92 AC
The Red Keep, Summer, A Month After the War
"Your Grace… Your Grace…"
Septon Barth's voice cut gently through the thick stillness of the chamber. The old man's words were careful, respectful, but insistent.
Across the table, King Jaehaerys stirred from his stupor, blinking as though waking from a long dream. His hand rested motionless atop a scroll, untouched for some time.
"About the heir," Barth pressed softly.
The king's gaze drifted toward the window, where sunlight spilled over the Dragonpit's distant dome. "Hmm?" he murmured, mind slowly reeling itself back from elsewhere.
A month had passed since the war in the Stepstones had ended, but its cost had bled far deeper than coin or steel.
Prince Aemon, firstborn son of Jaehaerys and Alysanne, heir to the Iron Throne, was dead.
Struck down by a poisoned arrow on the shores of Tarth. A death no one had expected of a dragonrider.
It had shattered the royal family.
Queen Alysanne had refused to believe the news when it reached court. Without a word to her maids or the lords of court, she mounted Silverwing and flew to Dragonstone in a gale of grief.
Aemon's body had been carried back from Tarth in solemn procession, his dragon Caraxes flying overhead in eerie silence.
At Dragonstone, the funeral was held. Every great house in the realm sent banners, not just for respect, but to witness the storm gathering over the line of succession.
At the pyre stood Princess Rhaenys, Aemon's daughter, heavily pregnant.
Beside her, Lady Jocelyn Baratheon, the prince's widow, clutched her hands in silent grief.
Queen Alysanne did not speak. She only sobbed, her shoulders trembling as flames consumed the body of her firstborn.
Prince Baelon, who had been away, arrived too late. He said nothing at first, only wept beside the pyre.
But the next morning, his sorrow had hardened into something else. Vhagar carried him into the skies, and he flew east with vengeance in his heart.
Within fifteen days, he returned.
The heads of every known leader of the Myrish exile pirates were nailed to a cart and paraded through the streets of King's Landing.
The people cheered wildly, crying Baelon's name. Smoke still clung to his cloak, and to the stories.
The Stepstones had burned. Vhagar's fire had scoured even the deepest caves, turning them into tombs of smoke and silence.
No soul had survived.
But inside the Red Keep, celebration soured into conflict.
The Queen and King quarreled behind closed doors.
It was whispered that Queen Alysanne blamed King Jaehaerys for their son's death, that his delays, his reluctance to act, had allowed this fate to unfold.
One day, without ceremony, she mounted Silverwing once more and flew to Dragonstone.
She had not returned since.
Now, in the aftermath, the realm faced a new question, one no less grave:
Who would inherit the Iron Throne?
The court was split.
Some lords, supported by recent memory, spoke for Prince Baelon, the King's second son.
He had proven himself in fire and vengeance, riding Vhagar like a true Targaryen prince.
But others, powerful, ambitious, had turned their eyes toward Princess Rhaenys, the daughter of the slain heir.
She was of the elder line, and though young and with child, her claim stood as the rightful continuation of Aemon's legacy.
The tension in the chamber was suffocating, a heat not born of the sun, but of ambition and grief.
The shutters were drawn against the summer glare, yet the air within remained close and heavy, thick with the musk of ink, wax, and quiet fury.
When Lord Corlys Velaryon rose to speak, all turned toward him. His cloak, rich with sea-blue velvet and the silver seahorse of House Velaryon, flowed like a banner behind him.
His voice, when it came, was crisp and composed, but there was iron beneath the polish.
"I do not understand," he said, surveying the gathered lords. "Why this council must meet to debate what is already plain.
Princess Rhaenys is the daughter of the late Prince Aemon, your Grace's firstborn son. The line of succession passes through blood, does it not?"
His eyes moved from face to face, Lord Beesbury, Grand Maester Elysar, Ser Ryam Redwyne, Septon Barth, and finally the king himself.
Corlys's gaze held firm, his jaw set like a man anchoring in storm-tossed seas.
There it was, ambition laid bare, yet wrapped in the silken cloth of duty.
He did not say what all present knew: that Princess Rhaenys was his wife, and that if she ascended to the Iron Throne, the child in her womb would one day inherit a crown.
A Velaryon heir, of both sea and fire.
"It is time," he declared, "that Westeros had a Queen upon the Iron Throne."
The words settled like a thrown gauntlet.
From across the table, Lord Beesbury snorted softly, adjusting the spectacles perched on his nose.
The master of coin was older than most in the room, and his tone carried the brittle authority of tradition.
"With respect, Lord Corlys," he said, "the realm has never had a queen ruling in her own right, not in the time of the Targaryens, nor before.
And now, with a strong candidate present in Prince Baelon, brother to the late Prince Aemon, I ask you, truly, do you think the great lords of Westeros will bend the knee to a woman?"
He folded his hands together. "Tradition is not so easily cast aside."
Corlys straightened.
"And I ask you," he countered, "what tradition places a brother ahead of a daughter? Was she not born of Aemon's blood? Would you have the daughter of the crown prince cast aside, simply for her gender?"
He leaned forward, voice low, precise. "Rhaenys has the blood of Old Valyria. And more sense, I would wager, than many who wear swords and call themselves dragonlords."
The two men stared, the air between them tense as drawn steel.
Before either could speak again, Grand Maester Elysar raised his hand in gentle appeal.
"My lords," he said, voice smooth as parchment, "surely this is not the time for division. Prince Aemon's death is a wound still raw.
The grief of Her Grace the Queen, and His Grace the King, is not yet quieted. Let us not allow ambition to tread upon mourning."
He turned to Jaehaerys, whose silence had grown darker with every word exchanged.
"Your Grace, perhaps it is best…"
The king slammed his goblet onto the table.
The silver cup bounced once, wine sloshing over the rim, crimson splashing onto the table.
"Enough!" Jaehaerys thundered, rising to his feet. His voice cracked like thunder, raw with fury and sorrow.
"Not three months have passed since my son, my firstborn, was laid upon his pyre. You would stand here, in this chamber, and bicker like crows over his corpse?"
He stared them down, eyes burning, voice rising.
"My son is dead! And now, all I hear are arguments for the crown he never wore. Have you no shame?"
Silence gripped the chamber.
Not even a breath stirred.
Lord Beesbury looked down at his hands. Corlys remained standing, lips tight. Grand Maester Elysar murmured a prayer beneath his breath.
Septon Barth, seated in shadow near the end of the table, said nothing. His eyes watched, calm and deep, like a man studying a tide yet to break.
Jaehaerys drew in a breath, slower now, as if the fury had drained from him like blood from an open wound.
"I will decide," he said, voice quieter, but firm as stone.
"Within a fortnight, I will name my heir. Until then, this matter is closed. I will hear no more."
He sat again, heavy with grief. One hand trembled faintly as he reached once more for his cup, but he did not drink.
A long moment passed before the chamber slowly emptied, boots thudding against stone, robes brushing wood. No one spoke as they departed.
Only Septon Barth remained behind for a moment longer, his gaze lingering on the king.
He glanced toward the Table, where shadows from the high windows crept slowly across the shape of Westeros, as if the realm itself was being swallowed by dusk.
The realm stood at a crossroads.
The dragon's line was broken, and the crown now hung above two paths, one of fire, and one of change.
The evening sun filtered softly through the high arched windows, casting amber light across the stone walls of the royal chambers.
The air was quiet, thick with the scent of old parchment, burning oil, and the faint salt carried in from Blackwater Bay.
King Jaehaerys sat by the open window, clad in simple robes of deep crimson and black, the weight of his years showing more in his stillness than in his face.
A cup of wine sat untouched at his side, forgotten. When the door opened and Prince Baelon stepped in, the king did not turn his head, but his voice, when it came, was low and familiar.
"Come in, Baelon."
Baelon hesitated only a moment before closing the door behind him. He moved slowly toward the king, not as a prince in court, but as a son returning to his father.
"Father…" he said, voice softer than usual.
King Jaehaerys finally turned and gave him a faint smile. "Come. Sit."
Baelon pulled a chair close, lowering himself with a sigh. The silence between them was not uncomfortable, they had sat in many such silences before, across years of wars and councils, feasts and funerals.
But this one carried the weight of mourning.
"How are my grandsons?" Jaehaerys asked at last, watching his son's face.
Baelon rubbed the back of his neck, then answered, "Viserys is learning well. He's been shadowing Lord Beesbury, listening to him drone about coin and taxes. He's making friends with the young lords at court, too."
The king nodded approvingly.
"And Daemon?" he asked, though his voice dipped slightly at the name.
"In the City Watch," Baelon said, with the faintest of smirks. "He likes the freedom. Says wearing gold armor makes the thieves take him seriously. I told him not to break too many bones."
A low chuckle rumbled from the king's chest. "He reminds me of someone," Jaehaerys said.
Baelon smiled faintly.
The silence returned for a breath.
"And what of little Aegon?"
Baelon glanced up. "He asked if he could go to Dragonstone, to be with Mother. I said yes."
The king's gaze drifted to the open window. The sea winds whispered against the stone.
"It's good," he said, after a pause. "It's good that he stays with your mother. She needs someone close, now."
Baelon gave a slow nod. Though the quarrel between the king and queen had driven Queen Alysanne to Dragonstone, the care in his father's voice was still there, quiet, wounded, but steady.
"You've been away from home too often," Jaehaerys said suddenly, eyes sharpening.
"Flying, hunting, fighting pirates, chasing glory… and I allowed it. Maybe I even encouraged it. But things are different now."
Baelon stiffened slightly.
"With your brother gone, you must shoulder some of what he carried."
The words hung in the air like the weight of a swordbelt. Before Baelon could speak, the king continued:
"I'm naming you Master of Laws. You'll take your brother's seat on the Small Council."
Baelon opened his mouth to protest, but Jaehaerys raised a hand, firm and final.
"You cannot always run, Baelon," he said, voice rising slightly.
"You cannot always fly across the realm with your dragon and think the world will wait for you. Responsibility must be met. And I will accept no rejection."
His tone hardened, the father fading behind the king. "It is your king's command."
Baelon exhaled slowly, shoulders sinking. "Yes, father," he said at last.
But then, more quietly, he added, "I don't want to be the heir."
Jaehaerys turned to him, expression unreadable.
"It's fine," Baelon went on.
"Let it pass to Rhaenys. She's his daughter. Aemon's daughter. She's more like him than I ever was."
It was clear that he had heard the whispers.
The court was already dividing: some for him, others for Rhaenys. The matter of succession loomed like a storm.
Jaehaerys did not respond. He only looked at his son, long and hard.
And in that silence, something shifted within the old king.
Baelon's reluctance, his refusal to chase the crown, landed more heavily than any eager claim might have.
For Jaehaerys had ruled long enough to know: a man who seeks the throne too eagerly is rarely fit to hold it.
But the one who resists? Who would carry it not for power, but for duty?
Such a man might well make a king.
He said nothing more, and neither did Baelon. The moment passed between them like the setting sun, wordless, but not forgotten.
Outside the window, the wind shifted.
Change was coming. Whether they welcomed it or not.
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