Days passed.
King’s Landing grew ever more crowded as lords great and small arrived from across the realm, accompanied by their families, guards, and retainers.
Lesser lords might leave their families behind, but they always brought guards.
The roads of Westeros were not as safe as they seemed.
Criminals, mutilated men, thieves, and murderers lurked beneath the kingdom’s peaceful surface, waiting to spring out and deliver a nasty surprise.
The first to arrive were the lords of the Crownlands.
They were closest.
Some had relatives or friends already serving Viserys I within the Red Keep.
Next came the Riverlords and the lords of the Reach.
The Vale’s nobles arrived slightly later, hindered by the mountain passes.
They entered the city alongside the Stormlords.
The Westermen followed, led by the Lannisters.
Their lavish spending gave King’s Landing’s merchants a welcome windfall.
The Ironborn were the most despised.
They clung to the Old Way of reaving and raiding to please their Drowned God.
To the ironborn, mercy was weakness.
Last came the North.
Lord Stark marched into King’s Landing with a great host at his back.
Rhaenyra slapped her thigh in thought, leaving a red mark beneath her gown.
She barely felt it.
After hearing the reports on the lords’ movements, she was puzzled.
“Send for Maester Ramos,” she ordered.
A handmaiden fetched the maester, who followed her to a terrace adorned with roses and fresh flowers.
A round table of carved oak sat in the spacious area.
Rhaenyra was seated at the head, smiling.
This had been one of her mother’s favorite spots in the Red Keep, offering a fine view of King’s Landing’s rooftops and spires.
“Maester Ramos.” Rhaenyra gestured for a handmaiden to pour the maester some hot tea.
“The city is bustling.
Why have you not visited your old friends and kin?” Ramos gave a rueful smile.
“The Citadel calls me a heretic.
I was driven out long ago.
They nearly took back my maester’s chain.” Sensing his discomfort, both fell silent.
Rhaenyra cleared her throat.
“The city is full of nobles, but one thing puzzles me.
You are well-traveled.
Perhaps you can enlighten me.” “Speak freely, Princess.” “Why has the North brought so many people?
They do not seem like a war host.
There are families, elderly, youths, and wagons laden with belongings.
It looks like a migration, not a retinue fit for Lord Stark.” Other lords had different agendas.
Some sought out friends and relatives.
Others tested their martial skill in friendly bouts.
Still others inquired after eligible marriages among neighboring houses.
Some were openly hostile, ready to tear each other apart the moment they met.
The Blackwoods of Raventree Hall and the Brackens of Stone Hedge were the prime example.
Their feud stretched back centuries.
No liege lord had ever been able to end their bloodshed.
Even during the civil war, they were still fighting.
Rhaenyra found their history exhausting to read.
The Blackwoods were one of the few houses that kept the old gods and preserved First Men blood.
Their sigil was a flock of ravens surrounding a dead weirwood tree on a black shield.
Their name came from Raventree Hall, where a massive dead weirwood stood in the godswood.
Every evening, flocks of ravens roosted in its branches.
The Blackwoods believed the Brackens had poisoned the tree long ago.
Maester Ramos considered for a moment.
“Princess, this is a Northern tradition.
Winters in the North are harsh.
Whenever Lord Stark travels south for war or celebration, the homeless, the childless, the unmarried, second sons, and the elderly follow him.” “Those who know they cannot survive another winter seek to die in the south.
In war, they march to battle, raid, and fall with glory, sparing their families one less mouth to feed.
In peace, they follow their lord to the capital or beyond, hoping to find work and survive.” “I see.
Thank you, Maester.” That explained it.
No wonder King’s Landing would become swollen with refugees in the years to come.
Flea Bottom was a powder keg waiting to explode.
It was no surprise that the High Sparrow would rise to power, and Cersei would become the Queen of Ashes.
King Aerys had once declared he would make King’s Landing a city of blackened bone and charred flesh, to rule as the King of Ashes.
He never managed it.
Cersei did.
Refugees did not only come from the North.
The South had greater resources, but even there, life was hard for common folk.
That was why Northern soldiers were such fierce fighters.
They understood living off the land.
When Robb Stark marched to war, the Riverlands were stripped bare by his army.
Rhaenyra asked more questions.
The maester answered each one.
Their rapport grew warm.
After Ramos left, Elly busied herself preparing Rhaenyra’s attire for the next day’s ceremony.
Daemon came to the Red Keep, seeking an audience with his brother.
Viserys refused him entry.
The king’s fury had not cooled.
Daemon had not expected to lose his inheritance so abruptly, or perhaps he still refused to accept it.
He was lost.
He loved his brother, yet he could not contain his ambition.
This was the Targaryen blood, the hunger for more, even when it tore him apart.
He wanted his brother’s approval, but Viserys no longer trusted him.
He found Rhaenyra carrying pastries to the king.
“You are fortunate, girl.” He did not lift his eyes from the floor he knew so well.
“I watched you grow.
From a tiny thing to what you are now.
I loved you as your father did.” His voice trembled.
“But I wish you had never been born.” His tone hardened.
“If only you were not a Targaryen.
No.
If only you were my nephew.
Then I could accept it.” “I would serve you, as I served your father.” Daemon looked up.
His eyes were bloodshot.
“Targaryens do not have queens.” He straightened his proud back and walked out of the Red Keep, masking the defeat that clung to him.
As his figure receded, Rhaenyra’s voice followed him.
“Daemon, I was never your enemy.” The great hall brimmed with lords and ladies.
Goblets clinked.
Laughter and chatter filled the air.
Dragon skulls hung on the walls, testaments to Targaryen glory.
Portraits of past monarchs looked down from their frames.
Artists and scholars worked in the corners, capturing the moment.
King Viserys I stood at the center.
His gaze was firm, yet it softened whenever it fell upon his daughter.
He formally named Rhaenyra Princess of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne.
Then he commanded the lords to swear their fealty.
Rhaenyra stood among the crowd.
She wore a gown of black and red velvet.
Her bodice was woven with intricate Myrish lace, studded with pearls and jewels that caught the light.
Her silver-gold hair was braided and coiled upon her head.
The lords knelt in a great wave.
The foremost among them laid their swords across their hands in oath.
Viserys placed the heir’s crown upon Rhaenyra’s head.
She bowed to her father, then turned to face the kneeling assembly.
Daemon Targaryen lurked at the back, watching in secret.
“By the Seven Above, and by the Targaryen kings who came before!” Rhaenyra’s voice rang clear.
She did not waver.
Some lords and courtiers breathed easier.
Viserys looked upon her with pride.
“I swear this as Princess of Dragonstone and heir to the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men.” Her gaze swept the hall.
Friends and enemies alike met her eyes.
“To all who swear with steel, I shall not turn sword or dragonfire against you.
My blade and flame are for oathbreakers alone.
My knights shall slay only those who wrong me.
My dragons shall take vengeance only upon the leaders of my enemies.
My father and mother were true dragons of Targaryen blood.
I am the daughter of dragons.
I am the rightful queen.
My ancestors came from Valyria.
They brought fire and blood.
They landed in the Crownlands.
They conquered the Seven Kingdoms.
I shall be Queen of Westeros.
The world shall take notice.
Because I will be the finest queen this realm has ever known.” They saw a flower unfurl before them, breathtaking in its beauty.
Yet none could ignore the cold, razor edge hidden within.
Deep in the crowd, Daemon Targaryen understood.
This was Rhaenyra’s answer to his words.