| Chapter 09: War Council and Rhaenys, Rhaenyra's Reaction |

| Author's Note: Hello beautiful people, enjoy the chapter and please give me a feedback on the story until now. I'm all for improvement. And... I might have gone a little too far on this one, since well,— it has 8k words.... So send me some powerstones as a reward, perhaps... |

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎A few hours after the previous chapter:

The council chamber in the Red Keep is a vast, imposing room with tall, narrow windows that allow only slivers of sunlight to pierce through the thick stone walls. The beams of light create long, distorted shadows on the cold stone floor, as if the chamber itself were mourning. The heavy oak table at the center dominates the space, surrounded by high-backed chairs, each designed to hold the weight of decisions that shape the fate of the realm. The air is thick with tension, an almost tangible presence that clings to the room as the weight of impending decisions hangs over those who enter it.

.

.

.

...

.

.

.

The heavy oak doors of the council chamber creak open, the sound reverberating through the dimly lit room. The Kingsguard stationed at the entrance steps aside as Aegon Targaryen enters, his steps hesitant, as if the very air of the chamber is weighing him down. His mourning attire, black and somber, seems to absorb the light, casting his figure in a deeper shadow.

As he crosses the threshold, Aegon glances back at the guards with a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, searching for reassurance that they cannot give. The burden of his father's death and the expectations now placed upon him are almost palpable, pressing down on his shoulders. He takes a deep breath, forcing himself to step further into the room.

Inside, Alicent Hightower stands near the far end of the table, her posture rigid yet elegant, her face a mask of calm control. But behind her eyes lies a mother's deep-seated anxiety, not only for her son but for the realm that could soon be engulfed in turmoil.

"Aegon." Her voice breaks the silence, soft yet firm, cutting through the tension like a knife through parchment. "Sit down, my son."

Aegon meets her gaze, finding a small measure of solace in her steady presence. With a slow nod, he crosses the room, his footsteps echoing in the stillness. Each step feels like a march toward an inevitable fate, the sound of his boots on stone reminiscent of a dirge. He reaches the head of the table and hesitates for a moment before finally taking his seat, the chair's high back rising behind him like the shadow of a crown not yet worn.

As he settles into the seat, Aegon can't help but feel the weight of the position, as if the very wood and stone conspire to remind him of the role he is expected to play. It feels ill-fitting, like a crown too heavy for a head unprepared to bear it. He lets out a small sigh, a fleeting release of the tension coiled within him.

Alicent sits beside him, her hand gently resting on his arm,— a gesture of comfort, support, and an unspoken promise that she will be with him through whatever lies ahead. Their eyes meet, and a pained smile passes between them, a brief moment of shared sorrow in a world where they can afford little time for grief.

The silence is broken again as the door swings open, and Aemond Targaryen strides into the chamber. His movements are precise, almost predatory, each step calculated and controlled, like a beast of war on the prowl. His eyes gleam with cold determination, a stark contrast to Aegon's uncertainty.

"Brother. Mother." Aemond's voice is even, measured, carrying an undercurrent of steel as he acknowledges his closest kin. He moves with purpose, taking his place near Aegon, offering a nod of acknowledgment to his elder brother. Aegon responds in kind, his voice and Alicent's intertwining in their greetings.

"Brother." / "Aemond."

Aemond's presence shifts the atmosphere, adding a sharpness to the tension already present. The room feels smaller with him in it, the space charged with the energy of unspoken challenges and the anticipation of conflict. His sharp gaze flits over the table, taking in the situation with the mind of a strategist already preparing for war.

Ser Criston Cole enters next, his armor clinking softly as he moves into position behind Aegon. He stands as a silent sentinel, his eyes sweeping the room with the vigilance of a man who knows that danger is never far from those who seek the throne. His presence is a reminder of the swords that stand ready to defend Aegon, but also of the battles yet to come.

Finally, Lord Larys Strong slips into the chamber, so quietly that his entrance goes unnoticed until he is already seated. His presence is unsettling, a shadow that should not be there, yet is. He says nothing, merely observing, his eyes darting across the room, gathering every detail, every nuance of the gathering.

And so the Council begins, as Aegon clears his throat, breaking the heavy silence that has settled over the room. His voice is steady, though it carries a hint of uncertainty, betraying the conflict within him. "We are here today because we need to decide how to proceed in these early days after the passing of my father. The realm, my family, the people of the Seven Kingdoms — everything depends on it."

Alicent's eyes flicker with a mix of pride and concern as she listens to her son's words. She leans forward slightly, her voice low and weighted with the gravity of the situation. "Rhaenyra must be informed of Viserys' passing, but we must be strategic about the matter. She will not accept this news lightly, and Daemon... I fear Daemon will push her to act on war before she is even allowed to grieve and think for herself."

At the mention of war, Aegon tenses, the idea of conflict with his sister gnawing at his insides. Before he can respond, Aemond speaks up, his tone sharp and decisive, like a blade drawn from its sheath. "We cannot afford to let them gather strength. If Rhaenyra follows her husband's voice and refuses to acknowledge you as King, brother, we must be prepared to act swiftly and with force. We will need to strike first, or we may risk losing everything."

Alicent's fingers pick at the skin around her nails, a small tell of the anxiety she works so hard to suppress. Aegon grips the armrests of his chair, his knuckles turning white as the weight of his brother's words sinks in. His mind races, filled with visions of dragons, armies, and the devastation that could follow a civil war. He glances toward Ser Criston, seeking the counsel of a man who has faced death and commanded men in battle.

Taking the cue, Ser Criston steps forward, his voice steady and full of conviction. "Your Grace, we must secure our position here in King's Landing before sending any word to Dragonstone. We need to consolidate our allies, ensure the loyalty of key houses, and prepare the city's defenses. In the worst-case scenario, Princess Rhaenyra will use her dragons, yes, but Your Grace will have Sunfyre, and with Dreamfyre and Vhagar added as well, we are not without our own might."

Aemond's eyes gleam with anticipation as he watches his brother. Aegon, though nodding in agreement, cannot help the furrow of his brow, the weight of his responsibilities pressing down harder with every word spoken. His gaze shifts to Lord Larys, who has remained silent until now, his unsettling presence almost forgotten in the tension of the moment.

"Lord Larys," Aegon's voice is slightly strained as he addresses the man, "what of the rest of the council members? Are they in agreement with what is to be done?"

Larys leans forward, his voice a silken whisper that seems to slither through the air. "The small council is divided, Your Grace. Some fear that Rhaenyra's claim might spark a civil war. Others see the wisdom in securing your position first. But all know that whoever sits the Iron Throne must do so with the support of the realm's most powerful lords. We should consider who might waver and what might sway them."

"I agree." Aemond says, and his agreement with Larys Strong lands like a blade sliding smoothly into its sheath,— unexpected but fitting, as if the younger Targaryen had finally acknowledged the necessity of shadows in the play of power. Aegon's eyes, sharp and inquisitive, flicker toward his brother, a question lingering in the air between them. Aemond agreeing with Larys was not something easily reconciled with Aegon's understanding of his brother, whose disdain for subtlety and manipulation was well known. Yet here it was, laid bare before the council, a new and unsettling alignment.

Alicent notices her eldest son's silent contemplation, and her face hardens imperceptibly. The lines of her worry deepen as her maternal instincts, long intertwined with the political acumen she has honed over years of courtly life, urge her to steer the conversation back into more certain waters. She cannot afford to let Aegon waver,— not now, when the realm teeters on the brink of chaos.

"House Hightower will stand with us," she begins, her voice cool but forceful, "as will the Lannisters. But there are others who might hesitate. We must bring them into the fold quickly, or we will risk them siding with Rhaenyra if allowed." Her words are not just strategy but a mother's shield, forged to protect her son from the perils of indecision.

Aemond's voice cuts through the air, sharp and resolute, "Grandfather has sent envoys to the key houses already. Now we can only hope to secure their loyalty before any word of father's death reaches Dragonstone. We cannot allow Rhaenyra to rally them to her side." His eyes narrow, his mind already racing ahead, envisioning battle lines and strategies as if the scent of war already clings to the air. His tone is fiery, yet behind it lies a chilling calm, the kind that comes to those who have embraced the inevitability of conflict.

Aegon hears his brother's words, but they mix with the cacophony of thoughts already swirling in his mind. Allies, enemies, decisions that could shatter the realm or save it,— all weigh upon him like a great millstone, grinding down his resolve. His gaze drifts to the royal decree lying on the table, its seal broken but its words still heavy with meaning. The parchment is a tangible reminder of his father's wishes, a mandate that thrusts him into a role he feels only partially prepared to assume.

His brow furrows, the perfect prince in the eyes of many, feeling the heavy hand of destiny pressing down. The conflict within him is a battle of its own,— a war between duty and doubt, between the desire to honor his father and the fear of the consequences that doing so might bring. But even as his thoughts churn, one clear desire rises above the rest: the need to prove himself worthy of the crown, to make his father proud, even if it means wading through the murky waters of treachery and bloodshed.

"The letters of the lords should arrive soon," Aegon says slowly, his voice a blend of the uncertainty he feels and the authority he is trying to claim. "But even so, I want to send a raven to Dragonstone myself in these following days. It should come from me, not just the council. Rhaenyra is my sister, and I must inform her of father's decree, and of his death… I owe her that much." His words hang in the air, heavy with the weight of familial bonds and the bitter taste of inevitable betrayal.

Aemond's expression sharpens, his eyes narrowing like a hawk spotting prey. His jaw tightens, the muscles in his face taut with the tension of held-back aggression. "And if she refuses to acknowledge you?" he asks, his voice cold and edged with the steel of impending conflict. "What then, Aegon? Will you still see her as your sister when her dragons are burning our cities?" The question is not just a hypothetical,— it is a challenge, a gauntlet thrown down between brothers, testing the limits of blood and duty.

The words echo in the chamber, filling the space between them with the possibility of fire and ruin. Aegon feels his heart pound against his ribcage, the physical manifestation of the pressure bearing down on him. The weight of the Iron Throne looms larger in his mind, pressing down on him even though he has yet to ascend its jagged steps.

Before the tension between the brothers can spiral further, Alicent steps in, her voice a balm to the growing unease. "We must hope for peace, but prepare for war," she says, each word carefully chosen to balance the love of a mother with the pragmatism of a queen. "Aegon, you will be king, and with that comes the responsibility to protect the realm, even from those we love." Her eyes, full of concern and determination, lock onto Aegon's, willing him to understand the gravity of his position.

Aegon absorbs her words, letting them settle over the storm inside him. After a long pause, he finally speaks, his voice steady, though laced with the burden of the decisions he must now make. "We will proceed as planned. Secure the city, wait for the ravens to return, and prepare for my coronation. But I will send the raven to my sister anyway, as a final resort to try and resolve this matter without the blood of the masses being spilled. Only then will we see if blood is truly thicker than the ambition that divides us."

As his voice fades, a heavy silence falls over the chamber. Each person present,— Alicent, Aemond, Ser Criston, Larys,— acknowledges his words with a nod, their thoughts hidden behind masks of stoicism or contemplation. Aegon, for the first time since his father's death, feels a flicker of control returning to him, a sense that he can guide the course of events rather than be swept away by them. Yet, beneath that growing resolve lies the gnawing fear of what might come, and the realization that in the game of thrones, there are no easy choices,— only sacrifices.

The future king leans back in his chair, his gaze lingering on the faces of those around him, knowing that the path ahead is fraught with peril, and that the crown he will soon wear comes not just with power, but with a heavy toll on the soul.

.

As the council members begin to rise, chairs scraping against stone and murmurs of quiet farewells filling the air, Aegon remains seated, his gaze fixed on the flickering candlelight before him. The flames dance in the dim chamber, casting shifting shadows across his face, their light revealing the turmoil that churns within. He watches the flames as if seeking answers in their chaotic dance, his mind heavy with the weight of the decisions made and those yet to come.

The room empties around him, the council members filtering out one by one, their footsteps echoing faintly through the Red Keep's cold halls. Aegon's thoughts swirl in the silence that follows, the stillness amplifying the doubts and fears that had been lurking in the back of his mind. The throne, the crown, the realm,— it all feels like an immense burden, pressing down on him with each passing moment. Yet, beneath that weight, a seed of determination has begun to take root, growing stronger with every breath he takes.

As the last of the council members depart, Aegon's voice breaks through the quiet, low and firm. "Mother, stay back for a moment."

Alicent, who had been silently observing her son, pausing in the threshold. Her eyes, still filled with the mix of pride she has carried throughout the meeting, narrow slightly in curiosity and concern. She steps back into the chamber, the door closing behind her with a soft thud, leaving mother and son alone in the flickering light.

She waits for him to speak, her expression gentle but alert, as she senses the gravity of the moment. Aegon, for his part, remains silent for a few heartbeats longer, as if gathering his thoughts or mustering the courage to voice them. The shadows play across his features, sharpening the lines of his face and deepening the sense of inner conflict that has haunted him since his father's death.

Finally, he turns to her, his voice carrying a weight that belies his youth. "Mother... is Rhaenys still in King's Landing?"

The question seems to catch Alicent off guard, her brows arching in mild surprise before she quickly masks it with the practiced composure of a queen. Her concern flickers briefly in her eyes, a spark that quickly dims as she shifts into the role of advisor. "She is," Alicent confirms, her tone measured, though curiosity lingers in the background. "I was considering visiting her myself, to... gauge her stance after the council. But why do you ask, Aegon?"

Aegon's eyes, now steady and resolute, meet his mother's, the flicker of doubt replaced by a new determination. The grief that had clouded his mind seems to have crystallized into something more potent,— a resolve born from the realization of what must be done. "I'll go to her," he states, his voice firm. "This is something I wish to do myself."

Alicent's concern deepens, etching lines of worry across her otherwise composed face. She knows her son well enough to recognize the change in him, the shift from boy to man that has been forced upon him far too quickly. "Aegon, are you sure? You've already endured so much today. Perhaps it would be better to wait, to... —"

But Aegon interrupts her, his voice gentle yet unwavering. "No, Mother. This is to be my duty now. I need to show Rhaenys that I am not just a boy grieving his father. If we are to win her over in any possible way, she must see that I am capable of leading, of ruling." His words carry the weight of understanding, the knowledge that to command respect, he must first prove himself worthy of it.

Alicent studies her son, her heart caught between the conflicting emotions of pride and sorrow. She sees the boy he once was, the child she nurtured and protected, and she sees the man he must become, the king he is destined to be. The transformation, though necessary, is a painful one for a mother to witness. Yet, she knows that this is the path he must walk, and that she cannot shield him from it any longer.

With a soft sigh, she nods, accepting his decision. "Very well. But you must tread carefully, Aegon. Rhaenys is a woman of great pride. Her support could be invaluable, but her scorn could be our undoing." Her voice is firm but tinged with the softness of a mother's love, the advice she offers wrapped in concern for her son's well-being.

Aegon returns her gaze, his own resolve clear and unshaken. "I understand, Mother."

Alicent steps forward, her hand rising to cup his cheek, a tender gesture that bridges the gap between the roles they play and the bond they share. Her touch is warm, grounding him in the moment, reminding him of the strength he carries within. "You are my son, Aegon. You carry the blood of the dragon. Do not let anyone make you forget that." Her words are more than encouragement,— they are a reminder of his heritage, of the fire that runs through his veins, the fire that will sustain him in the trials ahead.

Aegon closes his eyes briefly, letting the comfort of her touch and the strength of her words wash over him. When he opens them again, the flicker of doubt has been extinguished, replaced by a clear and focused resolve. The boy who hesitated is gone, and in his place stands a man ready to embrace the mantle of leadership.

"I'll take Ser Criston and Ser Hugh with me," Aegon declares, his voice steady and commanding. "I must go now, before too much time has passed."

Alicent watches him, a mix of emotions swirling in her chest. Pride, sorrow, love, and fear all vie for dominance, but she does not let them show. Instead, she nods, her expression softening with a mother's unwavering support. "Then go, Aegon. Show her the strength of our blood."

With one last look at his mother, Aegon rises from his seat, the flickering candlelight casting his shadow long across the chamber walls. He straightens his back, his movements deliberate and purposeful as he steps away from the table, leaving behind the flickering light and the shadows of doubt. His path is clear now, illuminated by the fire within and the duty he has accepted.

As he leaves the chamber, the door closing softly behind him, Alicent remains where she stands, her hand slowly lowering from where it had rested on her son's cheek. She stares at the closed door for a moment longer, the flickering candlelight reflecting in her eyes as she contemplates the future that lies ahead for her son,— and for the realm.

In that quiet, solitary moment, she prays for his success, for the strength of the dragon to carry him through the trials to come. And as the light of the candles continues to flicker, she steels herself for the role she must continue to play,— the role of a queen, a mother, and the guiding hand behind the future king.

.

As Aegon exits the chamber, the cool, dimly lit corridors of the Red Keep stretch out before him. Ser Hugh and Ser Criston Cole stand at attention, their faces impassive yet vigilant, the soft clinking of their armor the only sound breaking the silence. They fall in step behind Aegon without a word, their presence a silent reminder of the gravity of the moment.

Aegon's voice is calm but firm as he addresses them. "We're going to see Princess Rhaenys. I'll need both of you by my side."

Criston gives a sharp nod, his eyes narrowing with a clear understanding of the weight of this visit. Beside him, Ser Hugh, with his years of experience and measured demeanor, bows slightly, his expression inscrutable yet respectful.

"As you command, Your Grace," they reply in unison. The title hangs in the air, the respect due to a king yet to be crowned. To Aegon, it is more than just a formality; it is a reminder of the path he is now on, a path from which there is no turning back.

The trio moves through the corridors, the flickering torchlight casting long shadows on the walls, echoing the shadow of doubt that lingers in Aegon's heart. The castle, usually bustling with activity, seems eerily quiet, as if it too holds its breath in anticipation of what is to come.

Finally, they arrive at the door to Rhaenys's quarters, guarded by two knights bearing the sigil of House Targaryen. The knights exchange a brief glance before one steps aside, allowing Aegon and his escorts to pass. The heavy door creaks open, revealing the warm glow of lanterns within.

Inside, Rhaenys stands by the window, her silhouette framed against the twilight sky. She does not turn immediately, her posture regal and still, as if she has sensed their approach long before they arrived. The room is quiet, the air thick with the tension of unspoken words.

When Rhaenys finally turns to face them, her gaze is sharp, her eyes like twin blades as they assess the young prince before her. Her presence fills the room, commanding respect with the ease of one who has weathered many storms. "To what do I owe this visit, Prince Aegon?" she asks, her voice carrying the authority of a woman who has seen much and survived more. There is a subtle challenge in her tone, as if daring him to prove himself worthy of her time.

Aegon steps forward, his heart pounding beneath the weight of her scrutiny, yet he refuses to let any hesitation show. "I've come to speak with you, Princess Rhaenys," he begins, his voice even and measured. "As the future King, I would like to discuss what role you might play in the realm under my reign."

Rhaenys raises an eyebrow, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her lips. There is a hint of amusement in her eyes, but it is tempered by something darker, a deep-seated wariness. "Your reign, is it?" Her words are light, but the underlying message is clear,— she does not yet see him as her king. Aegon meets her gaze, unflinching, and nods slowly.

"Yes. I intend to honor my father's wishes. But I know the importance of alliances, of family. That is why I'm here." His words are steady, though he feels the weight of her piercing gaze as if she is peeling back the layers of his resolve, searching for any sign of weakness.

Rhaenys studies him for a moment, the room thick with silence as she weighs his words against her own judgments. Aegon feels her scrutiny like a physical presence, pressing down on him, but he stands firm, refusing to let the pressure crack his resolve.

Finally, she speaks, her voice measured, her tone still carrying the authority of her station. "And what do you seek from me, Aegon?"

Aegon takes a deep breath, his resolve hardening as he reaches into his tunic, pulling out the letter bearing the royal decree. He steps forward, handing it to Rhaenys with a steady hand. "Your support," he says, his voice strong, laced with both determination and a quiet plea. "Not just for the sake of power, but to keep the realm from tearing itself apart. We cannot afford a war of succession. I want to build something better, something stronger. But I cannot do it without you,— rather, I could, but I do not want to."

The room falls into a heavy silence as Rhaenys accepts the letter, though she does not immediately open it. Instead, she turns back to the window, her gaze drifting over the darkening sky. Aegon watches her, his heart in his throat, waiting for any sign that his words have reached her.

Rhaenys speaks at last, her voice soft, almost reflective, tinged with a sadness that Aegon cannot ignore. "You speak of avoiding war, yet you know as well as I do that such words are often lost in the winds of ambition." Her tone is not accusatory, but resigned, as if she has seen this play out before, as if she knows how easily dreams of peace can be shattered.

Aegon takes a step closer, his voice softening, becoming more earnest. "Perhaps. But I would rather try and fail than not try at all."

Rhaenys remains silent for a long moment, her back to him, her posture as unyielding as the walls of the Red Keep. Aegon feels the seconds stretch into an eternity, the tension in the room almost suffocating. When she finally turns to face him again, her expression is unreadable, her gaze as sharp as ever.

"I have seen too many Targaryens fall to ambition. Too many who thought themselves destined for greatness, only to be consumed by it." Her voice is quiet, carrying the weight of history, of losses that have shaped her. "But I will hear you out, Aegon. If you can prove to me that your words are more than just promises, then perhaps we can find common ground."

Aegon feels a surge of relief, though he does not let it show. Instead, he offers a small, respectful nod, the hint of a smile touching his lips. "Thank you, Princess Rhaenys. That is all I ask of you."

The tension in the room eases, if only slightly, as Aegon steps back, giving her the space she needs. The soft glow of the lanterns flickers in the silence that follows, casting long shadows on the walls, but for the first time that evening, Aegon feels a glimmer of hope, however faint, that perhaps, just perhaps, he might be able to navigate the storm that lies ahead.

.

The heavy oak door closes behind Aegon with a soft thud, sealing the room and its uncertain outcome behind him. The corridor beyond is dimly lit, the torches along the walls casting flickering shadows that dance and twist with each step he takes. Ser Hugh and Ser Criston Cole follow closely behind, their armor clinking rhythmically, a constant, grounding presence in the vast emptiness of the Red Keep.

The silence that follows the meeting with Rhaenys weighs heavily on Aegon's mind, the echoes of their conversation still reverberating within him. The cautious optimism that lingered at the end of their discussion is a fragile thing, delicate and easily shattered by the harsh realities of the political game he has only just begun to play. Yet, as they walk, that flicker of hope stubbornly persists, a small, steady flame amidst the darkness.

Aegon's thoughts swirl in a storm of what-ifs and uncertainties. He had stood before Rhaenys with resolve, yet now, with each step farther from her chamber, the enormity of his task begins to settle onto his shoulders. His father's wishes, the fragile state of the realm, the looming threat of civil war,— all of it presses down on him like a weight he is still unsure he can bear.

As they turn down another corridor, Aegon's pace slows, his gaze drifting to the floor. The flicker of hope he felt just moments ago battles with the deeper, more insidious doubts that claw at his resolve. He knows this is just the beginning. Rhaenys may have agreed to listen, but there are countless others who will not be so easily swayed. And beyond them, the literal battles that may soon unfold,— a sea of fire and blood that could consume everything if he falters.

His voice, low and almost to himself, breaks the silence. "I will be the king my father wanted me to be." The words are a declaration, but there is a hint of uncertainty beneath them, as if he needs to hear them aloud to believe them. "And I will not let the realm fall into chaos, no matter what it takes."

Ser Criston glances at Aegon, his expression unreadable, though his eyes hold a trace of concern. The words Aegon speaks carry a weight that Criston recognizes, the burden of a crown not yet worn but already felt. Ser Hugh remains silent, his presence stoic, but the tension in his posture betrays a shared understanding of the path ahead.

Aegon feels their eyes on him, and for a moment, he pauses in the corridor, turning to face the two knights who have sworn to protect him. The flickering torchlight catches in his eyes, highlighting the storm of emotions brewing within him,— determination, fear, resolve, and doubt, all fighting for dominance. But beneath it all, there is a quiet, burgeoning strength, a fire slowly kindling in the depths of his soul.

"I cannot fail," he continues, his voice steadier now, as if the act of speaking his fears is slowly transforming them into something more solid, something he can wield rather than be consumed by. "If I do, the realm will burn, and it will be my fault. I will not allow that to happen."

Ser Criston steps forward, his voice firm but respectful. "Your Grace, the burden of the crown is heavy, but it is one you are capable of bearing. You have the strength of your father within you, and the wisdom of those who came before. Trust in that, and in the loyalty of those who follow you."

Aegon looks into Criston's eyes, seeing the unwavering loyalty there, the belief that he is more than just a boy thrust into the role of a king. He is reminded that he is not alone in this, that there are those who will stand by him, fight for him, and with him. It is a small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.

He nods, his gaze shifting to Ser Hugh, who gives him a solemn, encouraging nod in return. "We are with you, Your Grace," Ser Hugh adds, his voice calm and assured. "We will face whatever comes, together."

Aegon draws in a deep breath, the air filling his lungs with a renewed sense of purpose. The doubts that had plagued him moments ago still linger, but they no longer feel insurmountable. The path ahead is indeed fraught with danger, but he is not walking it alone.

As they resume their walk through the corridors of the Red Keep, Aegon straightens his shoulders, his pace more assured. The flicker of hope within him grows stronger, burning away the shadows of doubt. He knows now that the road will be long, and the trials many, but he is determined to face them head-on.

The words he spoke to himself earlier take on a new weight, a new meaning, as they echo in his mind. *I will be the king my father wanted me to be. I will not let the realm fall into chaos, no matter what it takes.*

And with each step, he moves closer to the man he must become,— the king he must become, not just for himself, but for the realm that now depends on him.

.

.

.

... Change to Dragonstone:

.

.

.

The Great Hall of Dragonstone loomed like a fortress of old, its dark stone walls echoing with the whispers of ancient dragons. The air inside was thick with the scent of salt from the surrounding seas, a constant reminder of the turbulent waters that encircled the island fortress. Shadows danced on the towering pillars, carved with the fierce likenesses of dragons, as the flames in the massive hearth roared with an almost unnatural fervor. The dim light, provided by a few scattered torches, barely pierced the gloom, making the hall feel more like a tomb than a seat of power.

Rhaenyra Targaryen sat at the head of a long, dark table, her hands folded so tightly before her that her knuckles shone white. She stared into the flames, the fire's reflection flickering in her violet eyes, betraying the storm of emotions raging beneath her composed exterior. Her father's death had left a wound that was still raw, and the pain of it threatened to spill over into fury. She fought to keep it in check, knowing that her next steps would determine not just her future, but the fate of the entire realm.

Near the hearth, Daemon Targaryen stood like a sentinel, one hand resting on the hilt of Dark Sister, the ancient Valyrian steel sword that had tasted the blood of countless enemies. His other hand traced idle patterns in the air, though his mind was far from idle. He was already plotting, planning their next move, his thoughts a web of strategies and counter-strategies, all leading to the same end: securing the Iron Throne for Rhaenyra, by fire and blood if necessary.

Jacaerys Velaryon, their son, paced the length of the hall with the restless energy of youth, his footsteps echoing against the cold stone floor. His face was tense, his body coiled with the anticipation of battle, but his eyes held a flicker of something deeper,— a fear that the world as he knew it was about to be torn apart.

The news had come from a spy in King's Landing, one of Daemon's men, who had risked everything to bring word of King Viserys' death to Dragonstone. The room had been plunged into a heavy silence as they absorbed the loss of their patriarch, each grappling with their grief in their own way. But now, as the silence stretched on, it was broken by the shrill call of a raven from the keep's heights, a harbinger of further upheaval.

A servant entered the hall with the reverence due to the royalty before him, cradling a sealed letter in his hands. The black wax bore the unmistakable sigil of House Targaryen,— a three-headed dragon with golden eyes, fierce and proud. He approached Rhaenyra with a bowed head, presenting the letter as if it were a fragile relic.

"From King's Landing?" Rhaenyra's voice was steady, but Daemon, standing close, could detect the slight tremor of unease beneath it.

The servant nodded, keeping his gaze low. "Yes, Princess. It bears the seal of Prince Aegon."

At the mention of her half-brother, Rhaenyra's hand trembled slightly as she took the letter. She glanced at Daemon, who returned her look with a nod. His expression was inscrutable, a mask of calm that hid the storm brewing beneath. With a deep breath, Rhaenyra broke the seal and unfolded the parchment, her heart pounding with a mix of dread and determination.

The words on the page blurred for a moment, her vision swimming as she forced herself to focus. She began to read aloud, her voice carefully controlled, though each word seemed to tighten the tension in the room like a drawn bowstring.

"To my beloved sister, Princess Rhaenyra, I write to you in the wake of our father's passing..."

Her voice faltered slightly at the mention of their father, the wound still too fresh, but she pressed on. "...I know that this news will grieve you as it has grieved me. But in his final moments, our father left a will, naming me as his rightful heir. I send this letter not to provoke, but to inform and plead. I do not seek conflict, dear sister, I only seek your presence by my side, to confirm the veracity of his decree with me. I have spent my time grieving, and my head still can't think straight, yet my advisors say that I should inform you that should you refuse to acknowledge father's will,— my claim..."

The next words caught in her throat, a sharp sting of betrayal threatening to overwhelm her. She felt Daemon step closer, his presence a solid, unwavering force beside her, grounding her in the reality of the situation.

Daemon's voice cut through the silence like a blade, cold and edged with contempt. "Should you refuse, what? Will he challenge you to a duel? Claim the Iron Throne with nothing more than his mother's whispers and a boy's bravado?"

Jacaerys had stopped pacing, his young face flushed with anger, his fists clenched at his sides. He held his tongue, though, waiting for his mother to finish reading, his heart pounding with a mix of fear and fury.

Rhaenyra's brow furrowed in exasperation as she forced herself to continue. "...should you refuse to acknowledge my claim, I fear that we will be forced onto a path that neither of us truly desire. The realm cannot suffer the wounds of a civil war, sister, but the Iron Throne must have an owner, and father named me his. I implore you to believe my words, and come to verify the decree he left me. I sincerely hope you will see reason, dear sister. Signed, Aegon Targaryen."

The letter dropped slowly from her hand, her eyes narrowing as she stared at the words, as if willing them to change, to reveal the truth she already knew in her heart. The flames in the hearth seemed to dim for a moment, as if the very air in the room had grown heavier with the weight of what had just been read.

Daemon's laugh was sharp and bitter, echoing off the cold stone walls. He moved to stand behind Rhaenyra, his hands settling on her shoulders, possessive and firm. "Reason? He speaks of reason while he steals your birthright? This is no plea for peace, Rhaenyra. It's a declaration of war, dressed up in pretty words." His grip tightened as he released her and began to pace, his mind already racing with plans, strategies, and the scent of blood in the air.

His voice grew darker, edged with the promise of violence. "Aegon is a fool if he thinks we will bend the knee to a lie. My brother? Naming him heir? What a joke. But we must not underestimate him. He has Sunfyre, Dreamfyre, and Vhagar, and they will surely try to rally the lords of the realm to his side with promises of gold and power."

Jacaerys, still standing at a distance, finally spoke, his voice strained but filled with a quiet resolve. "Mother, what will we do? We cannot allow this... this usurper to sit on the throne that is rightfully yours." He stepped closer, his youthful face twisted with a mix of fear and anger. "But if we go to war... if we unleash the dragons... so many will die. What if there's another way?"

Rhaenyra looked at her son, her heart aching at the sight of his uncertainty. In that moment, she saw the boy he still was, the man he was becoming, and the weight of the world that was already beginning to crush him. She reached out, pulling him into a brief but fierce embrace, whispering softly in his ear. "I do not believe that my father would betray me like this. This is a ploy to make me step down from the Iron Throne without resistance. A throne that is ours by right, and we must defend it. But we will do so carefully, wisely. We must gather our allies, strengthen our position."

Daemon, never one to linger on emotions, moved to the war table at the far end of the hall. He unfurled a map of Westeros, his finger tracing the lines of the coast as he spoke, his mind already calculating the odds, the potential moves and countermoves.

"We hold Dragonstone, Driftmark, and the loyalty of the Velaryons. We must send word to our bannermen, call them to arms. House Stark will surely honor their oath, as will the Arryns. And we have Caraxes, Syrax, Meleys... and many more dragons than they do."

Rhaenyra joined him at the table, her eyes scanning the map with the practiced eye of a ruler born. Her hand rested on Dragonstone, then moved slowly to King's Landing. "We shall not strike first, Daemon. Let us try to reason with Aegon, and only begin a war if he makes the first move. We will prepare, gather our forces, and ensure that when the time comes, we are ready. But I will not be the one to spill the first blood."

Daemon's jaw tightened, a muscle twitching with barely suppressed frustration, but he nodded, albeit reluctantly. He knew better than to argue with her when she had made up her mind, though his every instinct screamed for immediate action. "Very well. But we must be swift. Aegon will not wait long before trying to solidify his claim. We should send ravens tonight. Jacaerys, you will go to Winterfell. Show them you are ready to lead, to fight if necessary."

Jacaerys straightened his spine, feeling the weight of the world settling onto his young shoulders. The mantle of responsibility, heavy and unrelenting, draped over him like a cloak of iron. "I will," he vowed, his voice steady but tinged with the gravity of the task ahead. His heart pounded in his chest, but his face betrayed none of the turmoil within. He had been trained for this, raised with the knowledge that one day he would have to bear the burdens of his lineage. But knowing did little to lighten the load.

Rhaenyra's gaze lingered on her son for a moment, a silent prayer in her eyes that he might return to her, safe and victorious. With a sigh, she returned to her seat, her fingers gripping the letter from Aegon so tightly that the parchment crumpled beneath her touch. The words were seared into her mind, the bitter taste of betrayal clinging to every syllable. She stared into the fire, the flames reflected in her violet eyes as if they were a portal into the future,— a future she was determined to shape with her own hands.

The fire crackled and hissed, throwing shadows against the cold stone walls, but Rhaenyra was oblivious to everything but the resolve hardening within her. Her voice, when it came, was a low murmur, barely audible over the roar of the flames. "If Aegon wants the crown, he will have to pry it from my hands. I will not be made a traitor in my own home." Each word was laced with steel, a vow as unbreakable as Valyrian steel.

Daemon, who had been watching her in silence, felt a surge of pride mixed with a darker thrill. His lips curled into a wolfish grin, a flash of teeth that spoke of the predator within. He had always known there was fire in her, a fire that could rival any dragon. And now, as he saw the flames of determination blazing in her eyes, he knew that the game was about to begin in earnest. "Then let the games begin," he purred, his voice dripping with anticipation. War had always been his domain, and now it called to him like a siren's song.

Jacaerys, standing by the door, hesitated for a brief moment, casting one last look at his mother. The sight of her, resolute and unyielding, filled him with a mixture of admiration and fear. He had never seen her so fierce, so ready to embrace the storm that was coming. But he knew he could not linger. With a final nod, he turned and left, the door closing behind him with a heavy thud that echoed in the hall like the tolling of a bell.

The silence that followed was thick, laden with the weight of what had just been set in motion. Rhaenyra rose from her seat, the letter still clutched in her hand, now crumpled and worn. She moved to the window that overlooked the sea, the cold wind whipping against the stone as if the very elements were trying to warn her of the tempest ahead. But she stood firm, her gaze fixed on the horizon where the sky met the water, her thoughts reaching out to the father she had lost.

The winds of change howled outside, their mournful cries mingling with the crash of the waves against the cliffs of Dragonstone. But Rhaenyra was unyielding, as unmovable as the ancient keep itself. Her voice, when it came, was a whisper carried on the wind, a plea and a promise all at once. "Father, guide me. I will not fail you. I will not fail our house." The words hung in the air, a silent vow to the dead and the living, to all those who would rise and fall in the coming struggle.

Behind her, Daemon watched with a gaze that was both calculating and protective. He saw in her the fierce determination that had first drawn him to her, the unbreakable will of a Targaryen who would not be denied. The wolfish grin lingered on his lips as he too turned to face the future, a future that would be written in fire and blood.

For a long moment, Rhaenyra stood there, her hand resting on the cold stone of the window ledge, feeling the chill seep into her bones. But she did not shiver, did not falter. She was a queen, a dragon, and her destiny awaited her beyond the storm.

The fire in the hearth blazed on, its flames a reflection of the fierce spirit that burned within her. And as the night deepened, the winds of change howled louder, but inside the Great Hall of Dragonstone, Rhaenyra Targaryen stood resolute, unyielding, and ready for the battle to come.

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

| Author's Ending Note: I have been really tired thanks to some stuff that I have been doing lately, so I can only hope there are no plot holes in this long chapter. If there is, please tell me in the comments. I am in no way an experienced writter, and I may make mistakes. After all, I write this as a hobby, and nothing more. |