Maester Ramos was a witty and engaging scholar.
His lessons were far more accessible than those of Grand Maester Runciter, the king’s own tutor.
Runciter was old, stern, and utterly traditional.
He was Viserys’s most trusted personal advisor and held considerable influence on the small council.
He was also responsible for Rhaenyra’s education.
Rhaenyra found him overly solemn and dreadfully dull, like the dean of her old university.
Two or three other maesters served as his assistants.
The one Rhaenyra remembered most clearly was Septon Eustace of the Red Keep.
At this very moment, Grand Maester Runciter was gathering his assistants to dispatch ravens across the realm.
They summoned lords great and small to King’s Landing for the investiture ceremony.
King Viserys had already publicly declared his heir at the last small council meeting.
Rhaenyra had been present, though her father had long instructed her to observe and hold her tongue.
Grand Maester Runciter was Viserys’s advisor and friend.
He supported the decision.
The Hand of the King, Otto Hightower, whose political enemy was Daemon, remained neutral and said nothing.
Lord Beesbury, the Master of Coin, nodded slightly and winked at Rhaenyra.
She returned his smile with warmth.
She had plans for the crown’s finances, and this old lord had, in the original history, died defending her claim.
She held deep respect for him.
The small council of Viserys I consisted of the following men: Hand of the King: Ser Otto HightowerLord Commander of the Kingsguard: Ser Harrold WesterlingGrand Maester: RunciterMaster of Laws: Lord Lyonel StrongMaster of Coin: Lord Lyman Beesbury The position of Master of Ships was currently vacant, though an empty chair at the table awaited its occupant.
Even the court fools knew that seat was meant for Lord Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake.
When he came to King’s Landing, the king would grant him a place at the council.
Lord Corlys had arrived from Driftmark that very day.
His stance on the succession was notably noncommittal.
Lord Lyonel Strong, the new Master of Laws, had only recently taken office.
He had no existing factional ties.
He supported the king’s decision.
His eldest son, Harwin, had been appointed a captain of the City Watch.
His second son, Larys, served as one of Viserys’s confessors.
His two daughters had been made handmaidens to Princess Rhaenyra.
House Strong was clearly loyal.
Lord Lyonel had been appointed in 105 AC.
His children were still on their way to King’s Landing.
The Strong family traveled along a country road.
Inside the carriage, the two Strong girls whispered excitedly about their new life in King’s Landing.
Laughter drifted from within.
A young man sat at the carriage’s edge, apparently annoyed by his sisters’ chatter.
His gaze was fixed on the man leading the party ahead.
That man was Harwin Strong.
Heir to Harrenhal and eldest son of Lord Lyonel Strong.
He was broad-shouldered and handsome, riding at the head of the column, surrounded by the family’s knights.
“Brother.” The young man on the carriage finally spoke.
He was Larys Strong, the second son, called “the Lame.” One of his feet had been twisted since birth, forcing him to drag it as he walked.
His injury prevented him from riding like his brother.
“Our father has become Master of Laws.
What do you intend to do?” Larys stared intently at Harwin’s warhorse.
Harwin did not turn around.
He did not notice the strangeness in his brother’s gaze.
“I will follow Father’s orders.
We will protect King’s Landing and the Red Keep together.” “Did you know?
They say Princess Rhaenyra will be named heir.
King’s Landing may become dangerous.
Her uncle Daemon commands two thousand Gold Cloaks.
Are you not afraid?” Larys’s tone was knowing.
Before Harwin could answer, Larys continued.
“Princess Rhaenyra is the Realm’s Delight.
Beloved by all.
She is destined for the Iron Throne.
Young knights everywhere are captivated by her.
Her suitors are legion.
Brother, you are a famous champion yourself.
Have you never thought of becoming a Targaryen prince consort?” Harwin flushed red.
“Don’t speak nonsense, Larys!
How could I dare think such things?
Father would beat me senseless!” The knights of the lesser branches overheard and began to tease him.
“Who says it’s nonsense?
We’ll have to discuss it with Ser Strong once we reach King’s Landing!” “Save us a cup of wedding wine!” “Familiarity leads to affection, Harwin!” The good-natured ribbing drew laughter from the group.
Inside the carriage, the curious girls lifted the curtain to see what the commotion was about.
Only one person clenched his jaw tightly.
The inheritance is yours.
The best horse is yours.
The girls of our lands all look at you.
The elders favor you.
The knights admire you.
And I am a second son.
I have nothing.
Lame Larys looked away, his fingers digging into his twisted leg.
Within the Red Keep, no one had spoken against the king’s decision.
The succession was settled.
Ravens carried the news across the realm.
In the Reach, House Tyrell.
An elderly lord sat in the high seat as his maester read the raven’s message.
When he finished, he turned to his beautiful wife.
“A young dragon.
I wonder if she will fly.” The lady nodded, her expression unreadable.
In the North, Winterfell.
An ancient castle.
A stern father and a gentle mother.
A half-grown boy sat at the table, devouring a honeyed chicken leg.
The maester descended from the rookery with news.
The Lord of Winterfell listened in silence, then dispatched more ravens to the other northern lords.
The boy was still fixated on his meal.
In the West, Casterly Rock.
A letter was thrown into the fire.
The sound of a violin echoed through the gilded hall.
Stone lions seemed to roar at unseen enemies.
In the Riverlands, Riverrun.
A middle-aged man rushed into the great hall, where voices clashed in heated debate.
He wiped the sweat from his brow.
In the Vale, the Eyrie.
A beautiful girl whispered to her companion, then pointed toward King’s Landing.
In the Stormlands.
In the Iron Islands.
The ravens flew on.
Rhaenyra stood on the Red Keep’s balcony, watching them vanish into the sky.
After a long moment, she spread her arms wide, as if embracing the falling sun.
Twilight stretched her shadow, distorting it into the shape of a coiled dragon.
She stood there like a figure from some ancient drama, her silhouette set against the fading light, as the curtain rose on her story.