The year 107 AC, Westeros, King’s Landing.
Inside the Queen’s chambers in Maegor’s Holdfast, the air was currently thick with the mixed scent of iron and herbs.
Queen Alicent Hightower lay quietly on blood-stained sheets, her chestnut curls soaked with sweat and clinging to her pale cheeks.
Her fingers gripped the bedpost with a deathly hold, her knuckles white, as every contraction contorted her beautiful face.
“Push, Your Grace, it’s almost out!” the midwife shouted, her rough hands pressing against the Queen’s swollen belly.
Candlelight cast flickering shadows upon the walls.
Outside, night shrouded the Red Keep, and the distant sound of waves from Blackwater Bay was faintly audible.
It was a sweltering summer night, yet the room was filled with too many braziers—an order personally given by the Queen’s father, Ser Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, to prevent the mother from catching a chill.
Alicent bit her lower lip, stifling a scream.
This was her first child, but the pain was not lessened in the slightest.
Fragmented thoughts flashed through her mind:
The sight of her father, Otto, waiting outside the hall; her husband, Viserys, likely laughing with jesters on the veranda at this moment; and then there was that girl—
Rhaenyra, her ten-year-old stepdaughter, who must be in her own room right now, harboring resentment toward this unborn brother or sister.
“The head is out!
I see the head!”
The pain reached its peak, and Alicent’s vision went dark.
She felt her body being torn apart as something broke free from her flesh to enter the world.
On the edge of her consciousness, she heard only the hurried footsteps of handmaids, the soft clinking of porcelain vials as the maesters prepared Moon tea, and a beastly low growl from her own throat that no noble lady should ever make.
Then came a sharp sense of relief.
The cry of an infant pierced the oppressive atmosphere of the room.
“It’s a boy!
Seven blessings, it’s a healthy boy!”
Alicent collapsed onto the pillows, her chest heaving.
Through her blurred vision, she saw the midwife lift the bloody little life.
In the candlelight, the infant’s skin appeared pale purple, quickly turning pink.
His cry was loud and strong, and his tiny hands flailed in the air.
“Let me see him,” Alicent’s voice was incredibly weak.
Wrapped in a soft wool blanket, the infant was brought before her.
Alicent gazed at the wrinkled little face, first noticing the thin layer of silver hair, and then, as she leaned closer, the baby slowly opened his eyes—
Purple.
Pure violet eyes belonging to House Targaryen, watching her with an uncanny clarity.
Alicent felt an inexplicable flutter in her heart.
Meanwhile, just outside the birthing room, Otto Hightower stood by the stone window with his hands behind his back.
Though the Hand of the King was over forty, his posture remained as straight as a spear, his grey hair neatly combed back.
He looked down at the sparsely lit King’s Landing, yet his ears caught every sound from the birthing room.
Footsteps echoed from the long corridor.
Otto didn’t need to turn to know who it was—
These familiar, light, and somewhat hesitant steps belonged to only one person.
“Lord Hand,” Alicent’s personal handmaid, Terra, called softly.
“The Queen is still laboring, but the maester says it should be soon.”
Otto turned, his sharp gaze sweeping over his daughter’s most trusted maid.
“Where is the King?”
“In the Godswood.
His Grace said…”
“…that after praying to the Seven, he would pray to the Old Gods for the safety of the Queen and the child.” Terra lowered her head, her voice even softer.
“With Princess Rhaenyra.”
A cold sneer brushed past the corners of Otto’s mouth.
Praying to the Old Gods?
Since when had his dear friend Viserys Targaryen become so pious?
This was clearly an excuse to avoid this awkward situation—
His daughter was bearing him an heir, while the daughter from his previous queen was approaching marriageable age.
The “merciful” King was well aware of the subtleties involved.
“How has Princess Rhaenyra been lately?” Otto walked toward the fireplace, flames dancing in his grey eyes.
Terra chose her words carefully: “Her Highness spends her mornings in the Library Tower studying history and astronomy, and her afternoons practicing horsemanship and the harp.
She…
she rarely mentions the Queen’s impending labor.”
“But she did petition the King weeks ago to place a dragon egg in the newborn’s cradle.” Otto’s tone was flat, yet it made Terra shiver.
“Yes, His Grace granted it.
The egg is from Dreamfyre, with a golden shell.
It’s the same one you led a team to retrieve from Prince Daemon, which the Princess eventually brought back…”
Otto remained silent for a moment.
It was a clever move—
If the newborn was a girl, it was merely a kind gift from an older sister;
If it was a boy, it was a “marking” by the future Queen of her potential rival for the succession, a silent declaration:
“Look, even the gift given to you is thanks to me; my position is unshakeable.”
Of course, in reality, Otto was overthinking it.
No matter how active or sensitive Rhaenyra’s mind was, she wouldn’t have come up with such an intent.
The reason this ten-year-old “silly girl” proposed it was simply because her father, Viserys, had requested her to do so after consulting with his other close friend, the Master of Laws, Lord Lyonel Strong.
Naturally, our equally “meticulous” Ser Otto might never realize this in his lifetime.
While Otto was still deep in thought, the hall door was suddenly pushed open.
A young squire rushed in breathlessly, even forgetting to bow.
“My—My Lord!
News from the Narrow Sea!”
Otto frowned.
“Speak.”
“Prince Daemon—he’s stirring up trouble in the Stepstones again!” The squire swallowed hard.
“After capturing Grey Gallows, he declared he would establish a kingdom of his own!”
“Furthermore, the Velaryon fleet from Driftmark continues to assist him in the war against Triarchy.”
Shadows on the wall flickered with the candlelight.
Otto gestured for the squire to withdraw.
Only after the door closed did he slowly exhale.
“Daemon, Daemon Targaryen, brother to my dear friend Viserys.” He muttered to himself, his voice dripping with irony.
“You never did learn how to spell ‘prudence’.”
Terra didn’t dare respond.
Everyone in King’s Landing knew that Daemon Targaryen—
The King’s brother, former Commander of the City Watch, and briefly the Hand—
Was walking trouble.
Two years ago, while the previous queen was still alive, she died in childbirth along with the King’s heir, Prince Baelon.
But Daemon, as the King’s brother, had openly mocked the King’s short-lived son Baelon as the “Heir for a Day” in a brothel celebration.
Immediately after, King Viserys announced he would name his daughter Rhaenyra “Princess of Dragonstone” and establish her as the heir.
Although she hasn’t been formally invested yet, Daemon, feeling slighted because his brother had no sons and he had always seen himself as the heir, took his mistress to Dragonstone in protest and “gifted” her a dragon egg.
The egg was later recovered, and Daemon was ordered by the King to return to his lawful wife in Runestone.
But this “Rogue Prince” remained restless.
Just last year, with the support of the Lord of Driftmark, Corlys Velaryon, the “Sea Snake,” he launched an unauthorized invasion of the Stepstones, going to war with Triarchy and forcing the Iron Throne’s hand.
“Is there any other news?” Otto asked.
Terra hesitated.
“A message came from the Riverlands.
They say the eldest son of Lord Tully is even more ill, and his grandson has already begun summoning bannermen.”
“Lady Jeyne Arryn of the Vale has rejected yet another marriage proposal, and the Vale lords are becoming increasingly arrogant.”
“The North…”
“Enough.” Otto raised a hand to cut her off.
The nobles of The Seven Kingdoms were always scheming, marrying, and feuding, but tonight, nothing was more important than what was about to happen in the birthing room.
If it were a boy.
If it were a healthy boy with Targaryen features.
Then the decision King Viserys made years ago to name Rhaenyra as heir would face its most direct challenge.
The precedent set by the Great Council was male preference, yet the King placed his personal will above tradition.
Otto had also once chosen to support Rhaenyra over Daemon Targaryen, but things were different now—
If his own daughter, Alicent, gave birth to a son, the entire kingdom would be watching:
Would the King persist in that impulsive decision, or follow centuries of law and precedent?
A sudden commotion broke out in the birthing room, followed by the loud cry of an infant.
Otto turned sharply.
The door opened, and the midwife poked her head out, her face beaming with smiles.
“It’s a Prince!
Both mother and son are safe!”