Red Keep – Valyrian Temple Chamber, Night
Deep beneath the Red Keep, beyond twisting halls lit only by flickering torchlight, Rhaenyra Targaryen stepped into the ancient chamber, her footsteps echoing on the stone floor. Lord Commander Ryam Redwyne had led her this far, but now she was alone.
Before her loomed a sanctum rarely visited—an altar room carved from black stone, its air heavy with incense and fire. The colossal skull of Balerion the Black Dread rested upon a raised plinth at the room's center, lit from beneath by a flame that burned eternal. The dragon's jagged teeth, longer than swords, jutted like the bones of a god. This place was not merely a tomb—it was a temple to Valyria, long dead.
Her father stood before the skull, hands folded before him. His fingers idly caressed the dragonbone hilt of the Valyrian steel dagger at his waist. Though he ruled in peace, King Viserys never strayed far from the weapon that reminded him of their legacy. His gaze was fixed on the blackened remains of Aegon's beast, as if he sought counsel from a creature long turned to ash.
"Father," Rhaenyra said, her voice sharp with frustration.
She stepped forward, the anger long simmering behind her eyes now rising to the surface. Since her mother's death, Viserys had grown more distant, and now he summoned her not with words, but with the silent will of his Kingsguard.
"You haven't spoken to me since the funeral," she accused, her voice tight. "And now you send the Kingsguard to fetch me, like I'm some—"
But Viserys didn't respond. His eyes remained fixed on Balerion's hollow sockets, as if haunted by something she couldn't see.
"Balerion was the last living creature to witness Valyria before its Doom," he said softly, his tone reflective. "He saw its greatness... and its ruin."
Rhaenyra's anger did not abate, but she listened.
"When you look at the dragons," Viserys said, his voice low and deliberate, "what do you see?"
The question caught her off guard. "What?"
"Answer me," he pressed, turning to her now. "It matters."
Still bristling, Rhaenyra glanced at the skull once more. She studied the curves of its jaws, the deep gouges left by time and battle. The firelight danced within its eye sockets, as if a soul still stirred inside.
"I suppose... I see us," she answered, hesitantly.
Viserys nodded, urging her to go on.
"People say Targaryens are more god than man," she continued slowly. "But they only say that because of our dragons. Without them... we're just like everyone else."
A quiet pride glimmered in the king's eyes. She understood. Not just the myth of power, but the weight of it.
"We don't control the dragons," he said. "That's the lie we tell ourselves. They are a force beyond comprehension. A flame we were never meant to hold. That same fire consumed Valyria... and if we're not careful, it will consume us too."
He turned fully to face her now, the torchlight catching the sorrow lined in his face.
"A Targaryen must understand this to rule. As king... or as queen."
Rhaenyra's brow furrowed. Her anger faltered, giving way to confusion.
"I'm sorry," Viserys said, voice cracking with emotion. "For all the years I spent yearning for a son. It blinded me. But I see you clearly now."
He took a step closer.
"You are her daughter through and through. The very best of your mother. And I believe, as she did, that you could be a great queen."
Rhaenyra blinked, stunned by the weight of his words. "But... Daemon is your heir."
Viserys's jaw tensed. "Daemon was not born to wear the crown. But I believe you were."
The declaration struck like a blow—unexpected, breathtaking, terrifying.
"This is no mere title I offer you," he said. "Riding a dragon is dangerous enough. But the Iron Throne? It is the most perilous seat in the realm."
Rhaenyra stared into her father's eyes, the enormity of the moment beginning to settle upon her shoulders. She swallowed and nodded slowly, as understanding bloomed within her like fire catching on dry grass.
She was no longer just his daughter.
She was his heir.
---
Red Keep – Rhaenyra's Chambers, Sunrise
The soft golden haze of early morning spilled across the stone floor of Princess Rhaenyra's apartments, warming the chill that still clung to the air. The only other light came from the candelabra flickering atop her vanity, casting wavering shadows against the polished mirror. In that reflection, Rhaenyra sat composed, regal even in stillness, her face a mask of calm—but her eyes betrayed a storm beneath.
Behind her, Lady Alicent Hightower worked in silence, gently adjusting the ceremonial garments draped over her friend's shoulders. Her fingers moved with practiced care, fastening intricate clasps, smoothing embroidered folds, and affixing the heavy ruby pendant in the shape of the three-headed dragon to the bodice of Rhaenyra's dress. The gemstone caught the candlelight and glowed with a dull red fire—Targaryen blood made visible.
Alicent picked up the brush and began to glide it through Rhaenyra's long silver-gold hair. The strokes were slow and soothing, like a lullaby made of movement. In the mirror, Rhaenyra's gaze briefly met Alicent's, and for a moment, neither spoke. There was no need. In the quiet intimacy of the morning, words would only disturb what comfort remained.
Alicent's touch was gentle, almost reverent, as if she were tending to something sacred. And perhaps she was. Rhaenyra was no longer just her closest companion; today she would become something more—something Alicent could never be.
When the final pin was secured, Alicent stepped back to admire her handiwork. Rhaenyra sat draped in royal colors, her figure dignified and serene. Her presence filled the room like sunlight, and for a moment, Alicent simply looked at her—this girl who had once whispered secrets beside her in the gardens now seemed impossibly far away.
Dressed in power and destiny, Rhaenyra looked like she had everything.
Everything Alicent had ever dreamed of.
---
Red Keep – Throne Room, Day
The great doors of the throne room stood open, and a river of nobility poured in—lords and ladies from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms, each adorned in the colors and sigils of their house, their banners held high, their retainers in tow. The mood was celebratory, yet beneath the surface, currents of doubt and ambition stirred.
At the foot of the Iron Throne stood Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, now clad in the regal black and crimson of House Targaryen. Her presence, radiant and unyielding, commanded the attention of the gathered crowd. Her dress shimmered faintly with dragon-scale embroidery, and the ruby-encrusted sigil of her house gleamed on her chest.
Above her, seated on the twisted spires of blades, was King Viserys I. The crown of the realm rested upon his brow, and he wore ceremonial armor etched with the roaring dragons of his house. At his side hung Blackfyre, the ancestral sword of the Targaryen kings—a symbol of rule and legacy.
To Rhaenyra's right stood Grand Maester Mellos, his face a mask of ceremonial calm. On her left, the aged High Septon stood in full regalia, his robes heavy with thread-of-gold, eyes half-lidded in ritual solemnity.
Before them stretched a line of lords, some young and fresh-faced, others weathered by years of battle and court. They came forward one by one, summoned by Mellos's voice, their retainers remaining behind as protocol demanded.
"Manfryd Mooton of House Mooton, Lord of Maidenpool," Mellos called.
Lord Mooton stepped forward and knelt before Rhaenyra, his armor creaking faintly under the strain of age and duty.
"I, Lord Manfryd Mooton, head of House Mooton and Lord of Maidenpool, swear to be faithful to King Viserys and his named heir, the Princess Rhaenyra. I pledge fealty and shall defend them against all enemies, in good faith and without deceit. I swear this by the old gods and the new."
As the words echoed through the hall, Rhaenyra raised her chin slightly, her gaze sweeping over the sea of nobility gathered before her. So many faces. So many oaths. And yet… her eyes paused, troubled.
Lord Vaeron Velaryon—the Lord of the Tides and heir of Driftmark—was nowhere to be seen.
Her brow creased, just enough for those paying attention to notice.
The next name was called.
"Lord Hobert Hightower, Beacon of the South, Defender of the Citadel, and Voice of Oldtown."
Out of the queue stepped a tall man dressed in the proud greens and grays of House Hightower. His movements were precise, controlled. He knelt smoothly before the princess.
"I, Hobert Hightower, promise to be faithful to King Viserys and his named heir, the Princess Rhaenyra."
His words were carefully spoken, each syllable precise, yet there was no warmth in his tone. Rhaenyra met his eyes briefly. They were unreadable, but the color of his house—green—spoke volumes in silence.
Still no sign of Driftmark. No Velaryon banner. The absence loomed larger than any oath spoken.
She sensed movement to the side of the throne room. In the shadows of the colonnade, Prince Daemon Targaryen lingered, arms crossed, his lean frame clad not in black and red, but in darker, unadorned leathers. He watched her with a flicker of something unreadable—neither approval nor disdain, but something else. Something only Daemon could feel and not name.
"Lord Boremund Baratheon of Storm's End," came the next call.
A large man with a proud gait stepped forward, the stag of his house emblazoned in gold upon his chest. His heavy brows were drawn low, and his jaw tight. This was a man who once championed Rhaenys Targaryen, the Queen Who Never Was. Now, he stood before Rhaenyra, daughter of the king, heir named not by birthright alone but by decree.
She offered him a courteous smile—a diplomatic gesture, polite and unthreatening. But Boremund did not return it. He remained standing, his silence speaking louder than any protest. It was a small rebellion, one veiled in the trappings of civility.
Rhaenyra's smile slowly faded, her eyes narrowing slightly. Her shoulders stiffened with quiet authority, and the warmth in her gaze turned cold as steel. She did not look away.
At last, cowed by her silent command, Lord Boremund dropped to one knee.
"I, Boremund Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End, pledge my loyalty to King Viserys and to his named heir, the Princess Rhaenyra. I swear to defend them against all enemies, in good faith and without deceit. I swear this by the old gods and the new."
His voice was tight, the words bitter in his mouth. But he said them.
And Rhaenyra allowed herself the faintest breath of satisfaction.
A small victory, perhaps—but in a hall full of lords, none of whom had ever seen a woman stand where she now stood, it was a beginning.
---
Flashback – The Day Before
Red Keep, Altar Room – Day
Sunlight streamed in through the high windows of the Red Keep's altar chamber, casting golden patterns across the ancient stone floor. The skull of Balerion the Black Dread loomed before them, silent and cavernous, a relic of power long extinguished. Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen stood beside her father, King Viserys I, the air thick with the weight of unspoken truths.
He had already named her his heir, but there was more—she could sense it. Something deeper lived behind his eyes.
"I must tell you something now, Rhaenyra," Viserys began, his voice low, nearly reverent. "It may be difficult to understand… but you must listen."
Rhaenyra's brow furrowed slightly. Her heart quickened. Her father rarely spoke in such tones—half grave, half wistful. She watched him closely, her hands folded in front of her. Viserys shifted his gaze from her to the dark hollows of Balerion's skull, as if seeking counsel from the beast that had once carried their ancestor across the sky.
"The histories would have you believe that Aegon the Conqueror sailed from Dragonstone simply because he desired conquest. That he looked across the Blackwater and hungered for the riches of Westeros," he said, voice echoing through the stillness. "But that is only part of the truth."
Rhaenyra listened, eyes fixed on her father. There was a flicker in his gaze—one she had never seen before.
"No," Viserys continued, "what drove Aegon was not ambition, but a vision. A dream."
A pause.
"Aegon was a Dreamer, Rhaenyra. As Daenys foresaw the Doom of Valyria, so too did Aegon foresee a great darkness that would one day fall upon the world of men."
Rhaenyra's breath caught. Aegon had been gifted with prophecy? She looked up at her father in awe, confusion swirling in her mind. This was no tale from the maesters' scrolls. This was secret knowledge—buried beneath centuries of blood and fire.
"What did he see?" she asked softly. "What lies in the dark?"
Viserys's jaw tightened. His hand went instinctively to the dagger at his side—the one carved from dragonbone, worn by kings past.
"He never said, not precisely," the king admitted. "Only that a terrible cold would descend from the far North… a winter not like any we've ever known. And that in that darkness, a light must stand against it. The fire of dragons."
He turned back to her now, his expression solemn.
"When that day comes, Rhaenyra, all of Westeros must stand united. And only a Targaryen upon the Iron Throne can hold the realm together. A king... or a queen... strong enough to unite the living against the coming dark."
She felt the enormity of it then—not just the burden of the crown, but of history. Of prophecy. Of destiny.
"Aegon named his vision 'The Song of Ice and Fire,'" Viserys whispered.
Rhaenyra could hardly speak. The words pressed down on her like the weight of a mountain. She turned to her father again, wide-eyed.
"This secret," he said, voice barely above a murmur now, "has passed from king to heir since Aegon's time. And now, I pass it to you. You must swear to carry it… and to guard it. Do you understand?"
Rhaenyra looked up at him—her father, her king—not as a girl, but as the heir to a realm shadowed by ancient fire and frost. Slowly, she nodded. A promise sealed in silence.
Viserys gave her a long, measured look. His face was proud, yet distant. They stood before the bones of the greatest dragon that ever lived, bound now not by fire, but by truth.
---
Flashback Ends
---
Present Day
Red Keep – Throne Room
The grand chamber of the Iron Throne was filled with the rustling of cloaks, the soft murmur of oaths, and the quiet steps of noblemen moving forward one by one. Lords from every corner of the realm came to kneel before the princess seated in solemn stillness upon the raised dais. The flickering torchlight played across her silver-gold hair and the freshly forged confidence behind her young eyes.
Rhaenyra Targaryen sat tall, her back straight, though her heart beat heavily beneath the silk and embroidery of her formal gown. She said nothing. There was no need. Her father's voice—strong and ceremonial—still echoed within her mind.
> "It begins with a terrible winter, howling from the farthest reaches of the North..."
She heard him not with her ears, but with memory. His voice was a presence behind her, shaping the moment, anchoring her to something far greater than a crown.
> "Aegon saw not glory, but darkness. A shadow sweeping over the land. And within that darkness, something unspeakable — a doom meant to end the world of the living."
A hush fell over the hall as the banners of House Stark came into view. Gray wool cloaks billowed behind solemn steps. The direwolf of Winterfell—weathered, ancient, proud—marched closer in the form of Lord Rickon Stark, a man of quiet strength and stark honor.
He knelt without hesitation, bowing his head low before her.
The moment was ceremonial, yet profound. Rhaenyra felt its weight settle on her shoulders—just as the High Septon stepped forward and placed a golden collar around her neck. It gleamed like a chain of firelight, marking her not just with title, but with legacy.
Her father stood now before the lords and ladies gathered. His voice was no longer an echo—it was real, commanding, resounding across the throne room.
"I, Viserys Targaryen, First of His Name," he declared, his voice steady, regal, "King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm… do hereby name Rhaenyra Targaryen, Princess of Dragonstone and rightful heir to the Iron Throne."
Silence.
Then, one by one, the lords knelt again—not to Viserys, but to the young woman seated above them. Rhaenyra, only fourteen, looked down across the hall. The weight of hundreds of oaths pressed upon her like armor.
And yet, beyond the words, beyond the honors and heraldry, she could feel the truth of her father's warning stirring inside her.
This was not merely the beginning of her rule.
It was the beginning of something far colder.
Far darker.
And she would have to be ready.
---
Red Keep — Small Council Chamber
Shortly After the Ceremony
The air in the council chamber was tense, heavy with the scent of parchment, ink, and unspoken unease. Sunlight filtered in through the tall, narrow windows, casting sharp beams across the table where the king's most trusted advisors had gathered.
Otto Hightower, Hand of the King, stood beside the council table, his expression carefully composed, but his voice edged with irritation.
"He was not present," Otto said crisply, not bothering to mask his disapproval. "No raven. No explanation. Not even a whisper of allegiance."
He paused, letting the weight of his words hang. "Lord Vaeron Velaryon, newly seated at Driftmark, has made no move to recognize Rhaenyra's claim. I believe he thinks himself above this game. Or worse—he's playing a deeper one."
The council members exchanged glances, unease rippling beneath their official faces.
Otto leaned slightly toward the maester seated beside him, his voice lowering but not enough to conceal intent. "Begin recording his absence. Have it noted. Let the court speak of it. Let them whisper of the proud Velaryon boy who rides with the Cannibal."
The maester gave a slow, reluctant nod. "Yes, Your Grace. But… I must say—I no longer believe the Lord of Driftmark holds loyalty to the Crown."
The words sent a flicker of discomfort through the room.
The Master of Coin folded his hands. "I'm inclined to agree. It may be that his loyalty lies with the sea and sky, not the throne."
Viserys sat at the head of the table, trying to hide the unease that tightened in his chest. His fingers tapped lightly against the armrest, betraying the tension he tried to suppress.
"He commands one of the largest fleets in Westeros," Viserys said at last, his voice low and measured. "And more than ships… he now holds the Cannibal. The most dangerous dragon to ever fly."
The words left a chill behind them. The Cannibal—untamed, ancient, a beast of legend. And now it was said to follow Vaeron Velaryon.
Viserys exhaled, slower this time. He would not allow the boy's absence to undermine this day, not when he had just named his daughter as heir before the realm. But still… something in the quiet refusal troubled him more than he dared admit.
If Vaeron did not kneel now—he might never kneel at all.
---
To be continued...