the smoldering remains. The night was silent except for the dying embers' crackling and the sea's distant sound.
With the funeral rites concluded, Viserys turned away from the pyre, his steps slow and heavy as he made his way to the small council room. The corridors of the Red Keep were dark and foreboding, the flickering torchlight casting long, dancing shadows on the cold stone walls. Each step echoed in the silence, a somber reminder of the emptiness that now filled his heart.
He did not wish to be disturbed for the rest of the day. He wept in his room; he cried for his wife and son; the gods were cruel. All Viserys wished was to uphold Jaehaerys' peace, and just before he became king, there was one war; after becoming king, there were two more. He had failed as king so early in his reign, failed as a husband to his wife who was loving and loyal, failed as a brother and uncle for ripping a son from his father, failed as a father for the daughter he had and the son he had lost. He wept until no more tears came from his eyes.
Deep into the night, one of the kingsguards warned Viseys that Otto had called an urgent meeting. Viserys was forced to ready himself and slowly walked towards the small council chamber. Each step was a burden, his grief weighing him down. The Red Keep's hallways were dark, the flickering torches casting eerie shadows on the stone walls. His mind was a storm of sorrow and regret, the loss of Aemma and their son an unrelenting ache in his chest.
Otto Hightower had called an emergency meeting, and Viserys knew he had no choice but to attend. His grief, however, was a constant companion, a heavy shroud that threatened to smother him. As he approached the council room, the dim light of candles barely illuminated the chamber, casting eerie shadows that seemed to dance with the flickering flames.
The small council was already assembled, their faces grim and solemn. The Grand Maester, Lord Strong, Lord Corlys, Lord Beesbury, and Otto Hightower were all present, their expressions a mixture of concern and unease. Even his nephew, Aemon, was there, his stoic eyes fixed on Otto with a barely concealed glare. It was clear to Viserys that Aemon's presence was not due to Otto's invitation but rather his own insistence on being there. The only one absent was Daemon, and Viserys could easily guess that Otto had deliberately excluded his brother.
As Viserys entered the room, the lords stood and bowed, a gesture of respect that felt hollow in the face of his overwhelming grief. He moved to his seat, the weight of his sorrow pressing down on him with every step. He noticed that Aemon did not rise; the boy seemed to be angry, but only Viserys could tell, for there was no emotion; his ice-cold face held as much emotion as the Wall itself. Once he sat, the others followed suit, their eyes filled with a mixture of sympathy and apprehension.
Aemon's eyes remained fixed on Otto, his gaze cold and calculating, a silent challenge that did not go unnoticed. Viserys knew his nephew well enough to recognize the simmering anger beneath his calm exterior. Whatever the reason for this emergency meeting, it was clear that tensions were high, and the atmosphere was fraught with barely contained animosity.
As the council settled into their seats, Viserys felt the full weight of his kingship pressing down on him. He was a ruler in mourning, a man bereft of his greatest source of strength and comfort. Yet, he had to endure to lead for the sake of the realm and the memory of the woman he loved so dearly. The path ahead was dark and uncertain, but Viserys knew he had no choice but to walk it, no matter the cost.
The air was thick with tension and the faint scent of burning wax. Viserys Targaryen, his face filled with grief and exhaustion, looked around the table, his eyes lingering on each face before he spoke, his voice heavy with sorrow. "Where is Rhaenyra?" he asked, his tone wavering slightly.
Aemon Targaryen was the first to respond, his voice cold and steady. "Lord Otto called this meeting without consulting me, my father, Daemon, who is Lord Commander of the City Watch, nor Princess Rhaenyra." Aemon's glare was icy, though his face remained an unreadable mask. He turned his gaze to Otto Hightower. "Why, Lord Otto, did you not seek the presence of those who mourn our late queen the most? Especially when you call for her husband so easily?"
Viserys winced, the pain of his wife's death clear in his eyes. He turned to Otto, his voice heavy with the weight of his grief. "Why have you called this meeting so late into the night, Otto, when all I wish is to mourn my wife?"
Lord Otto Hightower bowed his head slightly. "Your Grace, this is the last thing any of us wishes to discuss at this dark hour, but the matter is urgent."
Viserys' confusion was evident. "What matter is so pressing?"
Otto took a measured breath. "The matter of your succession, Your Grace. The recent tragedies have left the realm without an obvious heir."
Lord Corlys Velaryon interrupted, his voice firm. "The king has an heir."
Otto ignored the interruption, continuing to address Viserys with a veneer of respect and concern. "Your Grace, I understand how difficult this time is for you. But it is crucial for the stability of the realm that the succession be firmly in place."
Lord Lyonel Strong spoke up, his tone authoritative. "The succession is already set by precedent and by law."
Corlys nodded, his expression unwavering. "Should I say his name, my Lord Hand? Daemon Targaryen."
The Grand Maester leaned forward, his voice grave. "If Daemon were to remain the uncontested heir, it could destabilize the realm."
Corlys' eyes narrowed. "Destabilize the realm or the council?"
Aemon's voice cut through the tension, cold and calm. "King Jaehaerys decided that the heir would be the king's closest male kin, which means it is my father, Daemon, and then after him, myself."
The Grand Maester turned to Aemon, his tone cautious. "Prince Daemon is not the most conventional heir. His rule could pose significant issues for the realm."
Aemon's eyes flashed with anger, though his voice remained icy. "Does this council seek to remove Daemon and his entire line from succession? If so, perhaps we should do away with all succession rights for all sons."
Otto's voice was gentle yet firm. "Your Grace, not a soul could know what Daemon would do if he were king, but no one could doubt that he has ambition."
Aemon leaned forward, his gaze locked onto Otto, his eyes threateningly. "Are you suggesting, Otto, that the king's death is imminent and my father becoming king is such an imminent threat?"
Before Viserys could respond to such an accusation, Otto Hightower, ever composed, inclined his head slightly. "This meeting is for the small council, Prince Aemon. You are not currently a member of it."
Aemon's calm glare did not waver. "The council is meddling in the succession of my family and House. I have a right to defend my place, especially when Lord Otto is trying to remove my father from the line of succession and, by extension, myself."
The Grand Maester tried to placate Aemon, his voice soothing. "No one is trying to remove you from the line of succession, Prince Aemon."
Aemon's eyes burned with intensity as he looked at Otto. His cold eyes looked into Otto’s soul, and the man stood firm in Aemon’s gaze for some time. "Do you think Otto would allow Daemon's blood on the Iron Throne after trying to remove Daemon in the first place?" His voice dripped with sarcasm as he continued, "Lord Otto, please deny the accusation."
Otto remained silent for a moment before speaking. "Daemon is far too dangerous to leave anywhere near the Iron Throne."
Aemon's expression hardened. "From where I am sitting, the true danger to the throne is a man who believes he can interfere in the succession of the royal family when he is nothing but the second son of a vassal House to the Tyrells, who serve House Targaryen."
Otto's face tightened, but he remained composed. "Daemon is a threat. Look at what he did with the City Watch. He brought chaos to the city, killing criminals without trial. He commands the loyalty of the City Watch, a small army thousands strong."
King Viserys interrupted, his voice sharp. "An army that you gave Daemon, Otto. I named Daemon master of laws, but you called him a tyrant. I named him master of coins, but you said he would beggar the realm. Putting Daemon in charge of the City Watch was your solution!"
Otto's voice was firm. "It was a half-measure. The truth is that Daemon should be far away from this court."
Viserys' anger flared. "Daemon is my brother, my blood. He will have his place in my court."
The Grand Maester spoke cautiously. "Your Grace, you could allow Daemon his place in court, but if the gods should allow further tragedy by accident or by design—"
Viserys cut him off, his voice sharp with suspicion. "Design? What do you mean by that? Are you suggesting Daemon would murder me to take the crown?" His anger grew, his voice rising. "Are you?" Viserys took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. "Daemon has ambition for power, but not for the throne. He lacks the patience for it."
Otto's voice was low and dangerous. "The gods have yet to make a man who lacks the patience for absolute power."
Aemon's voice was sharp and clear. "They also have yet to make a man who has the knowledge of his place. Lord Otto, you have no say in matters of House Targaryen itself."
Otto's eyes narrowed. "House Targaryen is the realm. As Hand of the King, I have the power to advise on matters concerning the realm."
Aemon interrupted harshly, his voice cutting. "You have no power to advise on matters within the family itself."
The room fell silent, the tension thick and suffocating. Viserys looked around at his council, his heart heavy with grief and anger. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows over their faces, each one etched with their own concerns and ambitions.
The Grand Maester cleared his throat and interjected, "Throughout the histories of Westeros, before Aegon conquered the Seven Kingdoms, there was a precedent of kings naming their own successors."
Lord Strong, skeptical, asked, "Who else would have a claim?"
Otto took his time; a heartbeat passed, then two, before Otto swelled his throat and began to answer, "The king's firstborn child."
Lord Strong scoffed. His eyes were wide, and then he looked across the room as if looking for a jester or court fool. "Rhaenyra? A girl? No queen has ever sat on the Iron Throne."
The Grand Maester replied, "It is only tradition and precedent."
Lord Strong looked in irritation; he narrowed his eyes on the Grand Maester and then retorted, "If order and stability are so concerning this council, then perhaps we should not break one hundred years of it by naming a girl heir when there is another male heir that would be supplanted; as a result, Prince Aemon himself. If a girl heir is named over a male, then it would put all other secession rights to all other Houses into question, and there would be an uproar!"
Aemon's voice was calm but steely. "I will not allow this council to question my birthright because the Lord Hand and Grand Maester think they can change thousands of years of succession rights since before the Andals took over Westeros."
Otto said with a tone of finality, "Daemon would be a second Maegor."
The flames of the candle flicker just for a second as the shadows grow larger and return to their forms. Aemon replied, "I am more than able to keep my father in check if need be, and I doubt Daemon would do anything so drastic unless necessary."
Otto accused, "You think Maegor the Cruel's actions were necessary?"
Aemon looked stoically before responding, "Maegor was cruel, but he was right. His brother Aenys failed the realm by his indecision, and Maegor put the fear of dragons back into the realm, to the upstarts in the faith, allowing King Jaehaerys to rule for nearly sixty years of peace because people were too scared of another Maegor should worse come."
Otto spat back, "Daemon would kill half the realm for sport."
Aemon countered, "Naming a girl heir would anger the entire realm since I am a living male heir. The male taking control of the House and its holdings has been the way since before the Andals came to Westeros. If Otto wishes to dispute that, he would cause more damage than the Greyjoy Rebellion."
Lord Strong suggested, "We could remove Daemon as heir and place Aemon as heir instead."
Lord Beesbury, old and weak, agreed with a nod. "Yes, Prince Aemon has proven himself as a more than capable man before, and the realm would prosper from his rule." Viserys felt the urge to scoff. The man was choosing his side in the council rather clearly.
Otto interjected, "It would not be best to put Aemon as heir since he is such a polarizing figure and has had to deal with the Dornish, who are causing fights and skirmishes on the Prince's Pass."
Aemon looked to Otto; his eyes narrowed slightly, but his stoic face gave nothing away. "Are you insinuating that I am insisting on a war between the Dornish?" Lord Otto said nothing to dissuade Aemon's thoughts. Aemon's voice was sharp as he replied, "If Otto cared for polarizing, he wouldn't have allowed half the realm to burn because he chose to be idle and do nothing to stop the Dornish and Greyjoys from joining forces."
Viserys' voice was weary but firm. "I will not be made to choose between my brother, daughter, and nephew."
Lord Corlys added, "You wouldn't have to. There are others who would have a claim."
Lord Strong scoffed and sarcastically asked, "Do you mean your wife, Princess Rhaenys? The Queen Who Never Was?"
Lord Corlys replied, "She had a strong claim at the Grand Council, and she already has a male heir."
Otto scoffed, pointing out, "Just seconds ago, Lord Corlys supported Daemon."
Aemon roared and slammed his fist on the table. All eyes were on him once more as his words were low, just above a whisper, and yet everyone was too terrified even to make a sound, his words now too important to ever try and misinterpret. "That same Grand Council makes Daemon the heir to the Iron Throne and makes me second in line after Daemon," Aemon replied evenly before turning to Viserys. "By making Rhaenyra, you make a third change to succession when we, as the royal family, have never written down or made a law that would solidify how succession would be taken. Aegon allowed Aenys to be the heir as the eldest, and it became the main law; the Maegor changed that by saying that the most powerful should rule, then Jaehaerys changed it by saying it is the male line and the direct male king that would take the crown. Now, your council wishes to change it again. The last time such a change was implemented therewith, disregarding the will of the realm," Aemon sighed before continuing. "Maegor forced the realm to bleed for it."
"Are you suggesting you would start a war for the throne?" Lord Otto asked threateningly.
Aemon's dark eyes were piercing; it was like one was looking into the abyss. "And if I were, I doubt any man in the Seven Kingdoms would be strong enough to oppose me, Otto. By Maegor's succession laws, I am the heir for being the most powerful. By Jaehaerys' succession laws, I am the heir to the heir. Tell me, Otto, do you think it wise to deliberately make a public enemy of Caraxes and Balerion? I believe I could show you Harrenhal to see such folly. If you want something more recent, just look at Ironborn."
Lord Strong cut the pair off before it could come to any worse words. "The Prince is correct, Your Grace. Not once has succession writes been fully made into law, but it is only upheld by precedent."
Lord Corlys looked up, and his eyes narrowed. "You just said otherwise; you said that succession was upheld by precedent and law, and now you reverse your words? If it is a king's word that made King Viserys heir, then it is a king's word that could have chosen another."
Viserys slammed his fist in the table as the men argued. Viserys, his voice breaking, screamed, "My wife and son are dead!” he roared loudly as all the men in the room looked down in regret, all but Aemon and Otto. “I will not it here and suffer crows that come to feast on their corpses." Viserys turned to Aemon, his eyes filled with anger and sorrow. "You have shown no remorse, no guilt, no pain for the fact that Aemma, your aunt, has passed away."
Aemon remained calm. "Our position as the royal family does not give us the time to grieve because the realm still needs attention."
Viserys' anger flared. "Do you care more for the realm than your family?"
Aemon replied coolly, "Smallfolk and lords get to mourn their dead, but we are Targaryens. We have our duty."
Viserys scoffed as he rose quickly, his rage barely contained. "Aemma asked me to remove Daemon as heir and make you my heir. I thought of it before." He screamed, "Aemma loved you as a son, and you are not even in pain over her death."
Aemon's voice was cold and detached. "That is because you are. One Targaryen must not be consumed by emotion, or the entire realm would suffer from it. While the rest of our family could mourn her, one of us needs to still act strong."
The room fell silent, the tension thick and suffocating. Viserys looked around at his council, his heart heavy with grief and anger. The flicker of candlelight cast long shadows over their faces, each one etched with their concerns and ambitions. The future of the realm hung in the balance, and Viserys felt the weight of his crown heavier than ever before. He felt angry; he had never felt so angry with Aemon before. Viserys wanted to say more. He wanted to scream but settled on leaving the room. The others stood up in respect as Viseyrs went to his chambers.
Viserys Targaryen left the small council chamber in a daze, the weight of the discussion bearing down on him like a millstone. His steps were slow, each one feeling as though he were dragging himself through mud. He wound his way through the dark corridors of the Red Keep, the flickering torches casting erratic shadows on the cold stone walls. His mind was a storm of emotions, his heart heavy with grief and regret.
When he finally reached his chambers, he closed the heavy wooden door behind him and collapsed onto the floor. The room was silent except for the distant echoes of the castle, a stillness that only intensified his sorrow. Viserys wept, his sobs wracking his body. He clutched at his chest as though trying to hold his heart together, the pain of his loss overwhelming him. His tears flowed freely, soaking the fine fabric of his tunic.
"Aemma, my love," he whispered between sobs. "Forgive me. Forgive me for what I have done."
The decision that had led to Aemma's death haunted him. He had chosen to risk the life of his beloved wife in a desperate attempt to save their unborn son, and in the end, he had lost them both. The memory of Aemma's anguished cries, her pale, sweat-drenched face as she struggled in childbirth, replayed in his mind like a cruel, unending nightmare. He could still hear her voice, soft and loving, telling him that everything would be alright, even as she lay dying.
Viserys buried his face in his hands, his tears hot and bitter. "It's my fault," he muttered. "All my fault. I killed them. I killed them both."
The agony of that realization tore at his soul, and he felt as though he were drowning in a sea of despair. He wept for hours, his grief so profound that it seemed as though it would never end. The silence of the room was broken only by his sobs and the occasional murmur of his wife's name.
Eventually, exhaustion took hold, and Viserys fell into a fitful sleep, his body curled on the cold stone floor. Even in sleep, his mind was tormented by dreams of Aemma and their son, visions of what might have been had he made a different choice. He dreamed of a happy family, laughter, and love and woke with a start, the cruel reality crashing down upon him again.
As the night wore on, Viserys' grief began to give way to anger. He was furious with his small council for their cold pragmatism and their political machinations in the face of his personal tragedy. The memory of their discussion, their heartless plotting about the succession, fanned the flames of his rage.
And then there was Aemon. Aemon, whom he and Aemma had loved as a son. Aemon, who had shown no remorse, no compassion for Aemma's death. His cold detachment had cut Viserys deeply. He had expected more from the young man they had raised and cherished. Instead, he found only a calculating mind focused solely on duty and power.
"How could you, Aemon?" Viserys muttered angrily to the empty room. "How could you be so heartless?"
His anger roiled within him, a burning fire that fueled his grief. He felt betrayed by his council and the family he hoped to protect. He thought of Daemon, his contentious brother, and the chaos his ambition had wrought. He thought of Otto Hightower with his schemes and manipulations. He thought of the Grand Maester, whose cold logic had offered no solace.
Viserys rose from the floor, his body stiff and aching from the hours spent in sorrow. He moved to the window and looked out over King's Landing, the city sprawled beneath him, quiet and indifferent to his pain. He took a deep breath, trying to calm the storm within.
