Dragons Tongue
Rhenerya X Male Reader
Had this created on my other site so i decided to post chapter 1, if you guys enjoy it or not, let me know. I based this off a previous post I did and decided I enjoyed the concept so much to make a whole story from it.
Chapter 1: Rūklon Hen Zaldrīzes
(The Dragons Tongue)
As the Son of Otto Hightower you have obligations to uphold, but that does not mean your heart cannot want for something more: Rhenerya.
———
“As the first century of the Targaryen dynasty came to a close, the health of the Old King, Jaehaerys, was failing. In those days, House Targaryen stood at the height of its strength with adult dragons under its yoke. No power in the world could stand against it. King Jaehaerys reigned over nearly years of peace and prosperity.
But tragedy had claimed both his sons, leaving his succession in doubt. So, in the year, the Old King called a Great Council to choose an heir.
Over a thousand lords made the journey to Harrenhal. Fourteen succession claims were heard but only two were truly considered: Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, the King's eldest descendant, and her younger cousin, Prince Viserys Targaryen, the King's eldest male descendant. Rhaenys, a woman, would not inherit the Iron Throne.
The lords instead chose Viserys... my father. Jaehaerys called the Great Council to prevent a war being fought over his succession. For he knew the cold truth. The only thing that could tear down the House of the Dragon... was itself, this was the fist ember of the war, the Dance of the Dragons.”
———
Dust from Syrax’s wings settles across the courtyard stones. Sand scatters like startled birds. The dragon landed and stepping off of it was the one and only, Rhaenerya Targaryen. She had long, Platinum blonde and a beautiful face of high cheekbones and gorgeous eyes.
Rhaenerya walked forward, still glowing with that post-flight exhilaration.
Ser Harrold was awaiting.
“Welcome back, Princess. I trust your ride was pleasant.”
“Try not to look too relieved, ser.” She jokes, and he replies on kind.
“I am relieved. Every time that golden beast brings you back unspoiled, it saves my head from a spike.” Rhaenyra smirks and walks toward the waiting carriage. Stepping out of the carriage was Alient Hightower, the daughter of the hand of the King, Otto Hightower.
“Syrax is growing quickly.” Alicent says,
“She’ll soon be as large as Caraxes. That’s almost large enough to saddle two.”
“I believe I’m quite content as a spectator, thank you.” Alicent admits.
Rhaenyra studies her friend with a teasing glint. Rhaenerya and Alicent made their way back to the massive city of kings landing. A herald of prosperity for the last hundreds years of Targaryen Rule. Inside a bedchamber a handmaiden has stepped out. But not before quickly bowing in reverence to Rhaenerya before she enters to see her mother. Queen Aemma Targaryen.
“Ah... Rhaenyra.” She says, “You know I don't like you to go flying while I'm in this condition.”
“You don't like me to go flying while you're in any condition.” She poked back, Alicent enters as well and immediately bows.
“Your Grace.”
“Good morrow, Alicent.”
“Did you sleep?” Rhaenerya asks her mother, who smiled weakly. The labors of pregnancy were upon her.
“I slept.” She says sternly.
“How long?”
“I don't need mothering, Rhaenyra.”
“Well, here you are, surrounded by attendants, all focused on the babe. Someone has to attend to you.” She says to her mother, and Aemma sighs.
“You will lie in this bed soon enough, Rhaenyra. This discomfort is how we serve the realm.” She explained, but Rhaenerya had higher dream.
“I'd rather serve as a knight and ride to battle and glory.” A warm laugh comes from her mother. “We have royal wombs, you and I. The childbed is our battlefield. We must learn to face it with a stiff lip. Now take a bath. You stink of dragon, Lady Cuperbearer.”
Rhenerya had made herself scarce and left, she had to prepare for her duties as the Cuperbearer for the most Poweful Man in Westeros, her father, the King of Them all, Viserys Targaryen. Viseryes, a slightly plump faced but pleasant man.
Viseryes sat at the head of the small council, enjoying the revels of his lordship. But a man spoke up, dark skin and grey hair adorned in amazing dreadlocks. This was Lord Corlys, Master of Ships and the legendary seafarer and the head of House Velaryon, a wealthy and powerful Valyrian house from Driftmark.
“My lords.” He begins, “The growing alliance among the Free Cities has taken to styling itself "the Triarchy." They have massed on Bloodstone and are presently ridding the Stepstones of its pirate infestation.” He says.
“Well, that sounds suspiciously like good news, Lord Corlys.”
“A man called Craghas Drahar has styled himself the prince-admiral of this Triarchy. They call him "The Crabfeeder" due to his inventive methods of punishing his enemies.”
“And are we meant to weep for dead pirates?” Viseryes asks.
“No, Your Grace.”
“Pray, Your Grace, at Prince Daemon's urging, the crown has invested significant capital in the re-training and re-equipping of his City Watch.” A man says, Lyman Beesbury, Master of Coin and Treasurer of Kings Landing. A slickly frail older man with graying hair.
“I thought you might urge your brother to fill his seat on the council and provide an assessment of his progress as commander of the Watch.”
“Do you think Daemon is distracted by his present tasks?” Viseryes asks. “And that his thoughts and energies are occupied?”
“Well, one would hope so, considering the associated costs.”
“Then let us all consider your gold well-invested, Lord Beesbury.”
“I would urge that you not allow this Triarchy much latitude in the Stepstones, Your Grace. If those shipping lanes should fall, it will beggar our ports.” Corlys says, trying to divert attention to the more pressing matter.
“.The crown has heard your report, Lord Corlys, and takes it under advisement.” Says the Hand of the King, Otto Hightower, a stout but older gentleman with a strong face, stern eyes and a cold voice. It silences the Master of ships.
“Shall we discuss the Heir's Tournament, Your Grace?” Otto asks, as Viseryes smiles. Rhenerya pours wine for everyone, except Corlys who politely declines.
“I would be delighted. Will the maesters' name day prediction hold, Mellos?” Viserys asks Mellos, Grand Maester.
“You must understand that these things are mere estimations, my King, but we have all been poring over the moon charts, and we feel that our forecast is as accurate as it can be.”
“The cost of the tournament is not negligible. Perhaps we might delay until the child is in hand? Lyman says.
“Ugh, most of the lords and knights are certainly on their way to King's Landing already.” Lyionel strong, Master of Laws says, “To turn them back now—“
“The tourney will take the better part of a week. Before the games are over, my son will be born, and the whole realm will celebrate.”
“We have no way of predicting the sex of the child.” Mellos says.
“Of course, no maester's capable of rendering an opinion free of conditions, are they now? There's a boy in the Queen's belly. I know it. And my heir will soon put all of this damnable hand-wringing to rest himself…” Viseryes says. As the meeting ends, Harrold catches up to Rhenerya, who’s looking a bit, conflicted. Her status as daughter of the king puts her in a position but, no Woman has become Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and perhaps she shall be thrown to the wayside.
“..He passed through the Red Keep's gates at first light.” Harrold say to her, and she slowly turns to her.
“..Does my father know he's here?”
“No.”
“..Good.”
————
Night had Fallen upon the Realm, and thus the evil of this world was given a blanket to enjoy.
Thirty men huddle around stolen wine and stolen bread. Armor mismatched. Teeth rotten and broken. Their laughter climbs into the trees and disturbs the night birds. At their center sits Kam, hands like mallets, beard slick with grease. A girl is tied near the wagon, gagged, eyes wide as a hunted doe. Ransom coin already counted in Kam’s mind.
A crack. Not thunder. Not a branch. An arrow. One of the men drops mid-laugh, a feathered shaft blooming from his throat, blood leaked from his mouth mixing with wine to create a disgusting concoction, The wine cup spills. Silence comes in, confused.
Then the woods exhale wind and arrows.
Arrows rain from black branches. Another man falls on the cask, Another. Horses neigh and buck. Someone shouts to form ranks but the command dies as a second volley punches through his leather and bones.
From the trees came riders in dark cloaks, sigils barely visible in the night. They move around, surrounding them and either putting arrows in them or cutting them down.
Like Hawks circling mice.
Kam bellows and charges toward the nearest soldier, splitting a helm with his axe. For a breath, the brute believes the night can still be broken.
Then a shape steps from the firelight.
(Y/n) Hightower.
His cloak catches the flame-glow, the pale green of Oldtown woven into shadow. His blade is clean, though the ground around him is not. One bandit lunges from behind, desperate. (Y/n) does not look. He pivots, catches the man’s wrist before the blade could fully puncture, and draws his dagger across his throat in a single line. The body folds before the scream finishes as blood pours on his plate.
(Y/n) wipes the blade on the fallen man’s sleeve, almost polite about it.
Kam is breathing hard now. The camp that rang with laughter moments ago is a field of groans and stillness. Hightower men move through it like gardeners pruning a diseased hedge.
(Y/n) walks forward and lowers himself onto an overturned crate across from Kam. Close enough that the firelight shows the sharp cut of his jaw, the calm in his eyes.
He studies Kam the way a maester studies an unpleasant specimen.
“You’ve made the road… inconvenient,” (Y/n) says, voice smooth, measured. Not loud. It does not need to be.
Kam swings.
(Y/n) ducks just enough that the axe cleaves air. In the same motion, he kicks the brute’s knee. Bone cracks. Kam drops with a roar, half kneeling.
Steel rests against his throat.
“You stole from smallfolk,” (Y/n) continues, tilting his head slightly. “Kidnapped a child, Raper, Murderer, Brigand..”
He glances toward the girl. One of his men is already cutting her bonds.
“That is poor judgment.” Kam spits at his boots. “Who are you supposed to be? Hightower cunt.”
A faint smile touches (Y/n)’s mouth. Behind him, the Hightower banner rises from the darkness, caught by the wind like a watchful eye opening.
Kam understands then. (Y/n) stands.
“You,” (Y/n) adds softly, almost conversational, “will answer for your accounts.”
The girl stands wrapped in a soldier’s cloak far too large for her. Dirt streaks her face. She looks small again now that the terror has passed.
(Y/n) is cleaning his blade beside the fire, methodical as Kam is dragged away.
She approaches him hesitantly.
“My lord…” Her voice trembles but holds. “Thank you.”
He looks at her.
Not unkindly, Not really warmly either.
“You are unharmed?”
She nods quickly.
“Good.”
A beat.
She waits for something else. A soft word. A reassuring smile. A promise of safety.
Instead, he rises.
“You’ll be returned to your father’s holdfast before midday,” he says, already turning to his captain. “See that she’s provisioned.. Men, any survivors? Cut their throats or put an arrow in their eyes.”
The Next morning had risen, Rhaenyra is laughing at something scandalous with Alicent, sun warm on her hair, when a Hightower soldier approaches with rigid formality.
“My lady Alicent. Ser (Y/n) has returned. Lord Otto requests your presence at the Gate.”
Rhaenyra’s smile sharpens.
“So soon? Has he conquered Dorne already?” She say sarcastically.
Alicent sighs softly. She knows that tone.
“I shall return shortly.”
Rhaenyra watches her go, thoughtful.
⸻
The Gate of the Red Keep
The gates creak open. (Y/n) rides in at the head of his men, armor marked with dried blood and road dust. Behind him, a wagon rattles forward. In it: Stolen grain sacks, many Silver goblets, some Torn banners And Kam the Brute, bound, bruised, furious.
Alicent stands composed at the steps. Hands folded. Expression practiced.
Their eyes meet and (Y/n) dismounts smoothly.
“Sister.”
“Brother.”
Her gaze flicks briefly to the wagon of stolen items. “You’ve been busy.”
“The Kingsroad will be safer.” he says, his eyes then turn to another wagon. Corpses, some, others full of mutilated body parts. Fingers, hands… Cocks.
“I see the City Watch has also been busy..”
Kam chooses that moment to grin through blood.
“So this is the pious little flower? Shame, id love to prick her little petals, give that Hightower Whore a—“
He doesn’t finish.
(Y/n) steps forward calmly, as though adjusting his gauntlet. His elbow drives into Kam’s nose with controlled, brutal precision.
A crack. Kam slumps back with a howl, blood pouring down his beard. (Y/n) does not even look at him afterward.
“Mind your tongue,” he says mildly, “Before you lose it.” He turns to the guards: “Gag him. Let the king make the decision upon hanging him.”
Alicent watches carefully. There’s the faintest tightening in her jaw.
“You needn’t have struck him,” she says quietly once they begin walking.
“He shan’t speak ill of you, I may but not him.” (Y/n) replies. Alicent scowls and he chuckles.
The twins retire to the Bedchamber of Ser Hightower, Books stacked neatly. An Armor stand polished. A map of the Crownlands pinned with markers, as (Y/n) has been cleaning up around Kings Landing.
(Y/n) removes his gloves.
“You look tired,” Alicent observes.
“I am not.” He replies.
“You always say that.”
He pours wine. Offers her some. She declines. (Y/n) stands near the window, goblet in hand, recounting the raid as though narrating a well-played board match.
“They scattered immediately,” he says, the faint smirk returning. “Poor discipline. Thirty men and not one thought to fortify the tree line. Kam was larger than I expected. Slower than I hoped. But he fell nonetheless.”
Alicent moves behind him, fingers deft as she begins unfastening the buckles of his breastplate. She has done this before.
“You make it sound effortless,” she says softly.
“It was.”
The armor loosens. She pulls it away and lays it down and pauses. Beneath the steel, dark patches stain his tunic.
Not all of it is someone else’s blood. She steps around him, lifting the fabric slightly. To see his abdomen, a cut, perhaps a days old.
“You were struck.” She said.
“A glancing cut.”
“You said nothing.”
“It was insignificant, I cut the man down after.” He says and drinks, Her jaw tightens.
“Foolish Endeavors..”
“You sound like Mother.”
The words slip out easy, Alicent always spoke so earnestly. She is the only girl of Otto Hightower. She has to carry some weight.
Alicent meets his eyes in the room.
“Perhaps someone must.”
His smugness drains just a touch. He sighs and can’t look her in the eyes. “I. Apologize for making you worry then. It sounds like You think me reckless,” he says, quieter now,
“Would you prefer me fat and lazing about in Oldtown?” He jokes.
“I prefer you alive.” Alicent replied.
“Thank you.” He says, “And Father?”
———-
“It was an unprecedented roundup of criminals of every ilk.”
Otto Hightower and King Viseryes were walking into the council room. “Your brother made a public show of it, meting out the summary judgments himself. I'm told they needed a two-horse cart to haul away the resulting dismemberments when it was done.”
“Gods be good.”
“The Prince cannot be allowed to act with this kind of unchecked impunity.” Otto said, as the two meet the chamber, with Daemon there.
“Brother.”
“Daemon.” Viserys says.
“Carry on. You were saying something about my impunity.” He asks, and they get right into it.
“You are to explain your doings with the City Watch. Your new "gold cloaks" made quite the impression last night, didn't they?”
“Did they?” Daemon replied with a grin.
“The City Watch is not a sword to be wielded at your whim. They're an extension of the crown.” Otto says.
“The Watch was enforcing the crown's laws.
Wouldn't you agree, Lord Strong?”
“My Prince, I don't think—“ Strong begins but Otto cuts him off.
“Making a public spectacle of wanton brutality is hardly in line with our laws.”
“Nobles from every corner of the realm are right now descending upon King's Landing for my brother's tourney. Do you want them mugged, raped, murdered? You mightn't know this unless you left the safety of the Red Keep, but much of King's Landing is seen by the smallfolk as lawless and terrifying.”
“Our city should be safe for all its people.” Viserys says. “I agree. I just hope you don't have to maim half of my city to achieve this.”
“Time will tell.”
“We installed Prince Daemon as commander to promote law and order. The criminal element should fear the City Watch.” Lord Corlys says.
“Thank you for your support, Lord Corlys.”
“If only the Prince would show the same devotion to his lady wife as he does his work, Your Grace.” Otto says, vying for some level of scorns, “You've not been seen in the Vale or at Runestone for quite some time.”
“I think my bronze bitch is happier for my absence.”
“Lady Rhea is your wife, a good and honorable lady of the Vale.” Otto chastises him, but it does little to sway Daemons opinion.
“In the Vale, men are said to fuck sheep instead of women. I can assure you, the sheep are prettier.”
“You made a vow before the Seven to honor your wife in marriage—“
“Well, I'd gladly give Lady Rhea to you, Lord Hightower, if you're in want of a woman to warm your bed. Your own lady wife passed recently.” Daemon says, Otto rose, and silence filled the room. The tension was strong, lingering in the air.
“Perhaps you aren't ready to move on just yet.” Daemon says, stoking the fire even more, but Viseryes calms it.
“You know how my brother makes sport of provoking you. Must you indulge him?”
“My apologies, Your Grace.” Otto say and calmly sits down.
“This council has, at great expense, bettered the City Watch to your exacting standards. Enforce my laws, but understand... any further performances like last night's will be answered.” Viserys says, and Daemon nods and rises.
“Understood, Your Grace.”
———-
The Bedchamber.
Steam coils through the chamber like pale silk. The tub is carved marble, water perfumed faintly with myrrh and rosemary. Candlelight trembles along tiled walls.
(Y/n) reclines in the bath, shoulders bare above the waterline, hair slicked back. Two handmaidens move quietly around him, one pouring warm water from a silver pitcher, another setting folded cloths nearby, both giggle as his eyes lock with one’s.
“One would think,” he muses lazily, “that the treasures of the realm are only for the king. But I have two adorning me at this moment.”
A faint smile touches one of the girls’ lips. But suddenly there is a knock. Before permission is granted, the door opens.
Otto Hightower enters. The handmaidens bow and lower their eyes. He turns his head slightly. “Father,” he says lightly. “You honor me. Care to join? The Revels is quite invigorating this season.”
Otto does not smile. The women glance between them uncertainly. Otto steps forward. “Speak father, you’re scaring the handmaidens, or perhaps—“
“In the council chamber,” he says evenly, “Prince Daemon spoke of your mother.”
The room stills, the hissing steam even halts. The sound of dripping water on the stone floors becomes painfully loud.
“How.”
Otto does not embellish. He recounts it exactly. The crude offer. The reference to her passing. The mockery.
The boys jaw tightens once. Then he speaks, calm and firm.
“Leave us.”
The women bow quickly and slip from the chamber, the door closing with urgency. He rises from the bath without haste. Water runs down his shoulders, hitting stone like soft rain. He steps onto the stone floor and reaches for a linen cloth.
Otto watches him, measuring, beginning to sow his seeds of dissent.
“You did nothing,” he says while drying his arms.
“I did not give him the spectacle he desired.”
(Y/n) pulls on a tunic.
“He insulted her.”
“Yes.” He fastens the ties at his collar, angrily fumbling it.
“And you did nothing.”
Otto’s tone hardens slightly.
“I kept the King’s council from devolving into a senseless spouting match.”
“That was my mother. Not just Lady Hightower. Not just your wife. My mother, Alicent’s..”
Otto absorbs that.
“She is beyond his reach,” Otto replies quietly. “His words cannot touch her. Find peace in that.”
(Y/n) steps closer, eyes colder now.
“They can touch me. And I should gut him for such disrespect to my family, to ours.”
“I presume you would, hence my attempt to inform you, lest he stokes your ire and challenges you, do not.. give him the satisfaction.”
“I will give the Prince more than he bargained for..” (Y/n) said, venom in his voice.
——-
The tourney grounds roar with noise. Lances splinter, banners ripple, nobles gossip behind silk fans. The stands glitter with color and gold. The King rises in his chair, around him are the high council and the children of those, Alicent sits alone, for whatever reason her brother.. is missing. Viseryes stands up and bellows.
“Be welcome! I know many of you have traveled long leagues to be at these games.
But I promise, you will not be disappointed. When I look at the fine knights in these lists, I see a group without equal in our histories. And this great day has been made more auspicious by the news... that I am happy to share: Queen Aemma has begun her labors!”
Many cheer at this, Rhenerya slips in unannounced.
“May the luck of the Seven shine upon all combatants!”
The Tournament continues with its Revels, but a lone dark horse catches the eye of the Princess.
“A mystery knight?” She asks Alicent.
“No, a Cole, of the Stormlands.”
“I've never heard of House Cole.” Rhenerya says.
“Lord Stokeworth's daughter is promised to that young Tarly squire.
“Lord Massey's son?”
“They're to be married as soon as he wins his knighthood.”
“Best get on with it.”
“I heard that Lady Elinor is hiding a swollen belly beneath her dress.”
The First Bracket ends and incoming was th next, many houses trot in and the last, Daemon arrives.
“Master of Revels: Prince Daemon of House Targaryen, Prince of the City, will now choose his first opponent!”
“For his first challenge, Prince Daemon Targaryen chooses Ser Gwayne Hightower of Oldtown, eldest son of the Hand of the King!” Otto’s jaw tightens.
Daemon smirks behind his visor. A knight wearing the green and silver of House Hightower rides forward. But before the lances are set, another voice cuts across the arena.
The herald raises a hand. “Correction!” The murmuring grows louder. “The knight wearing the colors of House Hightower is not Ser Gwayne.” Then the proclamation rings out.
“He is Ser (Y/n) Hightower, second son of the Hand!”
The crowd erupts in surprise, Otto looks worried now, Alicent and Rhenerya look at each other and back.
“Five dragons on Daemon.” Someone whispers. But before the two can joust, daemon rubs salt into the wound.
“Nine on the Hightower.”
“Now, I'm fairly certain I can win these games, Lady Alicent. Having your favor would all but assure it.” Daemon said, Alicent had little choice but smiled, and placed her garland upon his Lance.
“Good luck, my Prince.” She said, Daemon trots back over, but another came. He rides slowly toward the royal gallery. The crowd quiets. He stops beneath the stand and looks up at the princess.
“Princess.” He says smiling. “If the prince may claim the favor of my sister… perhaps I might ask one of you.” Rhaenyra raises an eyebrow, The entire court leans forward.
(Y/n) continues: “Would you grant me yours?”
Now everyone is watching, a scandalous scene. Rhaenyra smiles slightly, clearly amused by the audacity. She unties a ribbon from her sleeve and lets it fall.
“Good Luck, Ser (Y/n)” she said with a smile.
(Y/n) catches it perfectly and He ties it around his lance, Then, with a faint smile: “My thanks, Princess. I shall win in your honor. And for you as well Dear sister.”
He rides back toward the stall.
The riders took their places. The horn sounded. Round one began in a thunder of hooves.
“YA!” The men yell and charge, thunderous hooves dance along the ground as they charge, lances ready. They met in the center of the lists with explosive force. Lances shattered against shield and armor, splinters flying through the air like wooden birds. Both men stayed in the saddle.
The crowd roared in approval. Yet as (Y/n) wheeled his horse around, a dark stain began spreading along his side where Daemon’s lance had slipped beneath the rim of his shield. The wound he suffered has gone to a worse degree.
High above, Alicent noticed immediately. Her fingers tightened around her own hands in anxiety, Otto winces.
⸻
Fresh lances were handed up. The horn sounded again. And Once they charged once more. This time the collision was even more violent, wood exploding into fragments as both riders struck cleanly and were yanked hard. But again, and Again neither man fell.
Another draw.
But as (Y/n) turned his horse, Alicent could see him press an arm briefly against his side.
He was wounded And hiding it. Rhaenyra followed her gaze down to the field. Below, Daemon had noticed as well, The prince smiled as his Prey was weakened.
⸻
The third pass was called. A hush fell across the tourney grounds. Both riders lowered their lances. The horn cried out and they charged.
Tunnel vision hits Daemon and he aims to deliver a killing blow, At the last instant (Y/n) adjusted his aim. His lance struck Daemon square in the chest. The prince was torn from his saddle and slammed into the hard dirt.
The crowd erupted in thunderous cheers as (Y/n) dropped the lance and threw his arm in the air.
But the triumph lasted only a heartbeat.
(Y/n)’s own horse stumbled from the impact.
He fell hard beside the barrier. For a moment the field lay still. Then Daemon rose, ripping off his helm.“Sword!” he barked. A blade was handed to him at once.
(Y/n) pushed himself to his feet, blood staining the edge of his armor. A squire hurried forward with a weapon.
(Y/n) growls, “Axe!” Steel flashed as he lifted it. “It seems the Princes wish to continue in one on one combat!” The Herald bellows.
The crowd roared louder than before. Daemon advanced. Their weapons met with a ringing crack.
Sword against axe.
Again.
Again. Even the king had risen from his seat, but only to leave for something.
(Y/n) shoved the blade away and swung his axe again, but the movement was slower now. Daemon slipped past the strike easily.
The next blow knocked the axe aside. (Y/n) was now on defense, badly. Another strike clipped his shoulder and forced him down to one knee. He was sundered by a powerful uppercut by Daemon. And the Prince of Oldtown fell.
The crowd gasped.
High above the lists, Alicent gasps, and Rheanerya Held her breath, leaning halfway from her seat before she could stop herself.
On the field, Daemon stepped back and raised his sword. He turned toward the stands, spreading his arms wide to soak in the cheers. The crowd roared for him, they always roared for the one of revels.
That moment of triumph lasted only a heartbeat. (Y/n) ripped off his helmet. Before anyone realized what he meant to do, he swung it. Daemon turned but it was too late.
The heavy steel helm crashed into Daemon’s jaw with a brutal crack.
The prince staggered.
The crowd’s roar turned to shocked laughter and shouts.
He struck again. The helmet slammed into Daemon’s shoulder this time, knocking the sword wide. Dirt and splits of blood sprayed as the prince stumbled backward.
The axe was gone. But the helmet was heavy. And he swung it like a mace.
Daemon recovered quickly, ducking the next strike and lunging forward again. Steel flashed between them, sword biting against a dented helm and battered shield. The two men crashed together and tumbled into the blood soaked dirt.
For a moment neither had the advantage.
Then (Y/n) drove his shoulder forward, shoving Daemon onto his back. The prince hit the ground hard. Before he could rise with his dagger, he mounted him, knees pinning his arms. With one hand he seized Daemon’s shield, With the other he raised it high. The edge gleamed, an executioner’s blade. The arena fell silent.
His chest heaved as he looked down at the prince beneath him, ready to Kill. Daemon stared back then, slowly, he smiled.
The Boys arm trembled with the weight of the shield.
“Yield,” he said.
For a long moment Daemon said nothing.
Then, with that same crooked grin still on his lips, he gave the slightest nod.
“I yield.” The tension shattered and the crowd erupted again.
The shield slipped from his grasp. The strength drained from his arms all at once.
He staggered to his feet—and then collapsed into the dirt.
Blood spread darkly beneath him where the lance had torn his side open.
High above the field, Alicent’s hand flew to her mouth.
Rhaenyra leaned back, eyes wide.
Daemon looked down at the fallen Hightower with something almost like admiration, he could cut the boys throat now. But with all these around him, not now.
He chuckled softly to himself.
Then turned away as the healers rushed forward, (Y/n) sat up, still holding it together as he looks to the kings council, looks of somber and sadness was on them, and his eye trail to Rhenerya, who looked to be holding back tears.
What fate was beheld for the Queen and the Heir to be?
————
The wind coming off Blackwater Bay was cold that morning.
Grey clouds rolled slowly across the sky, swallowing the sunlight and casting the cliffs of Dragonstone in a dull, mournful light. Below them the sea churned restlessly against the rocks.
A funeral pyre had been built near the water’s edge.
Upon it lay two bodies wrapped in fine cloth and linen: Queen Aemma and the infant prince who had never drawn breath.
The gathered court stood in quiet rows along the cliff. No music played. No voices carried across the wind. Even the dragons circling the island seemed distant and silent.
At the head of the gathering stood Viseryes, shoulders bent beneath a grief no crown could lighten. Beside him stood his daughter, Rhaenerya, Sorroful and silent, her silver hair stirred by the wind.
Further back among the court stood the Hightowers.
Otto with his usual composure, hands clasped before him. His expression was solemn, though his sharp eyes watched everything.
Beside him stood Alicent and (Y/n)
Her green dress moved softly in the breeze as she kept her gaze fixed on the pyre. Grief weighed on her face, though whether for the queen or the king she could not yet say.
The bandages beneath his tunic pulled painfully with every breath. The maesters had done what they could after the tournament, but the wound from Daemon’s lance still burned like a coal beneath his ribs.
He stood anyway.
That Victory felt strangely hollow now.
He glanced once toward the royal family.
Rhaenyra stood rigid beside her father, her eyes fixed on the pyre with a look that was entirely bloody grief. The warmth of her eyes were fading.
Viserys stepped forward slowly. For a moment the king simply stared at the bodies of his wife and child.
The wind tugged at his cloak. Beside the king, Rhaenyra stepped forward. Her dragon waited with her, wings folded and restless.
Syrax lifted her head as the princess approached.
Rhaenyra rested a hand against the dragon’s neck.
For a long moment she said nothing. Then she spoke a single word in High Valyrian.
“Dracarys.”
The dragon’s jaws opened. Flame burst forth in a roaring torrent, feeding the growing fire of the pyre. The heat washed across the cliffside as the flames rose higher.
Behind the gathered mourners, silence, suffering. The flames climbed higher into the darkening sky.
And somewhere within the crackling fire, the first chapter of grief in King’s Landing began.
————
Otto and Viseryes at night were rerunning to The Council.
“Where's Rhaenyra?” Viseryes asks. But Otto Begins.
“Your Grace. This is the last thing any of us wish to discuss at this dark hour, but I consider the matter urgent.”
“What matter?” Viseryes asks.
“…That of your succession. These recent tragedies have left you without an obvious heir.”
“The King has an heir, my Lord Hand—“
“Despite how difficult this time is, Your Grace, I feel it important the succession be firmly in place for the stability of the realm.”
“The succession is already set... by precedent and by law.” Strong says.
“Shall we say his name?l Corlys says, “Daemon Targaryen.”
“If Daemon were to remain the uncontested heir, it could destabilize the realm.” The Maester adds in.
“The realm? Or this council?” Corlys fires back.
“No one here can know what Daemon would do were he king, but no one can doubt his ambition.” The Master of Coin adds in but Otto is firm.
“Look at what he did with the gold cloaks. The City Watch is fiercely loyal to him. An army two thousand, strong.” He says, and Viseryes finally speaks up.
“An army you gave him, Otto. I named Daemon Master of Laws, but you said he was a tyrant. As Master of Coin, you said he was a spendthrift that would beggar the realm. Putting Daemon in command of the City Watch was your solution!”
“…A half-measure, Your Grace. The truth is, Daemon should be far away from this court.”
“Daemon is my brother. My blood. And he will have his place at my court.” Viseryes says.
“Let him keep his place at court, Your Grace, but if the gods should visit some further tragedy on you, either by design or by accident—“
“Hmm. "Design"? What are you saying? My brother would murder me, take my crown? Are you?! Please. Daemon has ambition, yes, but not for the throne. He lacks the patience for it.”
“The gods have yet to make a man who lacks the patience for absolute power, Your Grace.” Otto says.
“Under such circumstances, it would not be an aberration for the King to name a successor.” The Maester
“Well, who else would have a claim?” Strong asks.
“..The King's firstborn child.” Otto admits
“Rhaenyra? A girl? No queen has ever sat the Iron Throne.” Strong scoffs.
“That is only by tradition and precedent, Lord Strong—“
“If order and stability so concerns this council, then perhaps we shouldn't break years of it by naming a girl heir.”
“Daemon would be a second Maegor, or worse. He is impulsive and violent. It is the duty of this council to protect the King and the realm from him. I'm sorry, Your Grace, but that is the truth as I see it, and I know that others here agree.” Otto says.
“I will not be made to choose between my brother and my daughter.”
“You wouldn't have to, Your Grace.” Corlys said, “There are others who would have a claim.”
“Such as your wife, Lord Corlys?” Strong laughs at such a concept.
“Just moments ago, you announced your support for Daemon!”
“If we cannot agree on an heir, then how can we expect—“
“My wife and son are dead!” Viseryes screamed, silence cut though the room and everyone’s breath was held for a moment.
“I will not sit here and suffer crows that come to feast on their corpses!” Viseryes stormed off, and Otto had to set a new plan.
Outside the princess’s chambers stood Ser Harrold, silent like the armor he wore.
Footsteps approached slowly down the hall.
Ser (Y/n) Hightower stopped before him. The knight of the Kingsguard studied him for a moment. His gaze lingered briefly on the faint stain of blood still visible at the side of his tunic. Then Westerling stepped aside.
The door opened quietly. Inside, the chamber was dark save for a few candles burning low beside the bed.
Rhaenerya was near the window, her back to the door. The black sea beyond the world reflected faint moonlight, turning the room into shadows and silver.
She did not turn when he entered. The door closed behind him with a soft sound. For a moment neither of them moved, he didn’t know what to say.
Rhaenyra’s shoulders trembled once. Then again. The sound that followed was small at first. A breath catching itself before the weep. She lifted a hand to her face. The grief she had held through the funeral finally broke.
Tears fell silently as she tried and failed to steady herself. (Y/n) watched her for a moment. Then he crossed the room. He simply placed his arms around her. Rhaenyra turned into him immediately, burying her face against his shoulder as the quiet sobs came harder now.
He held her there. One hand resting gently against the back of her head, the other steady at her back.
The candles flickered softly around them. While he held the woman he loved dearly, Otto was playing a deadly game, as Alicent walked to the Bedchambers of the King.
———
The Next morning rose like an eerie Dawn. And Otto began the meeting a bit, fractured.
“Before we begin, Your Grace, I have a report I feel compelled to share. Last night... Prince Daemon bought out one of the pleasure houses on the Street of Silk... to entertain officers of the City Watch and other friends of his….He toasted Prince Baelon. Styling him "The Heir for a Day."
I corroborated this report with three separate witnesses. The evening was, by all accounts a... celebration.” Otto says, Rhenerya, the Cupbearer also heard this, and it was not good.
Daemon was ordered to meet with the king inside the throne room. Daemon entered, unbeknownst to him, into a viper nest.
“You cut the image of the conqueror, brother.” Daemon begins the interaction friendly.
“Did you say it?” Viseryes say cutting it short, silence fell as Daemon slightly played dumb.
“..I don't know what you mean—“
“You will address me as "Your Grace," or I will have my Kingsguard cut out your tongue…"The Heir for a Day." Did you say it?” He asked once more, Daemon, now caught had little to respond with.
“We must all mourn in our own way, Your Grace.” He said, but Viseryes anger was hot, passionate by the guilt, rage and grief he was feeling.
“My family has just been destroyed. But instead of being by my side, or Rhaenyra's, you chose to celebrate your own rise Laughing with your whores and your lickspittles! You have no allies at court but me! I have only ever defended you! Yet everything I've given you, you've thrown back in my face.” Viseryes says, an Daemon, finally allowed his heart to sing.
“You've only ever tried to send me away. To the Vale, to the City Watch, anywhere but by your side. Ten years you've been king, and yet not once have you asked me to be your Hand!”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because I'm your brother. And the blood of the dragon runs thick.”
“Then why do you cut me so deeply?”
“I've only ever spoken the truth. I see Otto Hightower for what he is.
“An unwavering and loyal Hand?”
“A Cunt.” A second son who stands to inherit nothing he doesn't seize for himself.
“Otto Hightower is a more honorable man
than you could ever be.”
“He doesn't protect you. I would.”
“From what?”
“…Yourself. You're weak... Viserys. And that council of leeches knows it. They all prey on you for their own ends.” Daemon says, Viseryes, rather give response, declares a new word.
“I have decided to name a new heir.”
“I'm your heir.”
“Not anymore. You are to return to Runestone and your lady wife at once, and you are to do so without quarrel by order of your King.” With that decree, daemon is left with no choice.
Night falls once more, and Viseryes meets his daughter, who he barely has spoken to, she walks down the stone steps into the crypt, adorned by candles and the massive dragons skull that lay itself upon display.
“Father.” She says.
“Balerion was the last living creature to have seen Old Valyria before the Doom. Its greatness and its flaws. When you look at the dragons, what do you see?”
“What?” Rhenerya asks, “You haven't spoken a word to me since Mother's funeral,
and now you send your Kingsguard down...”
“Answer me. It's important. What do you see?”
“I suppose I see us.” She admits.
“Tell me. Everyone says Targaryens are closer to gods than to men, but they say that because of our dragons. Without them, we're just like everyone else. The idea that we control the dragons... is an illusion.
They're a power man should never have trifled with. One that brought Valyria its doom. If we don't mind our own histories, it will do the same to us. Targaryen must understand this to be King... or Queen.” He explained, Rhenerya saw the guilt in her fathers eyes.
“I'm sorry, Rhaenyra. I have wasted the years since you were born... wanting for a son. You are the very best of your mother.
And I believe it, I know she did, that you could be a great ruling queen.”
“Daemon is your heir—“
“Daemon was not made to wear the crown. But I believe that you were. This is no trivial gesture, Rhaenyra. A dragon's saddle is one thing, but the Iron Throne is the most dangerous seat in the realm. There's something else that I need to tell you.” He said, and she took a step closer, Viseryes sighs.
“It might be difficult for you to understand, but you must hear it. Our histories... they tell us that Aegon looked across the Blackwater from Dragonstone, and saw a rich land ripe for the capture. But ambition alone is not what drove him to conquest. It was a dream.
And just as Daenys foresaw the end of Valyria, Aegon foresaw the end of the world of men. 'Tis to begin with a terrible winter gusting out of the distant north. Aegon saw absolute darkness riding on those winds.
And whatever dwells within will destroy the world of the living.
When this Great Winter comes, Rhaenyra... all of Westeros must stand against it. And if the world of men is to survive, a Targaryen must be seated on the Iron Throne. A king or queen, strong enough to unite the realm against the cold and the dark. Aegon called his dream "The Song of Ice and Fire." This secret... it's been passed from king to heir since Aegon's time. Now you must promise to carry it... and protect it. Promise me this, Rhaenyra. Promise me.”
——-
That promise was kept, and on that day, as many gathered to swear fealty and honor to the King they also acknowledge the Princess and now, Heir. Everyone gathered to kneel. Boratheon, Stark, Lannister, Hightower. Everyone turned to the King for his decree and he spoke as such:
“I, Viserys Targaryen, first of his name... King of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, do hereby name...”
“Rhaenyra Targaryen; Princess of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne.”