The Blackwater Rush flowed peacefully.
It was the great river that sustained King’s Landing’s hundreds of thousands.
Ships came and went, all bound for the same destination.
The city’s grain stores were still sufficient.
The treasury remained full.
Ships carried everything the princess required from the lords’ lands.
This was her authority, and her burden.
“Maester Ramos, the work in King’s Landing is not infinite.
But my plans are long-term.
After the roads are built and the slums are cleared, the harbor will also need repairs.
That is a monumental task.” “Take this seriously.
You will be one of my most essential councilors.
I hope we can serve each other well.” “Yes, Princess.” Rhaenyra was offering a future office.
Most responded well to such promises.
Ramos especially.
He had been looked down upon by the Citadel’s high officers and nearly expelled.
He had the pride of a scholar.
Rhaenyra had worked hard to set the city’s idle hands to labor.
She believed that if she solved these problems, she would win the people’s trust and loyalty.
No future agitator would be able to stir up riots against her.
She intended to win the people before her enemies could.
Maester Ramos returned to his post, his heart unsettled.
The young princess’s ambitions were unlike any lord’s he had known.
Her great-grandfather, her grandfather, even her father had never given a thought to King’s Landing’s poor.
She had noticed them.
She labored for them.
The people’s cries of “Realm’s Delight” and “Merciful Princess” were no lie.
In the Red Keep, the king was also puzzled.
Other noble ladies spent their days admiring flowers, hosting tea parties, and doing needlework.
His own wild girl had once loved sneaking off to fly her dragon.
Why, now that she was heir, was she running around after commoners?
A proper noble lady would faint at the sight of ragged, bruised peasants.
She would lean on a handsome knight to steady herself, preserve her dignity, and secretly wish the Gold Cloaks would drive them away.
His daughter went to eat with the workers.
He barely saw her for days.
When he sent someone to ask, they said she was busy with affairs of state.
Was a crown princess busier than a king?
Viserys was a little vexed.
Though he was also busy.
The Three Daughters had allied with pirates in the Stepstones.
There were disputes between lords to settle.
Land disputes to mediate.
To strengthen Rhaenyra’s authority, he had punished Otto Hightower.
Yet deep down, he was not truly angry.
Like his grandfather, the Old King, and his father before him, he was an open-handed monarch, beloved by the nobles.
Perhaps too open-handed at times.
His policy of favoring the lords had preserved the peace his grandfather had built.
The realm prospered.
A king on the Iron Throne learned to tolerate the great lords’ mistakes, and occasionally even compromise.
Neither he nor his grandfather were like Maegor the Cruel, willing to wage bloody war for their crowns.
Viserys saw nothing wrong with this.
Ruling the Seven Kingdoms had always been a game of power.
But his daughter Rhaenyra was unlike any Targaryen ruler.
He was still annoyed with her.
His daughter had always been good, except for that one outburst after her mother died.
Ah, Aemma.
If only you were here.
You could manage her.
His hand stilled.
The queen’s death was a wound that never fully healed.
It ached whenever he remembered.
Well.
Rhaenyra is good enough.
Some of his grandfather’s daughters had been rebellious, at odds with their father.
At least his own daughter was obedient.
She had not shamed the crown.
Take Ser Criston Cole.
Viserys knew Rhaenyra had feelings for the knight.
But he trusted her to know her limits.
She would not disgrace the family.
She was his daughter.
She had the pride of a true dragon, just as he did.
“Your Grace, Ser Criston Cole requests an audience.” A guard’s voice came from outside the door.
“Send him in.” Criston Cole walked in with a long face.
Behind him came Elly, Rhaenyra’s handmaiden.
“Your Grace.” Elly curtsied.
She took out a platter of dew-kissed apples, plums, and other fruits from a basket and set them on the king’s table.
“The princess sends her regards,” Elly said.
“This morning, farmers came to the city gates to sell their fruit.
The princess bought some and chilled them in the well all morning.
They are at their freshest now.
She asked me to bring them to you.
She also said she is sorry she cannot spend more time with you.” Viserys’s mood brightened.
Cole’s remained sour.
Every time he was near the princess, she sent him away.
Supervising work.
Putting down unrest.
When he returned, she sent him straight back to the Red Keep.
She seemed to be avoiding him.
Cole sighed.
Perhaps she was simply trusting him with important tasks.
But something felt off.
Alicent Hightower was equally perplexed by Rhaenyra.
She had not seen her friend in days.
The Red Keep’s maids said the princess was busy governing the city.
This was not the Rhaenyra she remembered.
The girl who had shared romantic confessions.
The girl who debated the glories of Nymeria.
It was as though she had been reborn, leaving no trace of her former self.
Alicent had always approached her with purpose.
But she had not expected to drift apart so quickly.
Otto Hightower was also troubled.
His daughter was a proper noble lady, well-regarded, obedient.
She enjoyed flowers, tea parties, and needlework.
She would faint at the sight of ragged commoners.
A model daughter.
But she had failed the task he gave her.
Otto had never spoken of his daughter’s marriage to anyone.
She was his pearl, the pride of House Hightower.
He had once considered matching her with Daemon Targaryen, the “Rogue Prince.” It would have been a valuable alliance.
But Daemon had refused outright, as though Hightower women were beneath him.
That was an insult Otto had not forgiven.
He had urged the king to marry Daemon to a wild Valewoman.
Then he had worked to block Daemon’s appointments, forcing him from office to office until he settled for Commander of the City Watch.
And now Daemon had slunk out of the city.
A triumph.
But Otto’s joy was short-lived.
The king had confined him to his quarters and stripped him of the Hand’s office.
His face darkened.
But then he thought of something that pleased him.
His spies said Daemon’s bastard was about to be born.
Let them tear each other apart.
Targaryens.
As for Alicent, Otto had made his decision.
The Hightowers needed a queen.
The position of dowager queen was vacant.
The great lords’ daughters knew their duty.
The Red Keep was ready for the green of the Hightower.
He spoke to his daughter in a grim tone.
“My daughter, you must fulfill your purpose.
Hightower needs your courage.
Become part of the royal household.
Be the most honored woman in the Seven Kingdoms.” “Yes, Father.” Alicent bowed her head, obedient as always.
She had graduated from her father’s concerns.