Viserys seemed to draw a shallow breath of relief. His clouded gaze fell once more upon the Greens.
"And you…?" he asked weakly.
Otto Hightower, Aemond, Aegon, Alicent, Helaena, Daeron—each bowed in silence.
No one spoke. No one objected.
A new bond had been proposed—one of unquestionable blood, untainted and royal.
The match involved the queen's own daughter. In its way, it was a compromise.
Among the Blacks, Rhaenyra felt her thoughts unravel, her scalp prickling.
Cancel one betrothal, grant another?
Father… what is this? A slap followed by a sweet fig?
"Why would you do this to Jacaerys?" she demanded.
"Cough—!"
Viserys doubled over, seized by a violent fit. His frail body shook uncontrollably.
Queen Alicent hurried to his side, patting his back, her face pale with alarm.
When the coughing finally subsided, the king could only gasp, words failing him.
Alicent lifted her eyes to Rhaenyra and spoke in his stead.
"Enough, Rhaenyra.
Jacaerys Velaryon is now the lawful heir to Tidewater Hall.
His Grace's meaning could not be clearer."
Daemon closed his eyes and exhaled slowly.
"Be silent… Rhaenyra," he murmured.
Viserys forced another breath. His voice trembled, but the authority within it—long absent—returned at last.
"I am not dead yet," the king rasped.
"It is not your place… to question my judgment."
With that, he collapsed back into the cushions, struggling for air.
Rhaenyra stared at him, stunned. She had never heard such severity from her father.
The blood drained from her face, then rushed back hot and burning. Her eyes widened—but she said nothing more.
The hall fell into a deathly silence.
Only the king's labored breathing remained.
"I hereby declare…"
Viserys's trembling, skeletal hand rose, inch by inch, and pointed toward Rhaenyra.
"The Iron Throne shall pass to Rhaenyra… and—"
He never finished the sentence.
King Viserys I went rigid.
The raised arm dropped lifelessly.
A choking sound rattled in his throat.
"Father!"
The hall exploded in cries and shouts.
Alicent screamed and gathered the king into her arms as maesters and attendants rushed forward in chaos.
The draught prepared by Larys Strong and Grand Maester Orwyle should have rendered even a strong man insensible for a day and a night.
By all reason, the king should never have lasted this long.
Yet he had endured long enough to dissolve a betrothal—
and nearly long enough to settle the succession itself.
The plan had gone awry.
Amid the confusion—
The guards stationed along the walls suddenly moved, as if receiving a single, silent command.
Their steps were swift, disciplined.
Side doors and passages were sealed at once.
More armed men poured in from the corridors.
Within moments, the Iron Throne Hall was encircled by an impenetrable wall of steel.
"Your Grace!"
Rhaenyra snapped out of her daze.
She screamed and surged forward, heedless of all dignity or caution.
Daemon seized her arm like a vise.
"Don't move!" he roared.
In an instant, he understood everything.
The guards had been activated.
The exits were sealed.
And Otto Hightower now spoke with the king's voice.
With Viserys unconscious, the guards answered to no prince—only to command.
Otto stepped forward onto the steps of the throne.
His face was expressionless as his gaze swept over the terrified nobles, the chaos, and finally settled on Rhaenyra, restrained by Daemon.
"His Majesty has suffered a sudden collapse," Otto announced coldly.
"He is unconscious."
He paused. A sharp glint flashed in his eyes.
"From this moment, the Red Keep is under martial law.
No one may enter or leave without royal command or my writ.
Seal every passage at once."
Daemon released Rhaenyra and stepped forward, placing himself before the Blacks. His hand fell to the hilt of Dark Sister.
"Martial law?" he said softly.
"Otto—are you seizing the moment of the king's fall to imprison us?"
Otto looked at him without emotion.
"The prince overstates the matter.
As for Princess Rhaenyra—"
His eyes turned to her.
"Until His Majesty's condition stabilizes, the princess will remain in the Red Keep. For her own safety."
"You—"
A faint, broken voice interrupted him.
From Alicent's arms.
King Viserys opened his eyes.
Barely.
His gaze was unfocused, his breath little more than a whisper—but he was awake.
For the first time that day, Otto's expression changed.
Not panic.
But disruption.
Impossible. Why is he awake?
Otto's eyes flicked to Larys Strong.
Larys lowered his head.
Supported by Alicent and the Kingsguard, Viserys was raised slightly.
"Martial… law?" he whispered.
He found Otto with difficulty, his eyes heavy with exhaustion—and disappointment.
"I hereby… strip Otto Hightower… of all offices as Hand of the King."
Silence fell like a blade.
The guards froze.
Uncertainty rippled through their ranks as they looked between Otto and Ser Harrold Westerling.
For the first time, doubt crossed the Lord Commander's face.
Otto stood rigid, his complexion ashen.
"I… obey, Your Majesty."
Viserys sagged back into Alicent's arms, his strength spent.
"That is enough… for today," he murmured.
"Everyone… leave."
The guards parted at once.
The nobles fled the throne room with bowed heads, as if escaping a storm.