After the ceremony, King Viserys ordered a grand feast for his guests.
He was pleased with the lords’ submission.
He called for more wine.
Otto Hightower sat beside him, offering congratulations that never reached his eyes.
Fools performed for the crowd.
The Red Keep’s cooks presented a pigeon pie as large as a table.
The king, in high spirits, cracked it open himself.
A flock of doves burst from the steaming pastry, soaring toward the ceiling.
The noble children cheered.
The hall rang with laughter.
Rhaenyra patiently received the lords who came to pay their respects.
Then she called her Crownlands bannermen aside for a private word.
“You are all lords of the Crownlands.
Your fortunes rise and fall with the crown.
I need not explain this to you.
You are seasoned servants of the realm.
My father and I hold you in high regard.” “He has placed the burden of heirship upon my shoulders.
I fear I may shame the Seven and tarnish House Targaryen’s glory.” She rested her chin on her hand, feigning worry, while her half-lidded eyes studied the room.
The lesser lords rushed to speak.
“We will defend the crown!” “Rest assured, Princess.
My knights are yours to command.” The greater lords took a moment longer to respond.
They had families to consider.
“We are at your service, Princess,” said Lord Gunthor Darklyn of Duskendale.
His uncle was a Kingsguard.
House Darklyn was bound to Rhaenyra’s cause.
Others followed: Houses Bar Emmon of Sharp Point, Massey of Stokeworth, and Staunton of Rook’s Rest.
“Fear not, Princess.
The Crownlands stand with the crown.” “Yes, yes.
What the princess says goes.” “Let any man defy her.
He will answer to us all.” As expected, the Crownlands lords were loyal.
They had been the first to follow Aegon in his conquest.
They were her bedrock.
Even the faint-hearted would not dare oppose her now, not after so many lords had sworn fealty.
Striking while the iron was hot, Rhaenyra pressed on.
“Since you are so generous, I will not refuse your kindness.
The crown has several requests.” Some lords inwardly balked.
Would she demand their gold and grain?
Ovar Bollery, a baron near the Blackwater Rush, clenched his jaw.
Greedy woman.
He was famously miserly, hoarding his wealth while his smallfolk starved along the riverbanks.
“As Princess of Dragonstone and heir to the throne, I am establishing a household of my own.
I shall call it the Princess’s Household.” “King’s Landing needs hands—many hands.
If any of you have spare sons who can read, knights who can fight, skilled craftsmen, scholars, seamstresses, maids, or stewards, send them to me.
I will have work for all.” Merit in service to the crown.
The words echoed in every lord’s mind.
Those with deeper resources kept their faces neutral.
“I do not fully understand this ‘Household,’ but it must be the seed of her own small council.
My second son is well-lettered.
Perhaps he can find a future here.” “My nephew is a fine fighter.
A court guard, or even a Gold Cloak, would suit him.” Rhaenyra needed her own people.
She could only draw from her own vassals.
In this medieval world, commoners were largely illiterate, and knights were better fed and armed.
She needed noble support to govern.
Before the lords could finish thinking, she continued.
“Second, the Household needs supplies.
Livestock, iron tools, farming equipment, weapons, ore, clothing, armor, grain.
This is not compulsory—give what you can.
I will pay current market prices.
If I fall short, I will repay you with interest.” “Third, I seek magical texts and rare minerals.
I will describe what I need.
Any lord who finds such things will be richly rewarded.” “Oh, and one more thing.
High-yield crops, fine seed, and warhorses.
The crown offers a bounty.” She finished in one breath.
The lords exchanged glances, then accepted her terms.
They promised to do their best.
Rhaenyra nodded, satisfied.
The Crownlands lords were indeed docile.
Other regions would have been less cooperative.
Vassals in Westeros were largely autonomous unless they rebelled outright.
A voice whispered at her ear.
“Princess, you may be looking in the wrong direction.” “The Velaryons of Driftmark are powerful.
Their fleet and trade network span the known world.
If anyone can find information, rare spices, or ores, it is them.
The Hightowers of Oldtown are another option, but they are…” Rhaenyra glanced at Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys, seated apart from the Crownlands lords.
She knew their worth.
But what would it cost?
Favor was a currency that demanded repayment.
Still, it did not hurt to try.
She straightened her gown and walked toward the couple.
Corlys and Rhaenys had come without their children.
They sat in quiet dignity.
Their close allies and neighbors had all been summoned away by Rhaenyra.
She almost turned back.
Too late.
Their eyes were already on her.
She steeled herself.
Who told me to do this again?
“Good day, Lord Velaryon.
Good day, Aunt Rhaenys.” “Good day, Princess.” She put on her brightest smile.
“Lord Corlys, your reputation precedes you.
I hear your fleet has returned from the Free Cities with another fortune.
Your tales of adventure are legendary.” Corlys remained impassive.
He raised his cup.
“I drink to the Princess of Dragonstone.
To the heir of the Seven Kingdoms.” Rhaenyra tried another angle.
“Aunt—” Corlys cut her off.
“This is your day, Princess.
You need not keep two old folk company.
Go mingle with the great lords.” It was a dismissal.
She pressed on.
“The crown requires some supplies and information.” “Princess.” Rhaenys gave an apologetic smile.
“If the crown has need, let it be raised at the small council.
House Velaryon will answer.” Only through my father.
No direct dealings with me.
Rhaenyra had expected this.
“If you have pressing needs, you are welcome at Driftmark.
My son Laenor is your age.
He has just claimed the dragon Seasmoke.
I am sure you would have much to discuss.” With that, they departed.
“Perhaps I will visit Driftmark,” Rhaenyra said, smiling through gritted teeth.
Old snake.
I see exactly what you are doing.
Rhaenys paused and turned back.
“Rhaenyra.
Your path will not be easy.
Those who opposed me then will not stand for you now.” Are you seeing yourself in me?
Rhaenyra watched them go.
“Come, Elly.
This act is over.” Beneath a thick shroud of night, a great beast stirred.
Its skin glowed like blood in the darkness.
It let out a hungry roar.
“SKAHR!” This was Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm—one of House Targaryen’s fiercest dragons.
Its rider had made his decision to leave.
The dragon was about to take flight when footsteps approached.
“SKAHR!” “Hold, Caraxes.” It was Rhaenyra, fresh from the feast.
She knew Daemon Targaryen was leaving King’s Landing, taking his mistress Mysaria with him.
“Uncle, you are going?” She feigned ignorance.
Daemon stood beside the dragon.
Caraxes sensed his master’s mood and did not attack.
“Uncle, what of your men in the city?
You are abandoning your post as Commander of the City Watch?” Daemon grew agitated.
He mounted the dragon.
Before taking off, he threw a parting line over his shoulder.
“My men have their uses.
We shall see if you can command them!” The dragon launched into the sky, kicking up clouds of dust.
Guards rushed forward to ensure Rhaenyra’s safety.
She sighed quietly.
Daemon was sharp.
He had sensed her hidden guards and spotted Syrax circling nearby, ready to intervene.
She had not planned to harm him.
Only to be prepared.
So Uncle has left.
Is he angry?
Unlike me, who only pities him…
and his control over King’s Landing.