Chapter 37: The Anointing
The years continued their silent, inexorable march, each one burying the memory of the old world under a thicker layer of the Dragon's Peace. Queen Rhaenyra, the First of Her Name, grew old on the throne she had won at such a terrible cost. The fire of her youth had been banked by decades of quiet, careful governance, her reign a long, prosperous, and hollow thing. Her hair was more silver than gold, her face a noble mask of sorrow and duty.
She sat in her solar with her eldest son and Hand, Prince Jacaerys. He too was a man transformed by the long peace, his youthful anger hardened into a cynical, weary pragmatism. He was a capable Hand, managing the realm's affairs with a grim efficiency that their god on the hill seemed to approve of.
"I am tired, Jace," Rhaenyra confessed, her voice thin as autumn leaves. She looked out the window, at the colossal, unmoving shadow that had been the backdrop to her entire reign. "This crown… it is heavier than any chair of swords ever was. It is a weight of unspoken words and choices that were never mine to make."
Jacaerys looked at his mother, a flicker of the old love showing through his hardened exterior. "You have been a good queen, Mother. You kept the peace. You steered the realm through the storm and into… this." He could not bring himself to call it a safe harbor.
"I have managed the farm," she corrected him with a sad smile. "But the seasons change. The realm will need a new shepherd soon. My time grows short."
Her words, heavy with finality, hung in the air between them. The question of succession, a topic they had avoided for years, now stood in the room with them. By all the laws of gods and men from the old world, Jacaerys was the heir. He had lived his life preparing for this duty, swallowing the bitter pills of their new reality to serve his mother and his line.
Larys Strong, now a wizened and ancient figure who seemed held together by secrets and ambition, sensed the impending change. From his quiet chambers in the Red Keep, he sent his thoughts towards the hill, a humble servant offering a progress report to his master.
The Queen's life force fades, Great One, Larys whispered into the void. As is the way with these mortal vessels. A succession is imminent. The system of primogeniture, the old way that you have so wisely allowed to stand, would pass the Shepherd's Crook to Prince Jacaerys.
He paused, carefully constructing his next thought. He was not making a suggestion, merely an observation.
He is a capable administrator, hardened by the new reality. He understands the rules. But his heart… his heart is full of the bitterness of the world that was. He sees the Dragon's Tithe as a burden, not a sacred duty. His faith is a matter of compliance, not true belief. His energy is… discordant.
Larys then offered a subtle counterpoint. The younger son, Viserys, however… he is a true child of your Peace. He knows no other world. And his union with the Princess Jaehaera, the last of the Green line, is a powerful and pleasing symbol of the unified, orderly world you have forged.
He had laid out the options. The flawed but competent tool versus the pliable, symbolic one. He had learned long ago not to tell his god what to do, but merely to present the variables in the most appealing light.
Krosis-Krif considered his whisperer's words. He felt the truth in them. Jacaerys was efficient, yes, but his mind was a constant, low-level hum of resentment. It was an untidiness of the soul. Viserys and Jaehaera, on the other hand… their genuine, independent bond had been a flaw, a rival system. But what if he co-opted it? What if he made that unforeseen variable the new cornerstone of his monarchy? To take the one thing that had grown outside his control and make it the primary symbol of his control… the irony was delicious. It was a far more entertaining move.
The old way of succession was boring. It was time for a new one.
He did not wait for Rhaenyra's death. He decided the transition, like all things, would be more orderly if he managed it himself. He summoned the court to the Great Hall, the entire Targaryen clan, Black and Green, and the great lords of the realm who were present in the capital.
They gathered beneath the simple wooden dais that had replaced the Iron Throne, a collection of prosperous, well-fed, and terrified subjects. The voice of their god filled their minds, leaving no room for argument.
"THE REIGN OF RHAENYRA TARGARYEN, THE FIRST SHEPHERD OF MY PEACE, DRAWS TO A CLOSE. SHE HAS BEEN AN EFFICIENT STEWARD. A NEW ONE MUST NOW BE CHOSEN."
Rhaenyra closed her eyes, a quiet sigh escaping her lips. Jacaerys stood straighter, his face impassive, ready to accept the terrible burden he had been preparing for his entire life.
"THE OLD WAY IS AT AN END," the voice declared, shattering all expectation. "SUCCESSION IS NOT A RIGHT OF BLOOD ALONE. IT IS A DUTY GRANTED BY ME. FROM THIS DAY FORWARD, THE KINGS OF THIS REALM WILL NOT BE CROWNED BY THE AGENTS OF SILENT, FORGOTTEN GODS. THEY WILL BE ANOINTED IN MY TEMPLE, BY MY CHOSEN HANDS. THEIR POWER WILL BE A FRAGMENT OF MY GRACE, LOANED TO THEM FOR THE DURATION OF THEIR SERVICE."
A wave of shock passed through the hall. This was a fundamental rewriting of the monarchy.
"THEY WILL BE MY ETERNAL SERVANTS," the decree continued, laying out the new job description. "THEIR FIRST DUTY IS NOT TO THE PEOPLE, NOR TO THEIR HOUSE, BUT TO THE FAITH OF THE GREAT ORDER. THEY ARE THE PROTECTORS OF MY FLOCK, THE GUARDIANS OF MY PEACE."
The final bombshell was delivered with cold, surgical precision.
"JACAERYS VELARYON HAS A HARDENED HEART. HE IS FILLED WITH THE BITTER MEMORIES OF A DISORDERLY AGE. HE IS UNFIT TO BE THE FIRST HIGH PRIEST-KING OF THE NEW ERA."
Jace swayed on his feet as if struck. The public humiliation, the absolute negation of his life's purpose, was a blow more final than any sword.
"HIS BROTHER, VISERYS," the voice continued, "IS A TRUE CHILD OF THE PEACE. HIS UNION WITH THE PRINCESS JAEHAERA IS THE LIVING SYMBOL OF THE UNIFIED WORLD I HAVE FORGED. THEIR BOND, AN UNFORESEEN BUT PLEASING VARIABLE, WILL BE THE FOUNDATION OF THE NEW ROYAL LINE."
"VISERYS TARGARYEN WILL BE KING."
The hall was silent as a tomb. Rhaenyra stared at her two sons—one broken, one terrified—and her heart shattered. Alicent looked at her granddaughter, Jaehaera, who was now trembling, thrust into the one role her family had fought and died for, a role she had never wanted.
Jacaerys turned and stumbled from the hall, his face a grey mask of absolute devastation. Baela Targaryen, his lifelong companion in their shared, grim duty, rushed after him. He did not want comfort. He had been declared obsolete by God himself. There was no comfort for that.
Viserys and Jaehaera clung to each other, their eyes wide with terror. Their private, quiet love, the one sanctuary they had built for themselves in this cold world, was now being repurposed as a tool of state, the very instrument of their coronation.
"He is punishing us," Jaehaera whispered, her voice lost in Viserys's shoulder. "Not for hating each other. But for loving each other."
"No," Viserys whispered back, his own voice shaking. "He is not punishing us. He is… absorbing us. Into his system. Into his story." He looked at his mother, at the broken court. "This is the shape of his peace."
The anointing of King Viserys II was unlike any coronation Westeros had ever seen. It did not take place in the Great Sept, which now stood mostly empty, a relic of a dead faith. It was held in the vast, star-ceilinged temple at the foot of the Hill of Rhaenys.
The court assembled on the black stone floor, a sea of somber, nervous faces. There was no crown of gold and rubies. There was only a simple, heavy circlet carved from the same black, star-flecked stone as the temple itself.
Ellyn the Weaver, now an old woman with eyes that held the wisdom of one who speaks with a god, presided over the ceremony. She was the First Hand of the God, the high priestess of the new world. She took the stone circlet and turned to Viserys, who knelt before her, Jaehaera at his side.
"Prince Viserys Targaryen," Ellyn's voice was soft, but it carried in the perfect acoustics of the hall. "The Great Order has chosen you. It has found you worthy to be the shepherd of its flock. Do you accept this sacred duty?"
Viserys looked at Jaehaera, at the terror and resolve in her eyes, and found his own strength. "I… accept," he said, his voice trembling but clear.
"Do you swear to be the eternal servant of the Great Order?" Ellyn continued, her voice taking on a liturgical cadence. "To protect its faith against all disorder? To guard its peace against all untidiness? To be the protector of its flock, mortal and dragon alike?"
"I swear it," Viserys said.
"Then in the name of the God on the Hill, the power that shapes our world, and by the divine grace it has seen fit to grant you," Ellyn intoned, "I name you King."
She placed the heavy black circlet on his head. It felt cold, a weight of terrible, absolute purpose. As she did, a single, warm golden beam of light lanced down from the starry ceiling, enveloping Viserys and Jaehaera. The crowd gasped. It was not a political ceremony. It was a divine manifestation. They were witnessing the birth of a new kind of king. A priest-king, his authority flowing not from conquest or lineage, but directly from the will of the god himself.
King Viserys II and Queen Jaehaera stood, their hands clasped together, their love now a public chain, their power a gift from a cosmic horror. From the back of the temple, Jacaerys Velaryon watched, his face in shadows. He was the ghost at the feast, the last true prince of a world that was now officially, ceremonially, and utterly dead. The anointing was complete. The final gear of the new world machine had clicked into place. And the god on the hill observed the pleasing, perfect order of it all, and was content. For now.