The afternoon sun slanted through the tall windows of the Iron Throne Hall, casting long shadows across the cold stone floor.
Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen stood beneath the steps of the throne.
Beside her was Prince Daemon, clad in dark red, his eyes half-lidded as he regarded the Greens opposite with thinly veiled disdain.
On the left side of the hall stood another world entirely.
Princess Helaena Targaryen remained close to Prince Aemond, dressed in a pale blue gown. Her silver-gold hair was loosely gathered, giving her a fragile, almost dreamlike air.
No one spoke.
The silence was broken only as the nobles entered one by one.
They bowed hastily and moved forward—and most drifted, without hesitation, to stand behind the Greens.
Only five or six lingered, hesitated, and then quietly crossed to the sparse ranks behind Rhaenyra and the Blacks.
Rhaenyra clenched her jaw.
These were the same lords who had once bowed before her with smiles, calling her the Realm's Delight, praising her as the light of the Seven Kingdoms.
Now, they would not stand with her.
Two years ago, Vaemond Velaryon had been slain in this very hall. His blood had splashed across the stones—and across her reputation as well.
She drew a slow breath and straightened, lifting her chin like a swan.
It does not matter, she told herself.
Once today is over…
A soft, cutting laugh broke the silence.
"We stand where duty demands," a voice said coolly.
"To uphold the laws of the realm. To uphold the order of succession."
Daemon's smile deepened, but he said nothing more.
He understood all too well.
The Greens had spent years weaving their influence, winning the hearts of the court and the city alike.
Standing in this hall now—save for the king upon the Iron Throne—who truly wished for Rhaenyra to rule?
In King's Landing, the smallfolk mocked her name. Songs and whispers spread through the markets.
None of it was accidental.
"His Grace, King Viserys of House Targaryen!"
The guards' voices rang out.
All present bowed as Viserys I entered.
He wore a half-mask of gold, concealing the rotting flesh upon the left side of his face. The right was ashen and sunken, his breathing ragged with every step.
Five Kingsguard followed in white cloaks, their armor ringing softly.
At their head walked Ser Criston Cole, silent as stone.
Viserys was exhausted.
The pain in his bones, the sickness brought on by milk of the poppy—it all blurred together. He had neither strength nor patience left for ceremony.
"First," the king said hoarsely, wasting no time,
"I decree that the betrothal between Jacaerys Velaryon and Princess Helaena Targaryen is dissolved."
A ripple passed through the hall.
Why now?
Who had swayed the king?
Aemond's violet eye narrowed to a pinprick.
His gaze snapped upward—and met Daemon's.
Daemon was smiling.
So it was you.
Helaena let out a soft sound and raised a hand to her lips. A faint flush touched her cheeks—quickly fading—but for a brief moment, her eyes shone with unmistakable relief.
She leaned closer to Aemond, her fingers catching lightly in his sleeve.
Aemond glanced at her, then nodded once.
Upon the queen's seat beside the throne, Alicent Hightower clutched Viserys's arm. Her body trembled, but a flicker of satisfaction passed through her eyes.
At last, she thought.
You remembered you are a father.
On the Blacks' side, Jacaerys flinched as if struck. Anger flashed across his face, but he lowered his head at once, daring not to let it show.
Nearby, Lucerys and Joffrey Velaryon struggled to conceal their anger.
"Stand down," Daemon said quietly, without turning.
The Velaryon boys obeyed at once.
"That is my will," Viserys said, each word dragged from his lungs.
"And now… the second matter."
"Another engagement."
Viserys gasped heavily, his words interspersed, with a cough in between: "Rhaenyra's child... Aegon... With my daughter... Jaehaera... Marriage. "
There was another oppressive inhaling sound.
Today's king's actions are really abnormal.
Cancel one first, and then set up another?
Viserys turned his head with difficulty, the golden mask glowing eeriely in the dim light.
He looked at the queen beside him, and his voice was so low that he could hardly hear it clearly:
"Honey... You won't object, will you?" "
He turned his head with visible effort, the golden mask gleaming dully.
His gaze passed over the heart of the Greens—Otto Hightower, Aegon, Aemond. None spoke. None dared object.
After all, this was the king's decree.
And the child in question was his newborn daughter—Princess Jaehaera.
To bind her to Rhaenyra's youngest son, Aegon the Younger, was not merely a marriage.
It was restraint.
Perhaps even assimilation.
Alicent pressed her lips together, then slowly nodded.
She understood.