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Rating:
Explicit
Archive Warnings:
Underage SexGraphic Depictions Of ViolenceMajor Character DeathRape/Non-Con
Categories:
F/MOther
Fandoms:
A Song of Ice and Fire & Related FandomsA Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. MartinHouse of the Dragon (TV)Game of Thrones (TV)
Relationships:
Daemon Targaryen/Rhaenyra TargaryenHarwin Strong/Laena Velaryon (Daughter of Corlys)Alicent Hightower/Viserys I TargaryenCorlys "The Sea Snake" Velaryon/Rhaenys Targaryen Velaryon
Characters:
The Greens | Supporters of Aegon II TargaryenThe Blacks | Supporters of Rhaenyra TargaryenOriginal CharactersAemond "One-Eye" TargaryenDaenaera Velaryon
Additional Tags:
Alternate Universe - Canon DivergenceEnemies to LoversDragonsFire & BloodReincarnationHorrorBalletMagic
Language:
English
Series:
Part 1 of The Extinguisher Chronicles Next Work →
Stats:
Published:2025-01-12Updated:2025-11-17Words:629,968Chapters:61/63Comments:218Kudos:485Bookmarks:130Hits:35,405
A Palace All Of Glass
fox2T
Chapter 4: Act I, no. 3
Chapter Text
Rhaenyra Targaryen
101 A.C., 7th Moon
Harren Hoare, King of the Iron Islands, left the riverlands deprived many resources to build a monstrous castle that would be known as his life's work. The tyrant pulled countless captives into slavery, forced labor to the death in mines or bound to sledges as they brought his asinine vision to fruition. Weirwoods that had once stood tall and proud were cut down, their trunks hewn into rafters, supporting the wane of dark lacquered beams that stretched infinite.
Huge walls rose around her in mockery to the gods, impossibly high and thick as a blackened scar on the land. Princess Rhaenyra could feel the crippling weight of blood and sweat, thousands of indentured who had toiled to construct the abhorrent structure - their sharp infernal claws dug into her legs, dragging her down to the Seven Hells.
The great space, once filled with smokes of roasting meats and melodic songs of bards, now barren and hollow. Tables once laden with food and drink, now stood rotting. Glorious banners of the ironborn houses hung tattered from rafters and banisters, once-vibrant colors of their houses faded and frayed.
The air had grown anhydrous from the burning torches at Harren's, and the little princess was finding it increasingly harder to breathe. All that could be heard was the rustling of silk and satin as the sweltering of lords and ladies shifted in their seats and from where they stood.
The Hall of the Hundred Hearths is the largest chamber in Westeros, three-times sized the throne room that is the Red Keep. It has only thirty-three or thirty-five hearths, but is said to be able to entertain an army. Floors of smooth slate gave rise to steps that traveled up two elevated galleries above where hundreds await clutching their stars.
Her parents sat on either side of her like two ancient trees, their branches intertwined, their roots buried deep in the earth. To her left, a flock of clamoring maesters whispered amongst themselves. To her right, a contingent of the kings knights in gleaming armor stood at attention, their swords at their sides like sentinels guarding a tomb.
A group of minstrels appeared in the rafters amongst the crowd, playing a haunting and melancholy tune on their harps and flutes.
Such music was beautiful, but it only served to further unsettle the anxious assembly as Ser Harwin Strong took his place square and center at the elevated dais.
The man spoke of the joust and how it was prepared for, detailing the fatal charge, the sound of wood splintering, and the cheers of the crowd. When he finished, there was a murmur of discontent among the assembled.
Lady Elys Arryn stood up, and her voice filled with righteous anger trilled from the ceiling. "You struck down a prince of the blood," she began, eyes ablaze. "And yet you stand here, unrepentant and defiant. Just what do you have to say for yourself?!"
Harwin's jaw tightened, but he kept his composure. "I acted within the rules of the joust. I did not know that Prince Baelon was struggling, nor did I intend to harm him."
There were murmurs of agreement from some, but Lady Elys continued on, "Your intentions are of little consequence." she stated icily. "The fact remains that a prince of the blood is dead, and you are responsible. Do you deny it?"
Harwin hesitated for a moment, his eyes flickering. But then he spoke, his voice firm. "I do not deny it," he said. "But I maintain that I acted within the rules of the joust. If there is blame to be laid, let it be on the organizers of the event, not on me."
After the young knights words rang out, King Jaehaerys with beard thick and unkempt elevated from his seat on the throne, regal presence commanding the attention of all present. As she was so close, Rhaenyra could see how his eyes were unfocused, but his still voice boomed throughout the hall, redirecting attentions to the gathered maesters.
"Maesters!" he called, "Step forward and give your accounts of the prince's condition before the joust!"
One by one, they stepped forward with their long, flowing robes swishing softly against the stone floor. The group of aging vultures with their shrewd eyes and portentous expressions betrayed their supposed wisdom and knowledge.
Testimonies were given of the prince's injuries, voices measured and impartial as they detailed the extent of treatment, then about how the prince had left Maegor's Holdfast that evening without informing anyone of his actions. Each balding grump gave the same perfectly pinpointed answer, and Princess Rhaenyra slanted her head at the flawless cadence of every recount.
The King sat on his massive throne, face set in a stern glower as he listened intently. Harwin, for his part, maintained composure, a mask of stoicism at his shoulder to the maesters' words. He defended himself with impressive resolve, but the skepticism meandering about was easily discernable, and hushed discussions of all gathered grew louder with each passing moment.
As deliberations began to reach their peak, one lord suddenly stood up, his face scorching with hatred. "Let us be done with pantomime!" he shouted. "It is clear that this so-called knight is nothing but a charlatan who struck down the Prince with foul play!"
The maesters murmured amongst themselves, and several of them spoke up, refuting the Lord's claims. "Prince Baelon was recovering from a terrible injury," one of them said. "The impact of the joust was merely a final blow."
But that same lord was unconvinced. "I demand justice for the Prince Baelon!" he shouted. "This man should be punished for his crimes!"
His acrimonious words ignited a spark in the hearts of those gathered in the Great Hall. Murmurs grew louder, and soon, all that could be heard were loud shouts, screams, and accusations. Most argued in Ser Harwin's favor, while others argued to march him straight to the executioner. For a moment, Princess Rhaenyra was afraid that the situation would spiral out of control.
That was when King Jaehaerys stood, with a presence most imposing. "Enough!" he thundered. "I will not have this chaos in my hall!"
The King's words had an immediate effect on the assembled. They fell to silence, cowed by his authority. He turned his gaze to the lord who had spoken out against Harwin. "Lord Farman," he said, his voice cold. "Your accusations are baseless. The maesters have spoken, and their word is law."
"But, Your Grace," Lord Farman protested. "Surely, you cannot-"
"I can and I will," The Old King interrupted. "Harwin Strong acted within the rules of the joust. There will be no further discussion of this matter. I have heard all that I need. Is that clear?"
The hall was quiet again, save for the clink of metal as the knights shifted in their plate armor.
The King spoke once more, his expression grave as he gave his next address. "Harwin Strong," he began, voice solemn as the tolling of a funeral bell, "you are hereby found responsible for the accidental death of Prince Baelon Targaryen during the joust."
The room burst into hushed chatters as Jaehaerys continued. "As a knight, it is your duty to ensure that your opponent is in peak condition before engaging in combat. It is your responsibility to judge if they are unfit to compete, and to act accordingly."
Before the king could pronounce a punishment, however, Lyonel Strong, the boy's father, stepped forward from where he stood in a puddle of his own perspiration, his eyes filled with grief and confoundment. "Your Grace," the shaking man's voice was hoarse, "my son did not mean for this to happen. It was a tragic accident. He did not see that Baelon was injured, and he would never intentionally harm a member of the royal family."
Jaehaerys looked at Lyonel with empathy, but he held firm. "Lyonel Strong," he said, "as a father, I understand your pain. But the rules of the joust are clear, and Harwin's actions resulted in the death of a prince. Justice must be served."
Lyonel's voice rose, filled with emotion. "I beg Your Grace, have mercy on my son. He is young, and he did not know. Punish me instead, please spare him."
There was hesitation, and the princess observed the visible strife of a man torn between his duty as a king and his empathy as a father. He looked around at the hoard of thousands before him, gazing upon the exchange at the edge of their seats.
After a moment of silence, Jaehaerys spoke again. "Very well," he said, his voice resolute. "In light of the circumstances, I shall show leniency. Harwin Strong, you are to be stripped of your knighthood and banned from participating in any future tournaments for a period of three years. Furthermore, you shall serve as a squire to a maester in the Citadel for the same period, to learn the importance of understanding the condition of your opponents."
Lord Strong, clearly overwhelmed, collapsed to his knees at the the king's feet, head and palms pressing into the ground. His blithering gratitude for the granted mercy rose above dotted whispers of varying reception. Harwin looked completely remorseful, accepting his punishment with a deep bow as well.
The council murmured amongst themselves, some nodding in agreement with the king's decision, while others expressed disappointment or disapproval in an underhanded manner.
The sea of faces before her was rather daunting. Some were old and snowy, with weathered faces and grey beards, others were young and fresh-faced, their skin unblemished by age. There were fat lords and thin lords, tall lords and short lords.
Their attire was just as diverse, dressed in fine velvets with jeweled brooches upon their cloaks. While some wore roughspun wool and leather with only ornamentation by the sigil of their house emblazoned on their chest, most wore the common garb with beige tunics and threadbare skirts. There were knights and hedge knights, maesters, merchants and bankers, but few sailors and pirates.
There were stern-looking ladies with furrowed brows and crossed arms, cunning courtiers with smirks and glances exchanged behind gloved hands. There were pious septons with heavy auras, steepled in prayer who sought guidance from the gods. Grizzled warriors with scars and calloused hands hung their heads pertinacity forgotten.
Suffocation was felt by the sheer number of those in attendance. It was as if the weight of their expectations and judgments were pressing down upon her grandsire like a leaden cloak. She tried to focus her thoughts, but their faceless expressions writhed and galled before her eyes and concentration became lost.
Corlys Velaryon stood next at the dais bracketed by his kin. The Lord of the Tides was head of the Velaryon family and the most powerful of its house members. He was accompanied by her cousin, Princess Rhaenys, who looked as refreshing as a warm bath after a particularly stressful day.
He began to speak, his voice clear and steady despite the oppressive atmosphere. He spoke of his family's history of loyalty to the Targaryen dynasty, and of the many battles they had fought in its name. He spoke of his own service to the crown, of his bravery on the field of battle and his wisdom as a counselor.
"Your claims have been well heard, Lord Velaryon," said the Lord Tyrell, his strained voice carrying the fatigue of the Seven Kingdoms. A once-vibrant regard was now marred by deep lines and a weariness that seemed to age him several decades, even more than the grieving king himself who was struggling to keep his spine upright where he sat.
To escape this place with him, and return home where it was quiet and more peaceful is all she could wish for. She daydreamed about them wandering the lush gardens there, where colorful flowers bloomed in a riot of hues, and the air is heavy with the scent of roses and jasmine. The sound of water trickling from fountains, of happy chirping birds, and gentle leaves in the breeze seemed like a distant memory. The Princess took hold of those memories anyway, wrapping around them as a warm, comforting blanket would on a cold winter's night.
Rhaenyra hoped this warmth would reach her grandsire.
But then her pleasant thoughts were interrupted as the council session continued, with various lords and ladies presenting their claims and arguments. None were compelling as the Velaryons, and others were simply feeble attempts at grasping power. Tyrell struggled to maintain order, and such order rose and fell in tumultuous waves upon the raging sea.
She could not begin to envision what nefarious schemes they were brewing in their minds. Were they sincerely attentive to her family's words or just pretending to be? Was their indifference prelude to a lethal strike, awaiting the perfect opportunity? Her suspicions were further fueled by the maesters' incompetence handling Prince Baelon's injury. The use of poppy seeds for his distress seemed not only ineffective but also reckless. After expressing such concerns to her mother and father, they proceeded to both dismiss her worries as paranoia.
But she knew beyond doubt. The little girl was quite perceptive, and her intuition rarely failed her. She could discern the insidiousness pervading the council and the court, the putrefaction that had permeated like gangrene. The susurrus of cabals and betrayal had become more deafening, and it appeared as though none were impervious to their clutches.
The Princess felt a single tap on her shoulder and turned to find Prince Daemon standing close at her back, hands clenched tightly behind himself as usual. His expression was inscrutable, sharp eyes fixed on a particular pair of subjects in the crowd. She followed his unwavering gaze and saw two men deep in conversation, their voices barely audible over the cacophony abound.
One was a wizened elder with a flowing white beard and several thick shimmering chains adorning his veiny neck, while the other was a gangly man with a balding pate; the lone badge on his lapel depicted a white castle on a grey field.
'An overly bedecked maester...and a Hightower?'
Her uncle bent and whispered in her ear, "That man is Otto Hightower, soon to be Hand, and the other is a maester known as Mellos."
With that cryptic pronouncement, the prince resumed his place among the shadows, leaving Rhaenyra to puzzle over the significance of the encounter. She strained to assimilate the men's conversation, but their voices were drowned out by the incessance of useless prattle.
After what felt like years, the King stood from his throne, eyes roaming with a stern gaze. "That will be all for today," he announced, his voice echoing throughout the hall. "We will reconvene tomorrow for more claim hearings."
Amidst the dispersal of the court, the aroma of a lavish feast pervaded the space, and servants brought forth tables in preparation. As the festivities wore on, the night gradually descended, shrouding the hall with night. Rhaenyra's attention kept drifting towards the empty seat at the head of the table. Her grandsire's absence was felt acutely, and the murmurs and whispers that circulated only served to deepen her growing unease.
The music had seemed too loud, the laughter too forced, and the food too rich for her taste. She excused herself early, citing a bellyache, but the truth was that she simply could not bear to be in that room any longer. The girl swept out of the hall, and she was grateful for the relative quiet of the castle's corridors. She could hear sounds of revelry carrying through the stone, but they seemed distant and muted, as if she was hearing them from another world.
Little Rhaenyra pondered if her grandfather could possibly share this feeling. Her mind was filled with apprehension, but a sense of urgency had her driven towards his chambers, by the need to know for certain if he shared in her turmoil as well. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, she arrived at the door to his room.
The King's assigned chambers at Harrenhal were a dismal affair with black, heavy curtains drawn to block out the light. The furniture was sparse, with only a narrow bed, a small table, and a few chairs scattered about the room. Incense flowed about the air, giving it an almost mournful atmosphere.
But it wasn't just the room that was bleak; the King's mood was equally desolate. Upon the armchair that faced out to The Reach sat a broken man, his proud and regal bearing now slumped and sunken with sorrow. His eyes were hollow and haunted, and he seemed lost in his own thoughts, a mind wandering. So different from the commanding sire who had hours ago placed thousands under submission with the wave of a hand.
The King did not seem to notice his granddaughters presence. He sat in an armchair, eyes staring out into the darkness as soft silver rays pushed his shadow to the floor. She hesitated for a moment, but eventually pulled a chair beside him and crawled into it. She unfolded her Seven-Pointed Star and began where she left off earlier that same morning.
"The Seven are guiding stars in our lives, shining bright even through the darkest of nights. They are the embodiment of hope and mercy, the light that illuminates the road to salvation. In times of despair and loss, we must turn to the Seven for comfort and strength, for they are the source of all that is good and just in this world, and when the long night comes, we must have faith that the dawn will follow. The Seven are with us always, watching over in both good times and bad, to lead us with their endless wisdom, and though we may stumble and fall they will lift us up, they will carry us forward."
She gazed at her grandfather, whose sorrowful face was etched with deep wrinkles as he peered through the pale, silvery moonlight that streamed in through the window. Her voice, heavy with fatigue, remained afloat as she recited the timeless, age-old words that had been handed down from generation to generation of Westerosi.
"As the Father presides over all, so must we impartially assess others. It is not for us to say who deserves clemency and who deserves chastisement. For the Mother's boundless love embraces all her children, and so we exhibit compassion towards those who have lost their way."
Rhaenyra paused for a moment, her eyes scanning the page before her. The words were comforting, consoling, yet disquieting in their resonance. She continued, with her voice growing stronger each passing moment.
"The Warrior instills in us resilience in the face of tribulation. To stand firm for our convictions, even when the odds are insurmountable. And thus, become valiant for the forthcoming trials of scrutiny. The Smith exhorts us to remember that we are all incomplete, and that we must endeavor to ameliorate ourselves daily. For much like the iron that the blacksmith hammers into form, we too chisel ourselves into finer beings."
A steady voice interrupted her.
"The Smith also preaches in part that the world is in shambles, and it is our duty to mend it. No matter how broken things may seem, there is always hope for renewal. We must take up our hammers and work tirelessly to repair what has been damaged, for the sake of ourselves and those who will come after us."
Grief-stricken King Jaehaerys leaned forward with a tender touch, brushing away a stream of tears that had rolled down Princess Rhaenyra's flushed cheek. "Do not cry, my precious child." he spoke in a gentle tone.
Unbeknownst to her, Rhaenyra had shed tears, as if the flower wilted in wake of her emotions. She noticed the shredded petals that lay on the pages beneath her, absorbing the salty droplets that had escaped her eyes. A delicate hand came up to wipe the remainder away, those pearls of sadness leaving a shimmering trail on her skin.
"I am sorry." she whispered softly.
The King's scrunched face began to smooth, his features laden with empathy as he reached out to comfort her. He took the little princess into his arms, cradling her closely to his chest. "Do not apologize for feeling, my love. For feelings are the essence of our humanity, a testament to our capacity to love and be loved, feel joy and sorrow, to experience the richness of life." His voice was so strong, offering piece of mind to his beloved great-grandchild.
"But...feelings also cloud our judgments, lead us to make impulsive decisions, and can be manipulated by those with sinister intentions. They can bring us pain and suffering, and sometimes it is better to suppress them in order to make rational choices."
The King smiled faintly, a glimmer of hope returning to his eyes. "You have always been wise beyond your years, my child...Perhaps you are right, but know that a life without feeling is one half-lived."
Princess Rhaenyra did not understand, but more than this: She did not agree, and she did not believe she ever would.
But the comfort of his encouragement allowed her to continue reading without need to expand, the worries of the unknown faded away just momentarily, and she thought of naught else but offering her grandsire peaceful company.
It was early three mornings later when a sharp knock interrupted this peace, and she opened the door to find Ser Willis, her Kingsguard, with a hard-set expression.
"May I borrow you for a moment, Princess?" he asked.
She assented with a nod, then trailed Ser Willis out of her chambers and down the dimly-lit corridor. They rounded the corner, and a diminutive figure materialized at the end of the hallway. Upon approaching, she discerned it to be one of Harwin's younger sisters. The sight rekindled memories of the enitre situation, his youngest sister quivering behind her as they both trembled under their father's quivering frame.
Yet, despite the echoes of timidity that resurfaced, the elder sister herself exhibited none of the same trepidation, standing tall and proud before the princess.
"Greetings, Your Highness. I am Elynor." The girl bowed. "Please follow me, if it pleases you." she said enigmatically, motioning to the princess.
Without hesitation, she trailed behind her through Harren's eerie halls. The journey was arduous but at last, they arrived at a small alcove, where Elynor came to a stop.
The brunette led Rhaenyra through a concealed passage hidden behind a suit of armor. The metallic plates clanked and rattled as they pushed it aside, revealing a narrow crawlspace that descended into the gloomy depths below. The dank, musty air was vile, and the entryway itself was not large enough to accompany Ser Willis, but she followed closely behind the Strong anyhow, encouraged by her trusted guards confidence in the exchange.
The space was cluttered with cobwebs, dust, and discarded artifacts from long ago. Ancient suits of armor, rusted weapons, and tattered banners littered the floor, and the only sound was distant dripping of water from some unseen source.
Finally, they reached the bottom of the stairs, where a small heavy iron door stood between them and the unknown. The girl clad in breeches and a tunic produced a key from her pocket to unlock the door with a sharp click. Elynor threw it ajar and a gust of wind slapped them in the face. They stepped onto an open-air bridge and the two began a steady walk towards the outer walls of the castle. Five ominous towers loomed above them, blocking out the gray sky.
The buildings were peculiar, with their ashen corners and crippled shapes. One was slim and pointed, another was bulky and squat, and a third seemed to twiddle and tilt as if it could fall at any moment. The fourth was the tallest, with a twisted spire that looked like a bony claw reaching towards the heavens. But it was the fifth tower that drew Rhaenyra's gaze, for it stood straight and true, untouched by the flames that had once consumed Harrenhal.
The tower was grand, with an arched entrance carved into its stone walls, and a staircase spiraling up to its summit. The walls boasted with ornate embellishments, carvings, and burnt torches littered the stairway.
Elynor lead Rhaenyra up those dark stairs and upon reaching the top, she allowed her into a grand chamber with high, vaulted ceilings. A large fireplace crackled at one end of the room warmly. Amidst the opulence of the regal setting, the princess' gaze was drawn to a petite figure perched in an open window, basking in the embrace of morning sun.
Laena Velaryon was draped in a simple gown of midnight blue and a heavy shawl, the hue of a moonless night sky. Her tresses of silver were wound into intricate coils that resembled a crown, and her eyes shone like amethysts in the fading light. Her demeanor and presence radiated an aura of tranquility and as Rhaenyra drew nearer, she felt a wave of familiarity and ease wash over, a soothing balm on a weary soul.
Beside little Laena sat her raven, and its beady were eyes staring out into the rising day as she gently stroked the bird's feathers, whispering something in its ear.
Without explanation, she swiveled towards Rhaenyra and presented a folded piece of parchment. "Here." she stated succinctly.
The Princess reached out and firmly took hold of it, feeling a surface cool and smooth to the touch, and a stiffness that would indicate not having been unfolded yet. She unfurled the paper, and fine lines of handwriting became visible, each letter etched with precision onto the page. The script was minuscule, coded and written with a hand that was both steady and practiced.
Dearest Princess Rhaenyra,
Do you recall the scorching Summer Festival in King's Landing of 99? You were but a wee babe in your father's arms as he and your mother paraded you, but even then, you exuded a presence that was impossible to ignore. I was there, amidst the heaving mass of revelers, and I was instantly smitten by your otherworldly allure. Such celestial beauty, with your long shimmering white-golden tresses and those perfectly puckered pink lips, left an indelible mark on my memory. But it was the hypnotic intensity of your piercing plum orbs that truly entranced me, captivating my very being like a moth to a blazing flame. It was on that monumental day under the blistering scornful sun where I swore a solemn oath to myself that I would be anything and everything that you could ever require, leaving no room for surmounting.
However, as of late, I find myself consumed by anguish and sorrow over the deafening silence in your correspondence. The raven that I had dutifully trained and dispatched to deliver messages to you has ceased its visits. Have I inadvertently slighted you, my princess? Please, I implore you, permit me to make amends, for the thought of losing the joy of beholding your elegant penmanship adorning dreary parchment is a blow that I cannot bear.
For now, I have a grim revelation to share. Through sources that I must keep cloaked in anonymity, I have learned of a clandestine convocation amidst the influential lords of the realm. Lord Manderly, along with others of his ilk, are concocting a scheme to present a candidate of their own choosing at the impending Council. This candidate is purportedly more accommodating to their interests than your own, my princess. Their machinations are directed towards undermining your father's authority and challenging the esteemed legacy of your great-grandfather.
What's more, I have stumbled upon additional concerning information about Lord Bar Emmon. It appears that he has been in league with Lord Manderly through a confidante who frequents the alleyways of Dragonstone. The Sharp Point lord has been engaged in numerous suspicious transactions, exchanging under the table gold with various lords and even some maesters of the realm. One in particular caught my eye. His intentions and allegiances seem to be woefully transparent, and even if they were not, I doubt that the bumbling fools could ever mount a serious challenge to your father's unassailable position.
Most importantly, since your family has taken leave, there have been several wagons arriving in King's Landing under the shroud of darkness, loaded with what I believe to be stolen goods? They have tented up refuge in the depths of Flea Bottom. Although the contents were scrupulously obscured, I suspect that it may be part of a more expansive conspiracy. What are your astute thoughts, revered one?
May the divinities bestow upon you sagacity and fortitude, my cherished princess.
Yours faithfully,
Fishbones
Rhaenyra gazed up at the girl by the window, still peering into the landscape with a contemplative air. She passed her the message, and Laena scanned it swiftly, her brows furrowing with annoyance at the verbose introduction. She read, and her ire grew more palpable, her shoulders tremored, she became increasingly incensed. When she reached the end, she tore the page into hundreds of ragged shreds, allowing the wind to carry them away like confetti.
"We cannot allow Aero or any other claimant to gain an undue advantage over us," Laena finally said, voice laced with enmity.
A laugh slipped from Princess Rhaenyra's pouty lips, and she rolled her eyes. Of course, her naive cousin could not begin to understand just how irrelevant that particular piece of information is.
"It is not Saera's paltry progeny that concerns me, cousin. It is the maesters," She declared. "Their corruption likely runs far deeper than mere bribes. Coupled with the incompetence of the miscreants at the Red Keep, who care more about their precious chains than their patients, they wield too much power and have repeatedly proven themselves untrustworthy."
Laena's sweet face contorted into a snarl, though it softened quickly. "How shall I proceed?"
"You must keep a vigilant eye on them, very much so. Inform my cousin to do the same," She commanded.
"Why not just purge them all from our midst?!" Laena interjected with a fiery glint in her eyes.
The Princess replied resolutely as she sat beside her furious friend on the windowsill, "Because I do not wish to paint all men with the same brush, there are good among them just as there are bad. For now, we must be patient, and wait for an opportune moment to exact justice."
It was clear that she wanted to argue from the arched pensive brow, but chose not to press the matter. "And what happened to your raven? Why is the weirdo sending missives through me?"
Rhaenyra hesitated, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment as she revealed her fear of her own hatched dragon. It was a process, but eventually she gave Laena spotted details of the fated attack, which the girl had not spoken a word of since.
When she finished, the Velaryon regarded her cousin skeptically. "Are you truly all right, Nyra?"
She only shook her head, her anguish evident, but remained silent. Laena leaned over and embraced her tightly, and they sat together companionably for a long time.
"How did you manage to convice the Strong and my Kingsguard to sneak me here, cousin? I am quite impressed." Rhaenyra knew to give credit, when credit was due.
Her cousin only smiled, and its beauty was more enchanting than the first rays of dawn breaking over the horizon. "Same way a certain someone managed to persuade me to trail a highly dubious housekeeper who was found peddling costly ingredients from the Driftmark kitchen." She leaned in closer. "Through cunning bribery, cryptic coercion, and dire warnings of imminent catastrophe."
102 A.C., 12th Moon
It is said to be one of the oldest and most important cities in Westeros, located in the southern Reach. The seat of the Hightower family, who have ruled the city for thousands of years. The Hightowers are known for their wealth and power, as well as their close association with the Citadel, which is located in Oldtown and home to the maesters.
That fiendish stare, like a predator circling above its prey. His words were honeyed, but she could taste the bitterness of ambition there. He spoke of grand plans and lofty aspirations, of a future where he held all the strings in his hands. It was a façade, and he was a man possessed, consumed by an insatiable thirst for power, and his greed oozed from his eyes like a pool of black tar, swarming with deceit.
Otto Hightower, the new Hand of the King, had been spreading insidious rumors about anything and everything since the day he and his family landed at the obsidian gates. His loathsome mouth routinely spews vile poison about those around him, and it was clear to Princess Rhaenyra that he had no qualms about sowing discord and distrust amongst them.
'He is quite a unique scoundrel, is he not? Masquerading as a just and holy man whilst under the guise of an organization filled with leeches.'
The Princess smirked as she glossed over his report for the umpteenth time. Further gossip revealed how the fool had been grasping for power in the Citadel for almost ten years, and upon being cast aside for those grubby fingers he now finds himself in the most powerful position on the continent.
'Apparently, dreams do come true.' She mused. 'Seems that being a second son has proven itself a consistently bad first sign.'
The Princess pushed the Hightowers profiles to the side and began focus on more urgent matters.
Varied documents spread across the desk pulled her into an even deeper thought. The maps lines were crooked, and her brow furrowed in search of strategy for the city's layout and potential vulnerabilities. She traced her finger along the River Gate, the Old Gate, the Lion Gate, marking the best potential points of entry and exit for the movement of illegal substances. Rhaenyra's eyes narrowed whist engaging the intricate patterns of the streets, her mind working tirelessly to piece them together.
Uncovering the truth lay in knowledge of the city's architecture, common trading spots, as well as the movements of her informants, and just when she felt like hitting a wall, the disruptive sound of familiar footsteps began clacking on the stone floor. Rhaenyra looked up and offered a polite smile as she approached, but her attention was quickly drawn to the scrolls in Amanda's hands.
The Arryn sauntered over and placed them in hands reach, "More reports gathered from Fishmonger's Square." she explained.
Rhaenyra scanned the pages, absorbing potential impacts from the locations observed. But revealing as the details were, her thoughts were soon disrupted by Amanda's next revelation.
"There is more, My Princess." Amanda continued, and hers was a grim expression. "I have been given word that the Hand's ten-year-old daughter has recently been assigned to look after His Grace."
The Princess' already very large eyes widened spectacularly, 'That stuttering, feeble-minded cheek biter is meant to care for my grandsire?'
The thought of Alicent Hightower, whose youth and inexperience were evident from her shaky and timid ways, attending to the needs of the king, who required tedious attention and care in his current condition, was incredulous to Rhaenyra. Now the delicate thread of reason had snapped, leaving her bewildered and perplexed.
How could such an outrageous decision have been made? Was it a calculated move by Otto to gain even more power over the king? Did the council not comprehend the severity of the situation and the delicate balance required to care for a debilitated monarch? Rhaenyra's exasperation grew as she grappled with the sheer absurdity of it all.
It was quite cunning, she conceded. How he managed to orchestrate it, she was unsure. After all, she had been excluded from small council meetings since Otto Hightower's arrival.
"Excluded" may be an exaggeration, as she had never attempted to attend, and none had extended an invitation.
Nonetheless, this was a decision that could not be disregarded, but it also could not be handled recklessly. She pondered for but a moment.
Suddenly, a tickle was felt on her hand and she looked down to see a black speck slowly traversing the papers. The abrupt appearance of the arachnid heightened her senses, but she did not flinch away. Instead, she watched in fascination as it moved with delicate precision, its long, spindly legs carrying it across the surface soundlessly. Elusive, with emotions hidden behind a veil of icy composure.
'...Very well then, we shall do things your way.'
The next day, the Princess arrived early at the king's chambers. With a book of sweet Valyrian poetry in hand, she entered his room and was attacked by harsh incense. He laid on the bed in deep sleep, and she noticed the faint rise and fall of his chest as he dreamed. The sight of him, so weak and frail, tugged at her heartstrings. She pulled up a chair next to his bed and began reading aloud, the sweet melodies of the Valyrian tongue a soothing call.
It was a few hours later when the accused entered the room, dressed in a hideous bright green gown that clashed with her fair complexion. Princess Rhaenyra felt her own agitation build upon the cretin's approach, legs shaking slightly as she drew nearer to the bed.
"Good morning, Princess." Alicent spoke softly, her voice barely above a whisper, and she curtsied deeply. "I am here to tidy the king's room and tend to him."
Rhaenyra's gaze flickered briefly to the girl before returning to her book. She appeared visibly taken aback having been ignored, but continued on with her responsibilities anyhow. It was more than obvious that the princess held her reservations, observing Alicent tending to the king's needs obsessively. To her surprise however, the badly dressed child was quite adept at her duties.
The Hightower moved with the grace of a fawn, her lithe hands gentle as she attended to King Jaehaerys. Each of her movements were precise, the attention to detail meticulous. She seemed to know exactly what he needed, and when he needed it, and it would be rather stubborn for Rhaenyra to not admit when she may have been wrong.
As the days turned into weeks, Rhaenyra grew more and more reliant on Alicent's expertise. There were things that came with tending to the elderly that could not be learned in books, but instead must be observed, such as the right amount of pressure to apply when administering medicines or massages, the correct position to turn the king in bed, and how to prop him up to ease his breathing.
Alicent had mastered these nuances with the deftness of a seasoned healer.
Despite the Princess' initial reluctance to engage in conversation, she became drawn into the incessant chatter. The Hightower girl had no qualms about sharing her thoughts and opinions, and she would babble on endlessly about various topics, from her annoying elder brother Gwayne, to her kind mother, to her overpowering father, and sometimes about purely nonsensical matters.
Rhaenyra often found herself listening with indifference, occasionally nodding or shrugging out of cordiality. She could not deny that Alicent's chatter was sometimes charming, albeit awkward, but it did not necessarily warrant a response from the Princess.
"Princess Rhaenyra," A voice intoned, "Septa Violante has requested your presence in the Sept for morning studies."
Otto's sudden appearance in the king's chambers was jarring, the strange domineering presence that commanded attention knocked her off balance. He approached Rhaenyra with a stern expression, his voice resonating with authority.
The Princess furrowed her brow in surprise. She had not expected to be summoned to her studies by the balding Hightower today, but she knew better than to resist. A nod of acknowledgment was given, she then slid from the wood chair she'd settled upon. Alicent, who looked concerned but remained silent, rubbed at her cuticles nervously.
Otto Hightower regarded the little princess under a scrutinizing gaze when she moved past him. "Perhaps it would be wise for the princess to prioritize her studies, considering she has been devoting an excessive amount of time to the ailing king. Would it not be better for her to spend her days surrounded by books in the library, or perchance in the company of her uncle, who some may consider to be a controversial figure?"
Her expression did not change, and she ignored the man's statement entirely. Princess Rhaenyra exited Maegor's Holdfast, and she approached the landing, her eyes immediately darted towards the stairs that twisted and turned around the Red Keep.
Suddenly, she paused, and her mind began to race.
A celebrated Valyrian sage was revered for his profound teachings on stoicism in the presence of mortality. He upheld the belief that death was an inescapable facet of life and instead of cowering in dread or surrendering to melancholy, one should welcome it as a fundamental and imperative constituent of being.
The philosopher's precepts could be delineated into five profound tenets: acceptance, detachment, resilience, mindfulness, and virtue. These would later be know among his followers as the Precepts of Doubt. When confronted with the certainty of mortality, one must espouse the art of letting go, remaining resilient, staying present, and upholding moral values while coping with the inevitability of death.
The little princess glanced at the bottom of the staircase that loomed before her like a treacherous maze, with its spiral design reminiscent of a coiled serpent. Each visible step was worn, stones uneven and cracked. Rhaenyra's senses were assaulted by something unplaceable. It was fastest to merely use the Serpentine to reach the Sept, for it waited just at very the top.
But fear gnawed at her intestines like a hungry beast, and her palms grew slick with sweat. The stairs seemed to stretch on indefinitely, disappearing into the shadows above, and their narrow width made her feel exposed, vulnerable. The air around her grew colder, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end as she approached the foot of the stone steps.
'They are only stairs.' She attempted to rationalize with herself.
The Serpentine were steep, the angle of ascent daunting. Each plat was hewn from dark sediment, smooth and glossy like obsidian, but etched with veins of dark bloody red and hints of metallic white. The steps themselves seemed to taunt her, berating with their haunted design. They were narrow, with uneven heights that made each jump feel like a precarious ledge.
Edges were sharp, as if hungry for blood, and the obscurity seemed to press in from all sides, making it hard for her to see beyond a few paces ahead.
The Princess placed her foot on the first step and then bluntly hesitated, her breath coming in shallow gasps as she looked unto the luminescent abstract standing against the darkness. Her grandmother's ghost shimmered, her form shifting and changing, as if she were a mirage or a figment. Yet, her eyes were enflamed with a wicked crimson light that sent shivers down Rhaenyra's little spine.
She stepped away, feeling her heart thrumming, but despite the weakness in her knees, she began to walk towards the Godswood.
A hand clamped around her arm, pulling the princess back. "If you are going to the Sept, it is much quicker to use the stairs." Alicent said firmly, while eyeing her speculatively. The Princess did not know where the girl appeared from, but such objectionable brazenness made her skin burn where she touched.
Forgoing rational thought, Rhaenyra yanked herself free with a violent jerk. "Do not touch me!"
Alicent recoiled, taken aback by quiet little Rhaenyra's sudden outburst. "I was only trying to help..." Her small voice was tinged with hurt.
Out of nowhere, an uncanny rage boiled over, and she lashed out. "I do not need your help!" she screeched, "If you wish to please me, stay away from me!"
Without another word, Rhaenyra turned on her heel and ran away, away from the hammering in her chest. She dashed through the Godswood, feet carrying her as fast as they could, propelling her forward. She needed the calming presence of whooshing trees and the sound of running streams to ease her mind.
She didn't know how long she ran, but eventually, she was marooned in a secluded clearing. Her rage slowly subsided, leaving her feeling drained and overwhelmed. Tears streamed down her face, her eyes were heavy, rimmed with a fiery crimson red, but they blazed with burning resolve.
The festering indignation could not be bared any longer and spilled out. It seemed to be time for action, to purge the Keep of all the scum that had infested its halls and were crawling beneath her skin like bugs.
Princess Rhaenyra wiped away her tears and began to the Sept for morning lessons. After, she retreated to her special hidden corner in the library and began poring over hundreds of maesters' medical records once again.
She searched through dusty tomes and yellowed scrolls, fingers careful over the faded ink in search for signs of foul play, malpractice or negligence. Her fingers drummed against the leather-bound cover of one particularly thick volume as she struggled to keep her mind in check.
Hours passed as she read and cross-referenced, and her mind was ablaze with new information. She found several instances where the maesters' treatments caused more harm than good, and others where they had been slow to act in the face of an outbreak, allowing it to slowly spread across the kingdoms.
Studious little Rhaenyra made notes in the margins of the pages, her pen scratching furiously as she documented her findings aside. The night wore on, and her eyes were growing heavy, her back ached from sitting for so long. But the drive for justice and her disgust with the treachery that led to her grandfather's death fueled her.
"Little dragon," a steady voice rumbled, causing her to jump.
She turned to see her uncle standing between a row of bookshelves, his arms crossed over his chest. "It is quite late, niece. Your mother has sent me to fetch you."
"I am not yet finished." she replied the same she had to the others, turning back to the research laid before her.
"That so?" he inquired, striding into the room to come stand beside her. "Finished with...?"
"Nothing of importance." she lied, because of course he too would dismiss her claims as paranoia.
"I see." he said, raising an eyebrow. Upon not receiving a response, Daemon disappeared to grab a glass of wine from the decanter. He poured it and pulled up a seat across from Rhaenyra.
"Are you not meant to be ushering me from the library, Uncle?" She asked sarcastically, not looking up from the text.
Daemon snickered and took a sip of his wine. "I suppose I am, but I thought I would have a quick chat with my favorite niece first."
Her eyes began to roll at his nonsense, though despite their differences, she knew that her uncle cared in his own way.
The Prince leaned back in his chair, a wistful smile on his lips as he recounted one of his many great conquests, as usual, without preamble. "It was in the Disputed Lands," he began, his voice low and seductive. "I was leading a company of sellswords, fighting for the highest bidder. We were hired by a wealthy merchant to protect his caravan, but when we arrived, we found that our employer had already been killed by a rival faction."
She listened intently as Daemon continued his tale, describing how he had taken charge of the situation, rallied the surviving members of the caravan, and led them to safety through treacherous terrain. His commanding presence and the way he spun his story was rather captivating, drawing her into the vivid details of his past exploits. Before the girl knew it, her attention had become divided between his story and the medical records being studied. As he continued to recount the details of his daring mission, she made a mental note of a potential lead to follow up on.
Daemon's eyes flickered down to the table where Rhaenyra had been poring over the maester's journals for hours. It would seem that he noticed her surreptitious glances and movements as he regaled her with the gripping story.
"But enough about me," Daemon said, interrupting his own story with a sly grin. "What have you been working on all this time, my sweet niece?"
Her heart skipped a beat, hand ceased writing. Princess Rhaenyra has been keeping her plotting under wraps, afraid of how her family might react. But as she looked into his eyes, she saw a glimmer of understanding, and decided then and there to come clean.
"I have been investigating the maesters," she admitted, and was pleased by the fortitude in her speech. "Right now I am digging into their records, trying to uncover their secrets."
He raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "The maesters, eh?" he said, leaning in closer. "What have you found?"
The Princess took a deep breath, feeling a surge of excitement as she recounted her discoveries. She told him about patterns uncovered, hidden agendas, and the inconsistencies in their accounts. She spoke passionately about her suspicions that the maesters were manipulating events behind the scenes, wielding power and influence in ways that went beyond their sworn duties as healers and advisors.
"I can see now the need to be so secretive. To question the maesters methods is nothing short of blasphemy. Still, I am bereft to have not been confided in sooner."
Rhaenyra looked away, her resolve shattering, "I did not wish to burden you, Uncle." she said with a hint of shame.
"Little dragon, remember that you need not face everything alone. You have your uncle by your side, ready to support you no matter what. Be it investigating maesters or improving on their methods first-hand."
The sudden covert accusation sliced through her mind like a scorching blade. Her hand constricted into a taut fist and the pen between her fingers snapped in two.
The Prince's eyes followed the motion unfazed.
Rhaenyra knew that her uncle was perceptive, but hoped that she had been careful enough to conceal her actions that day. "You have no proof of that." Rhaenyra spat out, her voice filled with defiance.
Daemon's eyes narrowed, and his lips twisted into a sneer. "You are not the only observant one in this family, my niece," he replied, his voice cold and calculating. "I know what you did. I know that you replaced the medication prescribed to my father."
All of the color drained from her face. How could he know? She had been so careful, so meticulous. But within Daemon's eyes, she saw the truth. He knew. Her sly and roguish uncle, always one step ahead.
"I did it because I do not trust the maesters!" Rhaenyra blurted out fearfully, attempting to justify her actions. "I could not take any chances. Not with grandfather's life on the line."
The Rogue Prince snorted derisively. "Yet he still died, and your foolhardy gamble could have easily killed him sooner, but instead prolonged his life." he said, his tone dripping with a hardness she had never heard before, and she did not like it. "Your plan was reckless at best and brazenly idiotic at worst. You should have come to me. We could have found a solution in tandem."
A knot began to twist in her gut, and she felt a guilt so harrowing come over it nearly brought forward a stream of tears. Was it truly wrong to keep this from her uncle? The Prince had always been so forthcoming about most things, and he did not speak to her as if she was a foolish little child as most did.
Her voice was weak, "Forgive me, Uncle. Your guidance would have indeed been most helpful during that time."
The Prince was seemingly unconcerned, "Well, then? What is your next move, and how might I assist you?"
Rhaenyra cocked her head, hesitant to embroil Prince Daemon in her flippant machinations yet again, but equally unwilling to disappoint him either. After a moment of contemplation, she resolved to divulge the full extent of her investigative efforts, detailing the strange flow of illicit goods that will soon be coursing through the city's veins. With utmost care, she methodically pieced together all of the disparate fragments of information she had gathered, laying them out like a crafted tapestry, leaving it up to him to connect the final threads.
He only listened intently until she was finished, "You have been busy." the prince stated with a face most unreadable.
She continued on anyway, determination burning, "The perfect opportunity approaches, and I have modes in place to unfold all. I have sent word to the Velaryons of my intentions, but there is still much to do beforehand. Tell me, Uncle - how familiar are you with the Maester Allar?"
T
The coronation of Viserys had arrived in force on the first moon of the one-hundred-and-third year of conquest. The noble lords and ladies of the realm were gathering within the Red Keep, adorned in their finest garments and jewelry and awaiting the start of the ceremony. As the guests arrived, they were led through the labyrinth of hallways and staircases until they reached the throne room. Which was now dressed with rich tapestries, ornate candelabras, and colorful banners representing each of the Seven Kingdoms.
At the center of the room stood the magnificent Iron Throne, its sharp, twisted points glinting in the light of gorgeous sunshine. A raised platform had been erected in front of the throne, where the ceremony would take place.
The members of the royal family stood regally in their designated places before the resplendent seat, adorned in their majestic attire. Princess Aemma stood beside her husband, the soon-to-be Crown Prince, while his cousin Rhaenys and her husband Corlys observed from the rear, exchanging furtive whispers that were inaudible amidst the gathered throng.
Rhaenyra caught a glance from Prince Daemon, and her heart leapt into her throat, she blinked in astonishment. He smirked in response, his gaze fixed on her with an intensity that she could only hope was pride.
Finally, King Jaehaerys made his entrance into the throne room, and a reverent hush fell over the hall. "There have been many tumultuous moments in recent times, but let me assure you of one thing - the House of the Dragon remains unwaveringly strong, now and forever," he proclaimed with a regal air. "Come forward, my son, and receive your well-deserved crown."
Princess Rhaenyra had expected her father to falter, but she was pleasantly surprised when he strode forward with unwavering confidence, kneeling gracefully to receive his ceremonial adornments. His cloak blazed with fiery hues of crimson and gold, and she felt a swelling sense of pride for her father that she had never experienced before.
He stood resolute, exuding an effortless grace as he navigated the challenging ordeal of his terrifying coronation. In that moment, her father embodied everything a true king should be, commanding the room with his dignified presence. It was a sight that would be etched in her memory for years to come, a beacon of strength and nobility that she would cherish in her twilight years.
The ceremony soon swelled to an end, but before the King could adjourn for feast, Corlys Velaryon stepped forward, drawing the attention of the entire room. His gargantuan figure stood out amongst the gathered couriers, those piercing eyes scanning the faces before him.
After offering his condolences for sudden interruption, The Lord of the Tides began to speak, "My lords and ladies, it is with great sadness that I must bring to your attention the treacherous actions of Lord Bar Emmon," he began, his voice booming throughout the throne room. "In addition for siphoning funds from the Driftmark's treasury, it has come to my attention that he has been using his position to fund the smuggling of illegal substances into our beloved capital."
The room erupted into whispers and murmurs at the shocking revelation. Many of the lords and ladies looked on in disbelief, unable to comprehend the spontaneous accusations being leveled against one of their own. But Corlys did not falter, his eyes roved the room as he continued to speak.
"I have here with me a witness who can testify to Lord Bar Emmon's involvement in these illegal activities," he declared, his hand gesturing towards a young man who stepped forward from the crowd. The witness spoke of the bribes he had received from Lord Bar Emmon, the secret meetings they had held in dark alleys, and the shipments of drugs that had been smuggled into the city under the guise of legitimate goods."
The room fell into a stunned silence, the weight of the accusations hung heavy in the air. Corlys stood proud and unbothered, his gaze unwavering as he continued to survey the room. Because he was not done yet.
"And if that was not enough, I have also uncovered evidence that Grand Maester Allar was complicit in the poisoning of Prince Baelon before the joust of 101, which we assume was likely due to Bar Emmon's influence, for he has been accepting bribes from the Sharp Point lord for quite some time." he announced, voice ringing out evenly.
At that moment, not a sound could be heard save for the hustle and bustle of the city below as they celebrate in ignorant bliss. The accusation fell to the ground like an anchor upon the murky depths. Rhaenyra watched as one of his squires ran forward with documents and handed them off to be presented before the monarch.
"He purchased the nightshade used in the prince's murder. I have a maester apprentice with claims of having seen the man putting a large dose of the aforementioned contraband into the prince's drinking water before the joust." He continued on relentlessly. The groups of courtiers looked on in horror as Corlys produced the evidence against Maester Allar, proving beyond doubt his role in the heinous crime.
Gasps echoed throughout the room as testimony after testimony came forth, and when the young red-haired servant was done, Corlys produced a small vial of Nightshade from his pocket, holding it up for all to see.
"This was found in the Grand Maester's chambers, and it matches the poison found in Prince Baelon's drinking can, another maester has attested." he declared, his voice rising in anger.
The monarch himself looked on without giving anything away on his face. Then, he spoke over the witness, "Grand Maester Allar, you stand accused of having poisoned the Prince Baelon before his joust. How do you plead?" King Jaehaerys asked calmly.
The maester, who had been drenched in a cold sweat, stumbled towards the throne, his legs quivering and unsteady beneath him, until he collapsed onto his knees before the king, causing the witness to hastily retreat a few steps. His face was ashen as he searched around, but was unable to meet anyone's gaze. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out, as if his voice had deserted him in that moment of reckoning.
"Take him away..." The King said weakly, not sparing the coward another glance. "I do not wish to hear anymore. I said take him away!"
The knights in their shiny silver armor moved forward to escort Maester Allar to the dungeons.
The maester's eyes darted nervously around the room, then suddenly, he let out a desperate scream. "I was framed! It was the Lord Ryam Redwyne who ordered me to put the Nightshade in Prince Baelon's drinking water! I only did as I was told under blackmail. The cheat had been funneling Bar Emmon Small Council secrets for years!"
The room erupted into chaos as everyone turned to look at the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, who instantly became paler than a sheet of snow. The silence was broken by the sound of his voice, which trembled as he denied the allegation. "N-no, I would never..." he stammered before looking towards the exit.
As the confession spilled from the maester's lips, King Jaehaerys' wrath grew to a boiling point. His face twisted with fury and his grip upon the throne's steel arms tightened until his knuckles turned white. The entire room held its breath as the king bellowed, "Bring me the Ser Ryam Redwyne's head. NOW!"
The King's knights hesitated, unsure of what to do. Ryam Redwyne, who had been accused of the crime, stood frozen with fear as he realized the gravity of the situation. It was clear that the king would accept nothing less than a succinct punishment.
But amongst the catatonia, Prince Daemon leapt into action. In one seamless movement, he unsheathed Dark Sister and lunged towards the knight with a visage stripped of all emotion. The other men of the Kingsguard, stunned by the sudden escalation of events, were slow to react as the Prince grabbed the commander by the hair and yanked his head back.
Ryam's screams echoed throughout the throne room as Daemon sliced his head from his body. The sound of steel against flesh and bone rang out as the severed head tumbled to the ground and rolled towards the bottom of the iron throne stairs.
The King's fury subsided as quickly as it had come, replaced by a steely resolve. He turned to the knights of the Kingsguard and said, "Take the head and display it on a spike outside the Red Keep. Let it be a warning to all who would dare to threaten the safety of my family."
The knights bowed in acquiescence and quickly took the head from the ground. They filed out of the throne room, boots clanging against the stone floor as they began a march towards the gates of the Red Keep.
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