POV: Prince Raegon Targaryen – 110-111 AC
The birth of Prince Aegon, our third surviving child, had brought a fleeting moment of joy to the Red Keep, swiftly followed by Daemon's predictable banishment. But the triumph was short-lived. My mother, Queen Aemma, had paid a terrible price. Her recovery from Aegon's birth was agonizingly slow. Each day, she seemed to recede further, her strength draining like sand through an hourglass. I visited her tirelessly, my touch trying to channel what little energy I could, to bolster her fading spirit, but even my gifts had their limits when faced with the relentless march of time and the fragility of a human body.
Three moons after Aegon's birth, I sat by her bedside. Viserys was there, holding her hand, his face etched with a familiar helplessness. Aemma's breath was shallow, her eyes, once sparkling with quiet determination, now clouded with a profound weariness.
"Viserys," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I have... I have given you sons. Three surviving children. I have given you an heir and spared you my life." Her eyes found mine, and a faint, knowing smile touched her lips. "Raegon... you saved me once. But... I am so tired. So very tired."
"No, Mother," I murmured, my heart clenching, my hand covering hers. "Rest. You will recover."
She shook her head, a barely perceptible movement. "No more, my love. No more childbearing. I have done my duty." Her gaze fixed on Viserys. "Promise me. No more."
Viserys, tears streaming down his face, could only nod, a broken sound escaping his throat.
Aemma's eyes fluttered closed. Three days later, a fever took her. Just three moons after Aegon's birth, the Queen, my gentle mother, was gone.
The Red Keep plunged into mourning, a heavy shroud settling over its inhabitants. Viserys was inconsolable, wandering the halls like a ghost. I felt the familiar cold grip of loss, a stark reminder of the impermanence of even those I loved most. But grief, for a Targaryen prince with the fate of the realm resting on his shoulders, was a luxury. I had duties, a sacred trust from my grandfather, and a bloodline to protect.
Five months passed in a blur of somber court proceedings, mourning rituals, and the silent, growing unease of a king without a queen. During this time, I oversaw everything. As Master of Laws, I ensured justice, swift and unyielding. My regiment, the Dragon's Teeth, drilled relentlessly, their discipline a stark contrast to the court's lingering sorrow. My spy network fed me every whisper, every rumor, every glance of ambition. I knew Otto Hightower was already at work, even amidst the mourning, his calculating mind churning.
I found Rhaenyra in the Godswood one afternoon, sketching a sun-dappled weirwood. She looked up as I approached, her eyes still holding a hint of sadness.
"She is truly gone, isn't she?" she asked, her voice soft.
"Aye," I confirmed, sitting beside her on the bench. "But her legacy lives on, Rhaenyra. Through you, and through our little brothers." I placed a hand over hers, a silent, comforting presence. "Rhaenyra, listen closely. You must be vigilant. Keep a close eye on Alicent. And on Aegon. He is but a babe, too young to understand, but his very existence… changes things. Now that Mother is gone, he will need a mother's guidance, and Alicent will be eager to provide it."
Rhaenyra's eyes sharpened. "You think Otto will try to push her on Father?"
"I know he will," I stated, my voice devoid of emotion. "It is his nature. And Viserys is lost, vulnerable. He needs comfort, and Otto knows how to provide it, through Alicent." I looked at her, my gaze firm. "We stand together, Rhaenyra. Always. Our bond is our strength."
That evening, I sought out my father. He sat in his solar, a goblet of wine forgotten in his hand, staring into the flickering fire. The burden of grief weighed heavily on him.
"Father," I began, my voice measured. "The realm mourns with you. But the realm also looks to its King. A king cannot rule alone for long."
Viserys sighed, a deep, shuddering breath. "Aemma... my Aemma. How can I possibly replace her?"
"You cannot replace her, Father," I countered gently. "No one can. But you must consider the good of the realm, the stability of the succession, the need for a Queen at your side." I paused, choosing my words carefully, knowing the subtle currents of his grief. "If you choose to remarry, Father, I urge you to consider a match that strengthens our House. One that unites us, rather than divides." I left the unspoken words hanging in the air: not Alicent.
The next morning, I found Alicent Hightower approaching my father's chambers, her movements subtle, almost apologetic, yet with a determined glint in her eyes. She wore a simple gown, dark and somber, befitting the period of mourning, but her hair was meticulously braided, her face carefully composed. She reached for the door.
"Lady Alicent," I said, my voice cutting through the hushed corridor. She turned, startled, her hand freezing on the door latch.
"Prince Raegon," she said, her cheeks coloring slightly. "I was merely hoping to offer His Grace some comfort."
I stepped closer, my presence commanding, my eyes unwavering as they met hers. My body, trained for war and gifted with unnatural strength, allowed me to radiate an aura of quiet authority. "A king in mourning requires peace and quiet, Lady Alicent. Not distractions. A lady, especially one as keen and pious as yourself, must know her line. And remember her place." My tone was polite, but the message was a blade, thinly veiled. "The King's grief is his own. It is not for others to intrude upon, however well-intentioned."
Her gaze wavered, her carefully constructed composure cracking. She dipped a curtsey, her movements stiff. "Forgive me, my Prince. I merely... wished to offer solace."
"Solace," I repeated, my voice dropping slightly, "is found in prayer and patience, Lady Alicent. Not in seeking audience with a grieving King." I watched her retreat, her steps quickening.
Moments later, I sought out Otto Hightower. He was in his office, poring over scrolls. He looked up, a placid smile on his face.
"Prince Raegon. A pleasant surprise. I trust you are well?"
"As well as can be expected, Hand," I replied, leaning against his doorframe, my arms crossed. "I trust your daughter is well? I just had a most... illuminating encounter with her outside the King's chambers."
Otto's smile faltered, a flicker of irritation in his eyes. "Alicent is merely concerned for His Grace's well-being. She is a compassionate soul."
"Compassion, Hand, is a virtue," I agreed, my voice cool. "Ambition, however, can often be mistaken for it. My mother has barely been buried five months. The King is still in mourning. For your daughter to be seen hovering at his door... it does not reflect well on her. Or on you." My gaze was direct, unwavering. "Let me make myself clear, Hand. My father will choose his next Queen. And that choice will be for the good of the realm, and for the stability of our House. Not for the advancement of any one family's ambition. Do you understand?"
Otto's face was a mask of careful neutrality, but I saw the resentment flash in his eyes. "I understand, my Prince," he said, his voice clipped. "I assure you, my only concern is the welfare of the Crown."
"Good," I said, pushing off the doorframe. "Then let us ensure our concerns align."
Despite my warnings, despite my quiet counsel to my father, Otto's machinations proved effective. Grief, it seemed, was a powerful tool for those who sought to exploit it. Six months after Aemma's death, word spread through the Red Keep like wildfire: King Viserys had chosen his new Queen. He would marry Alicent Hightower.
A bitter taste filled my mouth. My mother's dying wish, my grandfather's foresight, my own efforts… all had been circumvented by Otto's relentless ambition and Viserys's profound loneliness.
But this new union, while a setback, also brought clarity. The lines were drawn. Daemon was gone. Alicent would be Queen. The threat to the established succession, to the future my grandfather had envisioned, was no longer theoretical. It was real, embodied in Alicent and in her potential children with Viserys. My grandfather, Jaehaerys, had made it clear at the Great Council: I was chosen. I was named Viserys's successor, and Rhaenyra would succeed me if fate decreed otherwise. My purpose was to secure the lineage, to prevent the internal strife he had foreseen. It was time. It was time to solidify my claim, to protect my mother Aemma's line, the truest royal blood that flowed through my veins.
I went to Rhaenyra that very evening. She was furious, pacing her chambers, her face flushed with anger.
"He chose her!" she spat, tears of frustration in her eyes. "After all he said, after Mother's death... he chose Otto's daughter!"
I took her hands, stopping her pacing, my gaze steady. "He chose what was convenient, Rhaenyra. What was comforting. It matters not." My voice dropped, firm with absolute certainty. "My path is clear. Grandfather Jaehaerys laid it out for me. He saw the future, and he named me to safeguard it. He chose me as the cornerstone of this house, and you as my queen. There is only one way to truly secure my birthright and your place by my side, making our union and the succession undeniable."
Her eyes widened, understanding dawning. "Our betrothal…"
"Yes," I confirmed, my grip tightening on her hands. "It is time. We will marry. Now. Not wait until your sixteenth nameday. We will marry, and show the realm that our blood, our bond, is the future."
Rhaenyra's anger slowly faded, replaced by a fierce resolve that matched my own. She nodded, her hand clasping mine tightly. "Then let us marry, Raegon. Let them see what a true Targaryen union looks like."