chapter eleven,
the green council — 132 AC.

Beware the beast beneath the boards.

The night was heavy with remnants of tension from the feast as Valyria made her way through the darkened alleyways of King's Landing. The echoes of heated words and fists against skin still rang in her ears, all that of which took place in the chaotic supper that had unravelled an hour ago. Her footsteps were soft against the cold stone, pace quick yet purposeful, driven by her desire to escape.

This desire was not an unfamiliar one.

She thought of what Helaena said. She thought of the fight, the look her father gave her. The fact that no matter how hard she tried, she could never formulate a response that would both satisfy him and comfort herself. So, her destination was clear in her mind—one of the few places where she could find solace. The Dragonpit. She knew the risks of venturing there alone at such an hour, but tonight, her restlessness demanded it.

Her father would leave again. As would Rhaenyra and her sisters. They would return to Dragonstone and before they can even attempt to register it— their lives would change. The realm would change.

As she approached the massive dome atop the Hill of Rhaenys, the air grew cooler, thick with the musky scent of dragon and earth. It was quiet, if you weren't including the distant rumbles that caused the stone beneath her to shake. She followed a path she had once formed when she was a child, though it was one she had not traveled in months.

From the mouth of the Dragonkeepers— Aegerys had grown restless. Over time, his wings had expanded in the ravine, his back growing wider, body older. He left once, yet only for a moment. He had become... contorted within his small space. Small for a dragon, that was. His neck was unusually long and his spine grew crooked, leaving his behavior to be erratic. Unpredictable.

He reminded Valyria of herself.

So, she descended into the depths, torches flickering weakly against the darkness, casting shadows that danced along the stone walls.

Deeper she went, her breath steadied with the distant rumble of slumbering beasts. Sunfyre slept here. As did Dreamfyre, Morghul, Shrykos. The Red Queen, Meleys, rested as well— for Princess Rhaenys had yet to depart King's Landing.

The ravine beneath was her destination.

The drop below was steep, a jagged descent into darkness, but she had made this journey before. Her fingers found the hidden grooves in the rock, a path carved through years of practice, beginning her descent with the ease of familiarity.

When she finally reached the bottom, the darkness was near absolute, broken only by the faint glow of bioluminescent moss that clung to the walls.

The ground was uneven, a mixture of rock and loose earth, and the air was thick with the scent of sulfur and decay. She could see heaps of bones buried beneath the shadows, the remnants of meals fed to Aegerys. She was taking a risk being here— one that could very well lead to her death.

When Valyria visited Aegerys, she had always kept her distance, staying high in the ravine, far above the dragon's reach. It was a calculated decision, allowing her to observe from a safe vantage point and, more importantly, to escape with ease if necessary.

But this time was different. This time, she would face him directly. The Bringer of Death. Beware the beast beneath the boards— Helaena had said. Her time would soon come.

Valyria couldn't help but wonder what would happen if the dragon killed her here and now. Would it be a release from the fate she had glimpsed? Would her destiny, with all its pain and blood, pass to another?

She entertained the morbid fantasy, knowing deep down that the flames of Aegerys might be a kinder death than what the Stranger had in store for her. She had not seen her death as she had with others— no clear vision or forewarning, only the sensation of it creeping closer.

She knew it would be brutal. She would die alone, blood gushing out, gut wrenching agony consuming her as it pooled around her. The taste of iron would coat her lips as she choked on it, her heart long since shattered, leaving only a smoldering core of rage.

Valyria Targaryen had been dancing the line of death long since her birth. Chasing it, always getting closer. And as she stepped further into the cave, her violet eyes catching the distant onyx scales hidden amongst shadows, she thought of her children. Jaehaerys and Maelor, who slept soundly in the chambers within the Red Keep.

Could they live, without her? Would their fates change? Would hers have changed if she still had her mother?

Stop being so foolish, she could hear in the back of her mind. You are an observer, no more— no less. There is no altering the course set for those you love.

To see death before it comes is a curse, for knowing does not grant the power to change it. She knew this. A dreamer bears witness to fate's cruel hand, not as a judge or savior, but as a helpless observer— trapped in a dance with shadows, unable to alter the steps of the inevitable.

She once dreamed of crooked leathern wings, rising through an already broken floor. There was a queen crowned in red, fleeing.

"Aegerys," Valyria called softly, her voice barely more than a whisper. The name carried through the ravine, echoing against the stone.

For a long moment, there was silence.

Then, a low, rumbling growl pulled through the thick air, the ground beneath her feet trembling. From the darkness, a pair of enormous, luminous eyes opened, glowing with an eerie golden light. The dragon stirred, his massive form shifting in the shadows, scales scraping against stone with a sound that sent shivers down her spine.

She stood her ground, her stare meeting the dragon's unblinking gaze. Aegerys' eyes were pools of molten gold, and he regarded her with a mixture of curiosity and...recognition.

Slowly, the dragon began to rise, his colossal form emerging from the darkness like a mountain coming to life.

His scales were a deep, iridescent black, with streaks of crimson that glinted like blood in the dim light. His wings, vast and leathery, unfurled slightly, creating a gust of wind that rustled through the air, silver hair brushing past her features.

One single step caused the ground beneath her to rumble, her heart thumping within her chest. Valyria swallowed whatever fear remained, though her throat grew tighter— feeling as if her father's hands had returned for more. She clasped her hands together at her sides, her nails digging into the skin of her palms.

The dragon's eyes narrowed slightly, the space of the ravine growing hot. Valyria closed her eyes, the events of the feast, the rotten core that tore at her family, it all barreled through her mind. But oddly enough, here, in the depths of the earth, surrounded by darkness, she could breathe again.

She could feel Aegerys drawing nearer with each step, his approach shaking the stone beneath her. His breath, hot and forceful, filled the air, causing her silver hair to billow over her shoulders like a storm was brewing in the darkness of the ravine.

But death did not haunt her thoughts—at least not her own. Her end, when it came, would not be something to fear.

In her mind, she could still see the stone gripped tightly in her father's hands. She saw her mother, sprawled helplessly on the grass, brown eyes wide with fearful tears. She saw Laena Velaryon, body engulfed in the great blaze of Vhagar's flames, meeting her end with pride yet sorrow.

Then came the death of the Strong men. Harwin and Lyonel, reaching, clawing at the locked doors as fire consumed them, screams swallowed by the roaring inferno.

Daemon standing above Vaemond's corpse, his sword slick with fresh blood that dripped down into a sea below, staining the waves with crimson.

And above it all, she saw dragons, locked in battle above a storm tossed sea. Jacaerys, plummeting from the saddle, lost to the depths below as his dragon crashed into the waters. The memories of all those deaths were not dreams.

They were truths she carried within her, haunting every breath she took. The end would come. Her end, their end—but until then, she remained standing, breathing.

Aegerys moved closer, his golden eyes remaining fixed on Valyria. And though dragons could not speak, his gaze seemed to pierce through her very soul, sensing the weight of the grief that lingered within her.

The air thickened, the heat around them rising, and Aegerys lowered his head, inhaling deeply as if drawing in her very essence. He could feel it— the pain, the fury buried beneath her, the guilt of it all that threatened to consume. He could smell the ghosts of her memories, as recognizable to him as the scent of smoke and fire.

And then, without warning, he threw his head back and let out a thunderous screech. The sound reverberated through the ravine, louder and more chilling than any roar she had ever heard from a dragon. Her eyes shot open, taking in the sight before her.

It was not just a roar of power—it was a cry of understanding.

His wings flared wide, their crooked length seeming to stretch endlessly across the stone walls as his jaws parted, revealing rows of sharp teeth. In one swift, violent motion, he exhaled, spewing forth a torrent of flames that shot upward, lighting the roof of the cavern ablaze.

Valyria did not flinch, though the heat of the fire was enough to burn through the chill that had clung to her skin mere moments ago. The screech of Aegerys hung in the air, a sound both terrifying and oddly familiar. It was as though he had given voice to her deepest fears, to the rage and helplessness she had long buried.

The flames danced above her, crackling and raging as if the very stones of the ravine were alive. In their flickering light, she stood before the dragon, unchanged by the firestorm surrounding her. Her eyes, those violet orbs that had seen too much, remained locked on Aegerys.

And in that moment, there was an understanding between them. He knew her pain, as much as a creature like him could know.

The Bringer of Death, a dragon feared by all, had sensed what clung to her—not just the lives she had lost, but the death she carried within her, unspoken yet always present.

Valyria exhaled as the flames slowed to a stop, a heavy breath escaping her lips, for the first time in a long while, the weight of her guilt seemed to lift just slightly. There was no escaping fate. She knew that. But standing there, she found a strange kind of solace in knowing she was not alone in carrying the burden of death.

And in the depths of the Red Keep, through the twisted halls and bare corridors, King Viserys breathed his last sickly breath.

As Valyria eventually made her way back, the air was thick with the scent of distant fires, the castle looming ahead, its dark spires piercing the night sky. She had always found some form of comfort in the cold stone walls, but tonight felt different—darker, more suffocating.

When she neared the entrance to Maegor's Holdfast, her eyes fell upon a figure standing just beneath the arch.

The familiar form of Athens Strong, her sworn shield, was shrouded in the dark fabric of his cloak. His head hung low, his features hidden by the shadows cast from the flickering torchlight. As her boots scraped against the stone, Athens slowly lifted his gaze, and their eyes met.

"Princess," he greeted her softly, pushing off the stone wall with the grace of a man who had seen too much and said too little. But his voice held a note of tension that made Valyria pause.

Valyria's footsteps slowed as she approached, sensing the storm in his words before they even reached her. "Athens," she acknowledged, her tone neutral, though her mind was already churning with possibilities.

"Your father is gone," Athens continued, his voice careful. "As is Rhaenyra. And your husband."

Valyria nodded, the information hardly a surprise. She had seen this coming. Still, she stopped short. "My husband?" she repeated, a crease forming between her brows.

"The King has fallen, my lady." His words came quieter this time, as if lowering them would soften the blow. "The Greens are requesting your presence at the small council, along with all others. An urgent matter, they called it."

Her arms instinctively wrapped around herself, more from the weight of the realization than the chill in the air. The message was clear. Aegon was no longer just her husband—he would be her king now, a crown thrust upon him in the aftermath of death and betrayal. This was Otto's plan, playing out to perfection in the missing absence of the heir.

Athens watched her, waiting for a reaction. But Valyria remained still, her expression unreadable as she let the words settle. There was no shock, no outward display of grief, for she had already braced herself for the unraveling of this night. Though she did not know it would fall so soon.

"Very well," she said finally, but her voice was heavy with an unspoken truth. "Thank you, Athens."

He was silent as she slipped past him, her posture rigid, each step heavier than the last as she approached the castle. The tension in her body was clear, her hands clenched tightly at her sides, as if she had to physically force herself to keep moving forward. Valyria was struggling to register the information handed to her, the weight of what it meant.

It constricted like a noose tightening around her throat. This was the inevitable: her uncle was dead, but there would be no mourning for the king—not in her heart. It wasn't Viserys she would grieve. It was the aftermath of his death, the war it would bring.

She stopped in her steps, turning back to look at the sworn shield standing in the shadows. "Athens." Valyria called out, his eyes obediently raising to meet hers. He waited, watching as she twisted the rings around her fingers.

"Find him."

With a silent nod, Athens turned on his feet, disappearing into the dark streets.

The fall of their family, fragile and fractured as it was. However twisted, however broken, it was hers. And now, it was slipping through her fingers, about to be torn apart by the Gods in a game of power, all for a throne of swords.

As she neared the small council chambers, the torches lining the corridor flickered in the cold air. The twin guards, Arryk and Erryk, stood at the entrance, their eyes carrying the weight of the long night. Arryk stepped forward, his tired gaze softened with sympathy as he opened the door for her.

The chamber was dimly lit, the silence thick as she entered.

Each face around the table was marred with exhaustion, the toll of being summoned at such a late hour clear in their puffy eyes. Alicent sat at the head of the table, expression unreadable, hands clasped tightly in her lap. To her side stood Ser Criston Cole and Otto Hightower, his calculating gaze immediately finding Valyria as the door closed with a heavy thud behind her.

Valyria's violet eyes met the Hand's without hesitation.

There was no warmth, no softness in the exchange, just a quiet understanding. Wordlessly, she moved around the long table toward the back of the room, her steps echoing in the silence. But before she could take her place in the shadows, Otto's voice halted her.

"You will not need to write," he said quietly, but commanding. His hand reached out, briefly curling around her upper arm, not in a show of force, but to make his point clear. He released her just as quickly, gesturing to the empty chair at the far corner of the council table.

Her eyes moved to the seat, understanding dawning. Like Vaemond, this was not just another council meeting. This was a moment where lines would be drawn, sides taken. And Valyria, whether she willed it or not, was being pulled into the heart of it.

After all, she was the daughter of Daemon Targaryen— who was wed to the heir of the throne. Her father had left her, once again, with a target on her back.

Tyland Lannister, seated at the opposite head of the table, broke the silence with a chuckle. "Well, well, the silent princess finally joins us at the table," he remarked, throwing his hands up in amusement before turning his attention back to the Queen Regent. "What is it that couldn't wait a few hours? Was Dorne invaded?"

"The King is dead,"

The words came from Otto himself, causing all traces of humor to disappear from Tyland's face. Valyria shifted in her seat, the once-soft cushions beneath her suddenly felt sharp and unwelcoming. Her fingers interlocked tightly in her lap as she glanced around the room, her violet eyes catching the reactions from the men around the table.

Lord Wylde remained silent, his expression unreadable, while Maester Orwyle seemed to still be processing the news, his face full of thought. Lord Beesbury had bolted upright in his chair, shock etched across his features, his body stiff with disbelief.

Tyland's face, once so smug, now carried the weight of embarrassment and discomfort. Though they each respected Viserys, it was only to a certain extent. This would become clear.

"We grieve for Viserys the Peaceful," Otto continued, "Our sovereign. Our friend. Our family." He stressed the word 'family' as his gaze settled on Valyria. But the sincerity of his sentiment quickly soured as his words twisted into manipulation. "But Viserys has left us a gift."

"With his dying breath, he impressed upon the Queen his final wish: that his son, Aegon, should succeed him as Lord of the Seven Kingdoms."

And there it was—the deception wound into the tragedy of the king's death.

Alicent, sitting at the head of the table, remained silent. Her eyes were fixed on the marble ball before her, the information falling from her father's lips in a rehearsed manner. She could not meet the eyes of those around her, and in that silence, her complicity was made clear.

Valyria watched, her chest tight as her palms pressed together in her lap. Aegon was gone— more than likely drowning himself in his sorrows at the tavern.

A distant roll of thunder rumbled through the night sky, echoing through the corridors of the Red Keep. The storm was not merely outside—its winds, its destruction, were about to tear through their very lives.

Tyland cleared his throat, nodding in agreement with Otto's declaration. "Then we may proceed now with the full assurance of his blessing on our long-laid plans,"

"Yes." Otto Hightower's agreement was barely more than a hum. The solemnity of King Viserys's death was already fading, drying like ink on parchment. With cold efficiency, he moved toward his seat, his daughter's wide, questioning eyes following him. "There is much to be done, as we've previously discussed." His words were sharp, businesslike—there was no mourning, only scheming.

From where she sat, Valyria looked at Otto, and for a moment, it felt as if the walls were closing in on her. She was drowning, suffocating under the weight of what was expected of her. She could feel it: they were waiting for her to act out, to choose a side. To stand with her father or to bend to the plans that she had bore witness to.

This was her test of loyalty.

The conversation continued, their plotting so casual, as if they were discussing what to have for supper. "There are two among the captains of the City Watch who remain loyal to Daemon. Let us replace them immediately,"

"The treasury is well in hand," Tyland chimed in, "The gold will be divided for safekeeping."

"Let ravens be sent to our allies at Riverrun and Highgarden,"

But before another word could be spoken, Alicent placed her hand firmly onto the table, silencing the room with a gesture. Her eyes narrowed in disbelief, voice sharp as she spoke. "Am I to understand that members of the small council have been planning secretly to install my son without my knowledge?" she asked, her tone laced with anger.

"My Queen," Jasper Wylde, the Lord of Rain House, spoke up in response. His voice was calm, patronizing even. "There was no need to sully you with such darkling schemes."

"I will not have this," came a voice from across the table. Lord Beesbury, the eldest among them, his old hands trembling as he gripped the armrests of his chair. "To hear that you are plotting to replace the King's chosen heir with an imposter!"

The words rang out across the room, causing a ripple of discomfort to spread among the council members. Valyria's hands tightened in her lap, her interlocked fingers turning white as blood drained from her skin.

"His firstborn son is hardly an imposter. Wouldn't you agree, Valyria?"

Before she could respond, Lyman Beesbury shook his head fiercely. "Do not drag her into this. She is but a child. Hundreds of lords and landed knights swore fealty to the Princess."

"That was some twenty years ago," Tyland Lannister interjected with a sneer, his tone dismissive. "Most of them now dead."

Valyria's lips tightened into a thin line. Did death defy loyalty? Did promises made to the crown fall away with the bodies of those who made them? She knew the answer. She had seen how easily oaths could be broken. But how could they not be? These people were sworn to the crown, and here the crown was— contradicting all that was said before.

"You heard the Lord Hand," Jasper spoke up, "Plot or no, the King changed his mind."

The tension in the room thickened as Lyman Beesbury rose from his chair, unyielding. Valyria's violet eyes followed his movement, her gaze steady.

"I am six-and-seventy years old," Beesbury began, his voice growing louder with each word. "I have known Viserys longer than any who sit at this table, and I will not believe that he said this on his deathbed—alone, with only the boy's mother as a witness. This is seizure! It is theft! It is treason!"

"At the least, it is—"

"Mind your tongue, Lyman," Maester Orwyle interjected, but to not avail, for it was too late. The room had already turned against the old man. From the corner of her eye, Valyria saw Ser Criston Cole move silently from his post beside the Queen, positioning himself behind Beesbury.

"The King was well last night by all accounts," Beesbury continued, his voice rising in fury. "Which of you here can swear that he died of his own accord?"

Jasper Wylde, seated at the opposite end of the table, snapped his eyes toward Beesbury, his expression sharp. "Which of us are you accusing of regicide, Lord Beesbury?" he spat.

"Whether it was one of you or all of you, I care not. I will have no part-!" Lord Beesbury's voice, filled with defiance, tore through the council chamber. His hand hovered above the table, trembling with the weight of his accusation. But before he could finish, a sharp voice cut through the air.

"Sit down!" Ser Criston Cole's command cracked like a whip, authoritative and final. His movements were swift, hands latching onto the old man's shoulders.

He slammed Beesbury back into his chair, there was a sickening thud, followed by a sharp crack, as the old man's head collided with the marble ball beneath him. The impact was harsh—his temple smacking into the cold surface. The blood came almost instantly, pooling around the once proud figure who now lay slumped and lifeless.

Valyria flinched, her fingers digging deep into the armrests of her chair. She could feel her hands burning from the pressure, but it was nothing compared to the growing pool of red staining the table, the life slipping away from Lord Beesbury before her very eyes.

Her heart pounded in her chest, her mind racing. She forced herself to swallow the bile rising in her throat, her vision swimming with the sight. The men around the table exchanged uneasy glances, though none dared to speak, save for Alicent— who ordered Criston to stop.

Harrold Westerling, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, stepped forward, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword. The metal hissed as it slid free of its sheath, the sound sharp in the stillness of the room, boots echoing against the stone tiles with each step.

"Throw down your sword and remove your cloak, Ser Criston," Westerling demanded, his voice laced with authority.

Ser Criston, standing across the room, did not hesitate to draw his own blade, the cold steel catching the faint light of the chamber. His grip was firm, his gaze meeting the older knight's. Valyria's violet eyes flickered between the two men, remaining silent, a shadow in the room, but her mind was a storm of lashing thoughts. Within minutes, blood had already been spilled.

"I am your Lord Commander, Ser Criston. Cast down your sword," Westerling commanded again, his tone firmer now.

But Criston stood his ground. "I will not suffer insults to Her Grace the Queen," he snapped, words sharp as the blade in his hand.

All eyes turned to Alicent, seated at the head of the table. She looked pale, her hand trembling slightly as it clutched the edge of the council table. Her breath came shallow, her eyes wide with shock at the violence that had erupted within these walls. Finally, she found her voice.

"There was no insult to me, Ser Criston," Alicent said softly, though her throat tightened as she spoke. She brought a hand to her neck as if the words themselves choked her. "Put aside your blade."

At her command, Ser Criston reluctantly lowered his sword. His gaze flickered towards the lifeless form of Lord Beesbury, still slumped over the table, blood pooling beneath him.

Valyria's heart pounded in her chest as she watched the slow, inevitable crawl of the blood across the table. It crept toward her, sinking into the wooden crevices of the council table. House Beesbury was a loyal ally, yet no longer would they be. Not for the Greens. Not after this.

Harrold Westerling shook his head in disbelief as he stepped around the table, casting a pitying glance at Valyria. His voice was filled with quiet disgust as he spoke. "Has it come to this?"

But before Westerling could say more, Otto Hightower rose from his seat, face twisted into a sneer. His words cut through the room, "Lord Commander, enough."

Maester Orwyle's hands trembled as they moved across the table. "Let us have Lord Beesbury removed," he suggested, only to be stopped.

"No," Otto Hightower countered, "The door remains shut until we finish our business."

Valyria inhaled deeply, closing her eyes to gather her storm of thoughts. Her heart pounded against her ribcage, she could feel every word forming on her tongue, biting back the rage that simmered beneath her skin.

"Storm's End is of concern," Tyland Lannister interjected, "We cannot assume the loyalty of Lord Borros. But he has four daughters, all of them unmarried. The right proposal..."

Alicent, her face pale with grief and confusion, interrupted with a question. "What of Rhaenyra?"

The room fell silent. Otto turned to face his daughter, "The former heir cannot, of course, be allowed to remain free and draw support to her claim." His words were calm, calculated, as if the fate of a family could be discussed as casually as trade agreements.

"You mean to imprison her?" Alicent's voice wavered, though she was doing her best to maintain her composure.

"She and her family will be given the opportunity to publicly swear obeisance to the new King," The Hand retorted.

At that, Valyria let out a sharp, bitter laugh mixed with a scoff. It was a sound full of mockery, cutting through the air.

All eyes turned to her, the princess shaking her head as she met their stares. "Rhaenyra will not bend the knee. Neither will my father," she said, straightening her back against the chair. "You all know this."

Alicent's eyes shifted toward Valyria, then back to the council, her expression tightening as realization hit her. "You plan to kill them," she stated, her voice thick with disbelief and rising anger. "And all here accede to this?"

"Your father is correct, Your Grace," Maester Orwyle spoke, "A living challenger invites battle and bloodshed."

Otto nodded, "It is unsavory, yes, but a sacrifice we must make to secure Aegon's succession. And then there is Daemon to consider. The King wouldn't wish for any—"

"But the King did not wish for the murder of his daughter!" Alicent's hand slammed against the table, her voice rising. Her composure cracked, anger spilling out. "He loved her. I will not have you deny this."

"And yet..." Lord Wylde's mouth opened, prepared to argue, but Alicent hastily cut him off. "One more word, and I will have you removed from this chamber and sent to the Wall!" Her voice echoed through the room, the force of her command silencing everyone. She stood abruptly, her chair screeching against the stone floor.

The room remained still as Tyland Lannister shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "What would you suggest, Your Grace?"

Alicent had no words left, only a sigh that fell from her lips.

"Time is of the essence." Her father reminded. Though words fell on deaf ears as his daughter said nothing, the eyes of the council watching her fall. Valyria stayed silent, her eyes fixed on the slow crawl of crimson. The trail of blood, racing like the first drop of rain before a storm.

"Lord Commander Westerling..." Otto continued, "take your knights to Dragonstone. Be quick and be clean."

The air in the room tightened as the aged knight stood silently for a moment, his hand moving to his pristine white cloak. With a slow, deliberate motion, he removed it from his shoulders.The tearing sound of the fabric being pulled from its fastenings ripping through the air.

He carefully placed the cloak on the council table directly in front of Valyria, her violet eyes following every movement as Westerling spared a glance her way— brief, almost sorrowful. His voice was calm, "I am Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. I recognize no authority but the King's," he spoke, his words echoing across the room like a vow. "And until there is one, I have no place here."

Without further word, he turned on his heel, his boots striking the cold stone floor with each step as he exited the council chamber. The clank of metal faded into the depths of Maegor's Holdfast, leaving nothing but an eerie silence.

Valyria turned to look at the cloak, watching with silent eyes as the crimson began to soak the white material— staining it. This is how it would be now, forever trapped as a witness to all horrors inflicted upon others. The King was dead. And Aegon's reign had begun.

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long live Vizzy T forever serving Targaryen Realness