Chapter 37 Weight

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Chapter Thirty-Seven: The Weight of a Crown

The candlelight flickered across the polished oak table, casting long shadows against the stone walls of Lord Monford Velaryon's solar. The air carried the scent of parchment, salt, and aged wood—a scent that reminded Rhaella of meetings long past, of whispered conversations in the Red Keep, of nights spent planning for a future that had never come.

Now, here she sat once more, but not in a grand castle of Targaryen rule. Not in the halls of her ancestors. She was a queen without a throne, a mother without a kingdom, waiting for a future that felt both closer and impossibly far away.

Across from her, Lord Monford Velaryon sat in silence, fingers lightly tapping the armrest of his chair. His younger brother, Aurane, leaned casually against the wall, though his sharp eyes revealed that he was just as invested in the conversation.

Behind Rhaella stood Ser Arthur Dayne, ever watchful, ever silent.

They were waiting for Archmaester Marwyn.

But Rhaella had learned to read men long ago, and Monford's thoughts were not on Marwyn.

She had seen the flicker of recognition in his face when Jon Snow had appeared in the glass candle's flame. She had seen the calculations turning in his mind, the way his jaw had tightened ever so slightly, the way his hands had curled into fists before he forced them to relax.

She knew what he was thinking.

"You recognized him," Rhaella said, breaking the silence.

Monford blinked, as if pulled from his thoughts. He hesitated, then nodded.

"I did," he admitted. "I had heard tales of Ned Stark's bastard. A boy wiser than his years, gifted with bow and blade, a commander even before he was of age. But when I saw him…" Monford exhaled, his lips curving slightly. "It was as if I were looking at Rhaegar in his youth."

The room was still.

Finally, Monford spoke again, his voice quieter. "He is Rhaegar's son, isn't he?"

Rhaella met his gaze, then nodded. "Yes."

Aurane let out a quiet breath, but Monford only leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable.

After a moment, he asked, "Is he true?"

It was Ser Arthur who answered, his voice firm and unwavering. "His true name is Daeron Targaryen." He stepped forward slightly, his presence commanding as ever. "I was there, as were others, when Prince Rhaegar wed Lyanna Stark before a heart tree. They were wed in the customs of both the old gods and the new. A Septon stood as witness. By all laws of gods and men, Jon Snow is no bastard—he is Rhaegar's heir."

Monford closed his eyes for a brief moment, processing the weight of those words.

When he opened them again, a slow smile spread across his face. "Then we may yet have a future, Your Grace."

Rhaella said nothing, waiting for him to explain.

Monford leaned forward. "Ned Stark raised him as his own. And from what I have heard, he thinks of Jon as a son. That means the entire North will stand behind him when the time comes." He tapped his fingers against the table. "And if the North stands, the Riverlands will follow. Hoster Tully is an old man, and his son Edmure has always leaned toward his Stark kin. We will have two regions on our side."

He gestured toward Aurane. "Many houses in the Crownlands still hold secret loyalties to House Targaryen, despite the years under Robert's rule. If they see a strong claimant, one raised by the Warden of the North himself, they may rise as well. That would make three regions."

Rhaella nodded but did not speak.

Monford continued, his voice gaining momentum. "Dorne will never support the Iron Throne as it stands. They have not forgotten what happened to Elia, nor the betrayal of her children. If they see that Jon carries not only Rhaegar's blood but the Stark name as well, they may rally to him. That would give us four regions, or Dorne and Vale would remain neutral, the odds shift in our favor."

Aurane grinned. "That only leaves the Westerlands, the Stormlands, and the Reach. And if we could gain the Reach…"

Monford nodded. "If we wed Jon to Margaery Tyrell, the Reach would be ours. And with the Reach, we would have the winning hand before the war even begins."

The words hung in the air like a lingering shadow.

Rhaella felt her hands tighten in her lap.

"No."

The word was simple, but firm.

Monford blinked. "Your Grace, if we—"

"I will not put a crown on Mace Tyrell's daughter," Rhaella cut him off, her voice cold. "Not after what he did."

Monford frowned. "Mace did nothing against House Targaryen directly—"

"He did nothing," Rhaella snapped, the rare heat of her anger breaking through. "While my son fought and died for his kingdom, Mace Tyrell feasted in front of Storm's End like a glutton. He let children starve rather than lift a finger to fight the war he was meant to win. And when Robert took the throne, he bent the knee as if he had never called himself Rhaegar's ally."

Her voice turned cold. "I will not reward such incompetence."

Monford hesitated, then slowly nodded. "Forgive me, Your Grace. You are right."

Rhaella exhaled, steadying herself. "The Reach may be powerful, but they are not the key to this war. The North is. And Jon will have them behind him."

Monford studied her for a long moment, then smiled. "Then perhaps we already do have the winning hand."

Before Rhaella could respond, there was a knock at the door.

Everyone turned as the heavy wooden doors creaked open.

Archmaester Marwyn entered, his dark robes swaying as he stepped inside, his expression unreadable.

His acolyte, Alleras, followed closely behind, carrying a leather-bound book under one arm.

Marwyn's sharp eyes swept over the room, lingering briefly on Rhaella before he gave a small, knowing smile.

"My apologies for the delay, Your Grace," he said smoothly. "Shall we begin?"

Rhaella sat back in her chair, folding her hands in her lap.

She met Marwyn's gaze, steady and unyielding.

"Yes," she said. "Let us begin."