ages of the characters appearing in this chapter:

Rhaenyra ~ 16 (going on 17)

Laenor ~ 20

Laena ~ 22

Vizzy ~ 37

Crispin ~ 21

Joffrey ~ 22

Melina Strong ~ 22

Roslin Strong ~ 20

Elinda Massey ~ 18 (going on 19)

Margaret Arryn ~ 16

Alicent ~ 25 (going on 26)

Lyonel Strong ~ 44

Jason Lannister ~ 32

Daemon ~ 33

Rhaenys ~ 40

Corlys ~ 61

Harwin ~ 25

Maester Mellos ~ 52

A fortnight was spent in preparation, with the castle bustling day and night to perfect the decorations, provisions, and the finest gown for the bride. Lords and ladies of every notable house had begun to arrive, eager to witness the spectacles that would unfold. Seven days of tourneys and feasts were to mark the occasion. 'It shall be plenty,' declared King Viserys to a high steward, who had taken charge of overseeing the celebration's arrangements.

Meanwhile, Princess Rhaenyra dedicated these days to readying herself in both mind and body. Most hours she spent among her ladies-in-waiting, deliberating over which hairstyle might best complement her on the grand day. Her ladies braided her silver-gold tresses into countless intricate patterns - each one met with Rhaenyra's sharp critique.

"No... this will not do. Too plain for my liking," she announced after her young cousin, Margaret Arryn, completed yet another attempt.

"But it suits the dress perfectly, Rhaenyra! And the jewels!" Margaret insisted, positioning the mirror to offer a better view.

The other ladies crowded near, eager to inspect. Two delicate strands framed the Princess's face, while four braids wound back into a bun, the rest of her hair flowing freely down her back.

"Do you not agree?" Margaret asked, seeking the opinions of the Strong sisters and Elinda Massey.

"I must confess, it is quite becoming," said Elinda, running a gentle hand over the braids. "Yet it does not befit a wedding day. Princess can surely aim higher."

"It might serve well enough for one of the lesser feasts," Melina Strong sighed, reclining in her chair without care for how her blue gown creased.

"I agree with my sister," Roslin Strong added, settling onto the edge of Rhaenyra's bed. "I have seen Lady Catelyn of House Algood - her braids are the finest I've ever laid eyes upon. Perhaps she could be persuaded to share her secrets."

Rhaenyra rose from her seat with a thoughtful nod. "I shall consider it and return to the matter later. For now, why do we not inspect the castle halls and see what has been wrought of the decorations? And afterward, perhaps, we might visit Syrax in her pit."

Margaret set down the brush and lit up with curiosity. "Do you think she would ever allow us to ride with you upon her back?"

"I cannot say," Rhaenyra replied with a small smile. "But let us not give up hope. She nearly let Elinda touch her nose last time, did she not? Perhaps someday."

With that, the Princess led her ladies through the Red Keep, where banners of crimson and azure hung in splendor, signifying the union of House Targaryen and House Velaryon. Their path brought them past the Queen, who stood conversing with the Hand of the King. Lord Lyonel Strong appeared none too pleased by the exchange, but upon spotting Rhaenyra, he seized the opportunity to redirect Alicent's attention.

"Princess!" he called, his smile apologetic.

Alicent turned, her expression shifting to one of forced warmth, though the tension in her jaw betrayed her true feelings. "Princess Rhaenyra," she said, her tone clipped. "What a surprise to see you roaming the halls. I had thought you occupied with preparations for your nuptials. But of course, you are such young soul, filled with all the lightheartedness. Enjoy it, while you may, before the weight of duty makes itself known."

Her words dripped with venom veiled in civility, but Rhaenyra met them without flinching, stepping forward to close the distance between herself and her stepmother. Her ladies followed, dipping their heads in a slight bow. The Princess noticed Lord Strong fleeing the Throne Room, probably thanking the Gods for sending him Rhaenyra to save him from the Queen's presence.

"Your Grace," Rhaenyra replied, her voice laced with mock sweetness. "I do hope that was not meant as an insult on my father's behalf. After all, he is a wonderful husband, as a king must be. Is he not?"

Alicent's smile faltered, as she swallowed her pride. "Indeed," she said tightly. "King Viserys is a most excellent husband."

"I am pleased to hear it," Rhaenyra said, her gaze wandering about the chamber. "The decorations are quite beautiful, are they not?"

"I oversaw the arrangements myself," Alicent replied, clearly angling for recognition.

"How fortunate that my father chose you above all others to stand by his side," Rhaenyra said, her tone saccharine. "There were so many worthy brides across the Seven Kingdoms, yet he settled upon you. How... charming."

Alicent's nails dug into her palms, as she struggled to maintain composure. She adjusted the seven-pointed star at her throat before speaking through gritted teeth. "If you'll excuse me, I must attend to my son."

"Of course," Rhaenyra replied with an impeccable bow. "May you reach him safely, Your Grace."

They watched the Queen retreat, her dignity visibly wounded. As soon, as Alicent was out of earshot, Margaret burst into laughter.

"By the Seven, cousin, you are relentless! You tore through her pride with naught but words!" She clapped Rhaenyra on the back. "A truly remarkable display."

"Oh, that was but a trifle," Rhaenyra said with a sly smile. "You should have seen the time I put her in her place before the Small Council." She linked arms with two of her ladies and motioned for the others to follow. "Come, let us see whether Syrax is in a mood to entertain us today."

*

The days of preparation had passed, and at last, the time for celebration had come. Guests from across the Realm had gathered in the Red Keep, their numbers so great it felt as though the castle itself might burst. The press of bodies and endless commotion made Rhaenyra's head throb. The Velaryons had arrived in splendor - Laena, Laenor, and their mother upon their dragons, while Lord Corlys, ever the Sea Snake, had taken his ship and arrived days earlier.

Despite the throng of visitors, Rhaenyra had not yet laid eyes upon her betrothed. She was too consumed by the relentless demands of presenting herself as the embodiment of her title: The Realm's Delight. Though the Princess's handmaids flitted about her in a flurry of silks and jewels, Laena Velaryon had come to visit, determined to lend her aid in the preparations.

"You are utterly radiant, cousin," Laena declared, one hand pressed to her chest, as though breath had been stolen from her lungs. "If my brother were... well, more inclined toward us women, he might very well lose his wits over that dress!" she added with a sly grin, her voice dropping conspiratorially once the handmaids had been dismissed.

"You flatter me, Laena," Rhaenyra said, turning from the mirror to face her cousin. "But it is you, who shall have a crowd of lords at your feet this evening, each one vying for your favor." She cast an appraising look over Laena, her smile one of admiration.

"I shall enjoy it, while the dancing lasts," Laena replied with a shrug. "But as for their proposals, I will refuse them all, one after another."

"You are a cruel woman," Rhaenyra teased, a smirk tugging at her lips.

"What can I say? It is simply my nature," Laena replied, leaning lazily against the carved bedpost.

"Do your parents not press you to marry?" Rhaenyra asked, her curiosity genuine. "You are twenty and two, well past the age most women are wed."

Laena shook her head, the pearls woven into her braids catching the light. "Not truly. My father has mentioned it, but never as a pressing matter. In his eyes, Laenor's inheritance of Driftmark takes precedence. Even though I am elder, the matter of succession rests with him and his future heirs. Father places his trust in Laenor for such things, not me."

She paused, stepping closer to her cousin.

"Still, I do hope my brother finds some measure of happiness by your side - whether or not he finds it in your bed."

The remark stung more, than Rhaenyra cared to admit, though it spoke to truths she had already resigned herself to. She took Laena's hands, her grip firm.

"If you fear I shall make bastards of your nephews, rest assured, I will not," Rhaenyra said solemnly. "Laenor and I will do, what we must to produce heirs with silver-white hair, heirs to secure my claim. It is fragile enough as it is, for I was not born a man. Were I to sully our families' bloodlines with bastards, it would be my undoing."

Laena's eyes widened in surprise. "You... you mean to bring my brother to your bed?"

"I shall try," Rhaenyra admitted, releasing Laena's hands. "Laenor and I have devised a plan - he will take his lover as he pleases, and when the moment is right, I shall join them. Together, we shall see it done. I can only hope it proves fruitful."

Laena studied her for a moment, then laughed lightly. "I wish you all the luck the Gods might bestow, cousin - or should I call you good sister?" She adjusted the necklace draped about Rhaenyra's neck with a fond smile.

"And now we shall be bound closer than ever," Rhaenyra said, the thought bringing a faint smile to her lips. She embraced Laena, holding her cousin tightly, as she steeled herself for the feast to come. In just an hour, she would stand before the court, presenting herself in all her splendor as the bride-to-be.

*

Rhaenyra sat behind the high table, surveying the sea of guests, who had gathered to witness the union between her and Ser Laenor Velaryon. The hall echoed with the sounds of merriment - laughter, clinking goblets, and the steady hum of conversation, as lords and ladies partook of the lavish feast prepared for the occasion. Yet, for the Princess, there was little reprieve; the endless stream of congratulations felt more a burden than joy.

Congratulations, Princess, you shall make a most wonderful wife.

Congratulations, Princess, you are radiant.

Congratulations, Princess, Lord Laenor must be brimming with pride to claim you as his betrothed.

On and on it went, the same hollow words wrapped in different voices. Rhaenyra smiled where she must and nodded where she could, but inwardly, her patience waned. And then, as if the Gods themselves sought to test her limits, the Lannisters arrived.

"House Lannister, with their lord, Jason Lannister, Lord Paramount of the West and Master of Casterly Rock," Ser Harrold Westerling announced from the door.

The Lannisters strode forth, golden lions resplendent in their crimson attire, their every step calculated for spectacle. They bowed with exaggerated grace before the royal table, a display of etiquette so practiced it verged on mockery. Rhaenyra could not resist the urge to roll her eyes. Of all men, Jason Lannister was the one she could scarcely stomach, his arrogance as suffocating, as the perfume he seemed to bathe in.

"Congratulations, Your Grace," Lord Jason began, directing his words to King Viserys. "You have made a fine match for the Princess."

With his family finding their seats, Jason lingered, puffing himself up like a peacock. He looked even prouder than the last time they'd spoken, which Rhaenyra had thought impossible.

"Thank you, Lord Jason," Rhaenyra replied, her voice cool, but polite. "I could think of no better man than Ser Laenor." Her eyes flicked to her father, ensuring he understood the true intent of her words - that no man, least of all Jason Lannister, could supplant her betrothed. Thank the Gods he settled for another bride four years past, so he was just bitter, not trying to win over her favour.

Jason scoffed, a faint sound of disbelief that might as well have been a declaration of his own opinion. Rhaenyra chose to ignore it, granting him the mercy of her silence.

"Well," he said, attempting to recover his charm, "if this is only the welcome feast, I admit, I cannot imagine what you might have planned for the wedding."

"My daughter is the future Queen," Viserys interjected, pride warming his tone. He smiled at Rhaenyra, and she returned it with one of her own. "I wanted this to be a wedding for the histories."

"Indeed," Jason replied, though his eyes gleamed with calculation. "And where is the Queen? I had hoped to pay my respects."

"I understand the Queen is still readying herself for the celebrations," the King replied, his tone slightly stiff, as if uncomfortable with the truth of it.

"This is why men wage war," Jason remarked, laughing at his own wit. "Because women would never be ready for the battle in time."

Rhaenyra's lips parted in disbelief, though she quickly masked her reaction. The gall of the man, to jest so crassly before the King and Princess. Her tone, when she finally spoke, was frosted with disdain.

"Your presence is always such a pleasure, Lord Jason," she said with a thin smile that carried no warmth.

Sensing her displeasure, Jason wisely decided to retreat. "Princess. Your Grace," he said, bowing deeply, before taking his leave to join his family.

Rhaenyra exchanged a look with her father, both of them united in their distaste for the Lord of Casterly Rock. For once, they were in agreement.

The Hightowers had begun to approach the royal table, when Ser Gerold Royce stepped forward ahead of them, his grim expression parting the crowd. The Hightowers paused, evidently displeased, but refrained from objecting.

"Your Grace. Princess Rhaenyra," Ser Gerold began, his tone measured and somber. "Congratulations are in order."

"We are very honored to have you as a guest, Ser Gerold," Viserys replied, his voice tinged with genuine sorrow. "I must say, I was most distressed to hear of the Lady Rhea's tragic passing. I'm very sorry for your loss."

"Lady Rhea was a unique character. Her kind is not soon to be seen again."

"If there is anything the Crown might do, to aid House Royce..." Rhaenyra began, diplomatically, but her words were drowned by the sudden sound of drums. The rhythmic pounding echoed through the hall, silencing conversation and heralding the arrival of the most anticipated guests.

"Lord Corlys of House Velaryon, Lord of the Tides, Master of Driftmark," Ser Harrold proclaimed. "And his lady wife, Princess Rhaenys Targaryen. And their son and heir, Ser Laenor Velaryon, the future King Consort."

The hall erupted into applause, as the Velaryons entered in their finery, their presence commanding the attention of all. Rhaenyra rose from her chair alongside her father, and the gathered crowd followed suit.

A faint smile graced Rhaenyra's lips, as her eyes met Laenor's. He stepped forward to bow before her, and she descended from the dais to meet him halfway. Taking her hand, he pressed a kiss to her fingers, his touch gentle but ceremonial.

"My betrothed," she murmured, her smile unwavering.

"My betrothed," Laenor echoed, turning to acknowledge the cheers of the court.

Rhaenyra led him to stand beside her at the table, their union already a symbol of the alliance between their houses. The rest of the Velaryons took their places at the royal table, settling into their seats, as the applause subsided.

Just as King Viserys rose to speak, the doors opened once more, halting him mid-breath. All eyes turned toward the figure, who strode into the hall with an air of defiance and pride.

Prince Daemon Targaryen, uninvited, but undeterred, approached the royal table, his every step heavy with purpose, his demeanor exuding the arrogance of one who feared nothing. Though he was freshly widowed, his grief seemed a distant shadow, eclipsed by the fire that burned in his gaze.

Rhaenyra found herself at odds with her thoughts. To understand Daemon was a riddle few could solve. Those who knew him personally - indeed, even those who had merely heard his name - were aware of the tempestuous reputation he carried. His legend was woven into the fabric of the Realm's tales, as admired, as he was reviled.

Rhaenyra had always found him fascinating, though such intrigue had proven dangerous. Once, she had sought his attention, and he had offered it, though far more than she had bargained for. That single night had driven her into the arms of Ser Criston Cole, who now stood among the guards, his posture puffed up like a peacock. The mere sight of her seemed to inflate his pride and wound it in equal measure.

Daemon came to a halt before the royal table, pausing with a smirk that dripped insolence. Without a word, he awaited a chair - silent demand, rather than a request. King Viserys, his irritation barely concealed, signaled for a servant to fetch one. Daemon seated himself with casual ease, wholly unbothered by his lack of invitation.

"Be welcome, as we join together in celebration," Viserys began, his tone warm yet strained, as though willing away the tension that had settled over the room. "Tonight is only its beginning. We honor the Crown's oldest and fiercest ally, House Velaryon."

At this, the Velaryons inclined their heads, offering polite smiles.

"Reaching back to the days of Old Valyria and the Age of Dragons. With House Targaryen and..." Viserys continued, but before he could utter another word, the doors opened yet again, and in walked Queen Alicent.

A ripple of murmurs spread through the gathered lords and ladies. All eyes turned to the Queen, not for her tardiness, but for her choice of attire. Alicent did not wore crimson or black - the colors of the house she married into. No, she was wearing green.

Rhaenyra clenched her fists, the silk of her gown crumpling beneath her grip. The nerve of her stepmother to appear so brazenly at odds with her house, interrupting the King's speech no less.

And then it struck her - the significance of the green. It was no ordinary shade, but the same brilliant hue that lit the beacon atop the Hightower in Oldtown, signaling a call to arms. A declaration of war, thinly veiled in courtly fashion.

"Congratulations, stepdaughter," Alicent said, her tone as arid, as Dorne's deserts. She placed a perfunctory kiss upon her husband's cheek before taking her seat.

"Please, be seated," Viserys muttered, a sigh escaping him, as he gestured for the guests to follow suit. "Where was I?"

"The joining of the two houses, Your Grace," came the low voice of Lord Lyonel Strong, a gentle reminder meant for the King's ears alone.

"Yeah... Yes," Viserys cleared his throat, regaining his composure. He turned to the guests once more, placing a reassuring hand on Rhaenyra's shoulder. She glanced up at her father, finding comfort in the gesture, before he withdrew his hand and resumed his speech.

Rhaenyra exchanged a smile with Laenor Velaryon, her betrothed. Despite the political nature of their union, they had found common ground, a shared desire for freedom and mutual respect. It felt almost like a tale from the songs of bards - a marriage without chains.

When the King's speech concluded, Viserys reclaimed his seat, signaling for the festivities to commence. Rhaenyra rose, as did Laenor, and together they descended the steps to the center of the hall. The music swelled, and they began their first dance as husband and wife-to-be.

They moved with a grace that held the crowd spellbound, their steps perfectly in sync, their gazes locked. Rhaenyra forced herself to focus on the dance, though she could feel Criston Cole's eyes burning into her back.

"I was never much of a dancer," she confessed to Laenor, her tone light despite the tension in her shoulders.

"It's not much different to combat," Laenor replied with a wry smile.

"Hmm. I shall hope for a kinder outcome," Rhaenyra quipped, her lips curving in amusement.

As they turned in the dance, Rhaenyra found herself face-to-face with Ser Criston. His expression was a storm of resentment and heartbreak, his gaze heavy with unspoken words. Rhaenyra quickly averted her eyes, returning her attention to Laenor and focusing back on the dance.

The dance continued, a battle of steps and turns, though far less dramatic, than a battle. Rhaenyra, ever composed, lost herself in the rhythm, her movements flawless. The crowd watched with rapt attention, some envious of the young Princess and her handsome betrothed.

When the music ceased, they bowed deeply, earning a round of applause. Laenor - ever the showman - took her hands and kissed them with exaggerated passion, drawing a laugh from Rhaenyra.

As more guests joined the dance, Rhaenyra found herself swept into the arms of Harwin Strong, while Laenor gravitated toward a familiar companion. Rhaenyra caught fleeting glances of Laenor and his knight, their heads bent in whispered conversation. Though their words were beyond her hearing, the way their eyes darted toward her and Criston spoke volumes. She could only guess at the nature of their discourse, but she had little doubt that it concerned her.

Later, Laenor returned to the dancefloor. The throng was thick with lords and ladies, yet she glimpsed Ser Joffrey Lonmouth deep in conversation with Ser Criston Cole near the chamber's edge.

Strange, was it not?

Cole bore the look of a man, who suffered the exchange rather than relished it, even though Joffrey spoke with much persistence, his words flowing without cease.

Meanwhile, Rhaenyra flitted from one partner to another, her laughter bright and her step light, as she savored the gaiety of her first great feast. Among her suitors, Ser Harwin Strong drew her eye most keenly. He was a mountain of a man, broad of shoulder and solid with muscle, his strength belying his family name. Handsome he was too, though in a rugged, unpolished way, as raw and powerful, as a storm at sea. When he lifted her in the dance, his arms sure and unwavering, she felt a stirring deep in her belly - a feeling strange and foreboding. Could it be that this man, bold and brash - as he seemed - might one day prove to be worthy lover?

As she twirled in Harwin's arms, Daemon appeared, cutting through the throng with the casual authority only a prince could wield. "May I, Ser Harwin?" he asked.

Harwin relinquished her without protest, though his gaze lingered, wary.

Daemon led Rhaenyra away from his brother's watchful eyes, drawing her to the farthest corner of the hall. The murmur of the feast dimmed, as he leaned close, his voice low. "Is this what you want?"

"I was not aware that what I wanted mattered to you," Rhaenyra replied, her tone sharp. She had no patience for his games.

"This is not for you," Daemon said, his words dripping with disdain. "Laenor is a good man and a fine knight. But he will bore you senseless."

"Marriage is only a political arrangement, I hear," Rhaenyra retorted, throwing his own philosophy back at him.

Daemon's lips curved into a sly expression. "Mine was recently dissolved," he announced without a sorrow in his voice.

"And?" she asked, her gaze unflinching. "Do you seek another wife so soon?"

"I could take you to Dragonstone, and make you my wife. Is that not what you have long desired? To be my wife, and I your husband?" His hand rose to her neck, his touch as bold as his words.

Rhaenyra's fury flared. "I have honor, uncle, though you seem to lack it. I will not abandon my duty to the Realm, nor will I shame Laenor in such a cruel way. Do you truly think, you can just storm in, upend my life, and anger my father yet again? No, Daemon. I will not be your wife, nor..."

Her words were cut short by a chorus of screams. A commotion erupted, the feast thrown into chaos. Rhaenyra turned, straining to see, but the crowd surged around her, pushing and pulling in terror.

"Laenor!" she cried, fighting to make her way to him. But the press of bodies overwhelmed her, as she was shoved to the ground, landing hard among chairs. Around her, the panic grew, the air thick with shouts and shrieks.

At the hall's center, Ser Criston Cole was a blur of violence. He struck Joffrey Lonmouth with brutal precision, his gauntleted fists raining down blow after blow. Blood splattered the floor, as Joffrey struggled feebly beneath him.

"Laenor!" Rhaenyra screamed again, desperate to reach her betrothed. He, too, had seen the carnage and rushed forward, only to be seized by two men, who forced him down upon a table, holding him fast.

Rhaenyra was frozen, paralyzed by the horror of it all, until a strong arm hoisted her up and slung her over a broad shoulder.

Ser Harwin Strong.

"Put me down!" she demanded, her fists pounding against his back. "I am unhurt! You must stop Cole!"

Harwin ignored her protests, carrying her to the edge of the hall, where the crowd was thinnest. Only then did he set her down. "Stay here," he commanded, before plunging back into the fray.

Harwin reached Cole, just as the knight prepared to deliver another vicious blow to Joffrey's shattered face. With a single, devastating kick to the temple, Harwin sent Cole sprawling, blood streaming from the wound.

Gasps rippled through the hall, the crowd falling silent, as Laenor scrambled to Joffrey's side, his voice trembling with anguish. "Stay with me," he begged. "Don't close your eyes."

Harwin, his face grim, seized Cole by the leg and dragged him toward the royal table. "For judgment," he growled, his voice carrying over the murmurs.

As the chamber swelled with murmurs and startled gasps, a hush fell over the gathering when the King, as though struck by some unseen hand, collapsed to the floor. His body tumbled gracelessly down the short flight of steps before the high table, each descent met with the horrified stillness of those who bore witness.

"Father!" Rhaenyra cried, shoving past those, who blocked her path. She knelt beside him, her hands cradling his pale face. "Gods! Someone fetch the fucking maester!"

Maester Mellos arrived swiftly, but his grave expression betrayed his thoughts before he spoke. He placed trembling fingers to the King's neck.

No breath. No pulse.

"Maester!" Rhaenyra shouted, her voice raw with desperation. "What of my father, your King? Speak!"

Mellos hesitated, his face ashen. "We must move His Grace to his chambers at once," he said finally, summoning men to carry the King's lifeless body.

Rhaenyra followed, her tears blinding her as she ran. Behind her came the heavy footsteps of Daemon, Mellos, the Queen, and the Hand.

In the royal chambers, they laid Viserys upon his bed. Rhaenyra clung to his hand, her sobs wracking her body. She knew, deep in her heart, that he was gone - that her father, her King, had died on the very day meant to celebrate the union he insisted on.

"Princess, you must leave," Mellos urged gently. "I cannot tend to His Grace with you here."

"No!" she cried, her hands clutching at her father's lifeless form. "Please, let me stay. Let me..."

"Come, Princess," Harwin said softly, his hands firm yet kind, as he guided her away. "The maester must do his work."

Rhaenyra turned into Harwin's embrace, her grief pouring forth. He held her as she wept, his strength a small comfort against the enormity of her loss.

When she departed the chamber, Daemon entered with purpose, resolute in his decision to remain by his brother's side. No entreaty of the maester could dissuade him from his vigil.

"What ails the King, Princess? Will he endure?" Alicent demanded of the girl, her tone sharp despite the Princess's obvious distress. Rhaenyra sobbed uncontrollably, unable to answer.

"Can you not perceive the state she is in, Your Grace?" interjected Lyonel Strong. "Allow me to ascertain His Grace's condition myself." Without awaiting reply, he stepped into the chamber and shut the door firmly behind him.

"This is beyond a disgrace for my position!" Alicent fumed, pacing like a storm contained. "I ought to be at my lord husband's side, not left to linger here like a dismissed servant!" Her glare fell upon Rhaenyra, her disdain palpable.

"If this arrangement displeases Your Grace, I shall summon a guard to escort you to your chambers," growled Harwin Strong. He held Rhaenyra, as she wept in his arms, her mind adrift in grief. "Otherwise, I must insist you temper your complaints of the inconveniences you are facing. The Princess has no wish to hear them."

"You dare address me so, Ser? I am the Queen!" Alicent's fury flared, her voice cutting like steel.

"Your Grace," Harwin replied with measured calm, "it is not my will, but the Princess's that I heed. Perhaps you might show some consideration." Before Alicent could retort, the chamber door opened, and Lyonel gestured them inside.

Daemon knelt by Viserys's side, his head bowed, as tears glistened on his cheeks. He clasped his brother's hand. Lyonel crossed to the opposite side of the bed, and stood there with a distraught face.

Alicent and Rhaenyra hurried to the bedside. The Princess's face was blotched and tear-streaked, hope flickering in her eyes, as she looked to the maester for reassurance. Alicent - in contrast - was of brittle composure.

"I am deeply sorry, Princess," murmured Mellos, his tone grave. He folded his hands before him. "The King is dead."

"No!" Rhaenyra's scream shattered the stillness. She flung herself upon her father's body, searching in vain for warmth, but his flesh was already getting cold. "Father, no! Do not leave me!" she wept, brushing his hair back with trembling hands. "Please, kepa... Please, don't leave me..."

"This cannot be!" Alicent rounded on Mellos, her voice laced with venom. "You kept me from his side and did naught to save him?"

"Your Grace," Mellos replied, his tone heavy with weariness, "his condition was beyond mortal aid. His Grace had been too long without breath - the Stranger must've claimed him in the throne room. I am no god to defy death itself," he sighed.

"Then why move him here, if he was already lost?" she demanded, advancing on the maester.

"To confirm, what I feared, Your Grace. I could not speak of his passing without certainty."

"You stood idly by, doing nothing to..." Her tirade was cut short by a sudden, resounding slap. Daemon had risen from his place, and now stood before her, his face twisted with grief and rage.

"Hold thy tongue, Alicent!" he bellowed, tears streaming freely. "For once, care for your husband, as a wife should, instead of prattling like an entitled shrew! By the Gods, you are fucking insufferable!" He seized the necklace she wore, the seven-pointed star of the Faith, and shook her with unrestrained fury. "No Queen are you now - only a Dowager! Admit it! That is what pricks your pride, you damned cunt!"

"Daemon, cease this madness!" Lyonel stepped between them, forcing Daemon back. "You dishonor yourself and His Grace's memory. The Queen is still the Queen," he whispered this last warning in Daemon's ear.

"No title shall stay my hand!" Daemon spat, struggling against Lyonel's grasp. "Take your fucking hands off me!" But the Hand's strength, undiminished by his years, forced the Prince back to his knees beside the bed.

"This grief consumes us all," Lyonel said firmly. "Let it not destroy us," the Hand said, as Damon casted one last angry look in the Alicent's direction before he looked away for good.

Mellos broke the tense silence. "We must decide how the King's death shall be announced."

"I shall bear the news," said Lyonel. "Though perhaps the Princess would prefer to do so herself?"

Rhaenyra, as her sobbing subsided to quiet sniffles, wiped her face and shook her head. "No," she whispered hoarsely. "Do what must be done. I shall remain here, by my father's side."

The maester, the Queen, and the Hand departed, leaving Daemon, Harwin, and Rhaenyra with the fallen King. As they walked through the corridors, Lyonel issued orders. "Maester, let the bells toll to signal the tragedy to the city. Her Grace and I shall address the court."

Mellos inclined his head and departed swiftly. Alicent lingered, her hand brushing the livid mark Daemon's slap had left upon her cheek.

"I shall require a dark veil," she murmured.

"Have you such a thing in your chambers, Your Grace?" Lyonel asked.

"I believe so." She stepped into her room briefly and returned, her face now obscured by black lace. "Let us proceed."

They entered the throne room by the same passage they had fled earlier. The air was thick with murmurs and the fainting of distressed ladies. The noise subsided, as Lyonel and Alicent took their place atop the dais.

"The King..." Lyonel began, his voice heavy with sorrow. "...is dead."

The announcement unleashed chaos. Cries and questions rang out. Jason Lannister's voice cut through the din. "What is to be happen now?"

"If you could... lower your voices... I want to announce the..." the Hand tried to talk to the crowd, but it was an impossible mission.

"Silence!" Alicent screamed, and the room finally obeyed.

"Thank you, Your Grace," he muttered close to the Queen's ear. "Before his passing, His Grace named his daughter, Rhaenyra, his heir. The Princess shall become our Queen!"

Murmurs rose anew.

"But first," Lyonel continued, "our King shall be honored with a true Targaryen funeral - committed to the flames of his daughter's dragon."

The bells tolled in the distance, their mournful chime heralding the end of an era.

i gave daemon the opportunity, i wish i had - slap that green cunt.