110 AC.
It had been nearly ten years since the lords and ladies of Westeros gathered beneath the blackened bones of Harrenhal, and in that vast, echoing ruin, chose a king.
Now, in 110 AC, the realm appeared calm. A long peace — the kind not measured in glorious battles or grand decrees, but in the slow, steady turning of the seasons — had followed the Council of 101. King Viserys I Targaryen, grandson of the Old King Jaehaerys, had worn the crown for seven years. No rebellions had flared. No dragons clashed in the skies. The coffers were not overflowing, but neither were they empty. The Faith had not stirred unrest, and the nobility, for all their pride and politics, found few wounds left to nurse.
It was a time of feasts, not campaigns; of tourneys, not trials.
In King's Landing, the Red Keep stood as a monument not to ambition, but to caution. Viserys was a king slow to anger and slower still to act. He prized harmony over assertion, ceremony over strategy, and in doing so, held the realm together by the soft bonds of goodwill rather than the hard links of command. He loved music, laughter, and the company of noble friends. He could be generous, even indulgent — and though that bred arrogance in some, it lulled most into complacency.
In the South, the Reach and Oldtown prospered. The Hightowers — proud, pious, and calculating — drew ever closer to the crown through quiet influence and quiet marriages. Their patriarch, Lord Hobert, ruled in name from the high towers of his city, but it was his brother, Ser Otto Hightower, who truly wielded power — as the King's Hand. Calm, deliberate, and cold as morning frost, Otto's influence over Viserys was an open secret. None could deny the King's love for Otto's judgment.
In the West, the Lannisters sat rich and content in their golden halls, seeing no reason to disturb a king who disturbed no one. In the Vale, Lady Jeyne Arryn and her regent governed fair and had little interest in thrones beyond their own. The Stormlands bristled now and again with youthful ambition, but the Baratheons had long been loyalists. The Riverlands, divided as ever, grumbled but obeyed Lord Grover.
But peace is not unity. And beneath the surface, where fire lingers in embers and old grudges sleep rather than die, the realm was not as whole as it seemed.
The Council of 101 had spoken with finality, but not with consensus.
There had been no war, no uprising — and for that, Viserys' supporters declared the Council a triumph. Yet it had not been a decision free of controversy. Rhaenys Targaryen — daughter of Prince Aemon, the elder son of Jaehaerys — had a claim by law, if not by custom. For a time, hers had been a rallying name. The Queen Who Might Have Been, they called her.
The North, led by Lord Ellard Stark, had spoken for her. Most of the North had followed and even some southern houses that remembered Aemon's honor and service. There had been fire in those early days — fierce debates at feasts, cold refusals of allegiance, letters written in cautious defiance.
But fire needs air. And there was little in Viserys' reign to feed it.
For three years after the Council, there had been tension — not sharp enough to bleed, but strong enough to be felt. In the North, many lords held their tongues but not their opinions. The memory of their support for Rhaenys lingered like frost on the stones of Winterfell. But when no punishment came — no demands, no reprimands, not even a letter from the Crown — most took it for what it was: indifference. They had not mattered enough to be enemies.
And without conflict, outrage decays.
By 104 AC, the lords who had once raised toasts to Rhaenys found themselves raising cups instead to local harvests and distant tourneys. Some who had supported her — loudly and without hesitation — were quietly married into houses closer to the throne. A daughter promised to a royal steward. A son granted command of a garrison in the Crownlands. A ship's charter renewed. A tax eased. The grease of peace is subtle, but it works into every joint.
Others were simply forgotten — or chose to forget.
In Driftmark, Rhaenys herself had not rebelled. She had no army. She had her husband, Lord Corlys Velaryon, Lord of the Tides, who still commanded respect unmatched on sea or shore. But he, too, seemed to bend to pragmatism for now. While he never let go of ambition — not entirely — he let the fire cool for now.
There were still whispers. Rumors that the Queen Who Never Was resented the Council. That Lord Corlys had not forgiven the slight. That a stronger king might have exiled them, or worse. But Viserys was not such a king.
He was gentle. And he was Targaryen — that counted for much.
Even in the North, where old loyalties are slow to shift, many lords began to reason: better a king who wore the crown than a queen who had never held it.
There were still eyes on the Velaryons, and Rhaenys was still watched. But she was neither love fear for her only respect and that only from some. And to preserve a claim one would need sufficiant of all three.
Thus, the fire died not in battle, but in silence. And those who had once spoken her name in defiance learned instead to speak it with regret — or not at all.
And even though King Viserys reigned in name and gentleness, it was said by many — too quietly to be treason, but too often to be coincidence — that the true steward of the realm was Otto Hightower.
Ser Otto, Lord of Oldtown's younger brother, had served as Hand of the King to Jaehaerys I in the Old King's final, feeble years, and was kept in place by Viserys upon his ascension. Some said it was out of loyalty. Others, more cynically, said Viserys simply preferred a hand who could rule so he did not have to.
Whatever the truth, Ser Otto thrived in the shadows of the throne.
He governed not with the force of arms but with the force of formality — a master of court ritual, procedure, and precedence. Where Viserys hesitated, Otto acted. He positioned allies where they were most useful and rivals where they were most visible — and thus vulnerable. Those who sought favor at court quickly learned that a word to the Hand opened more doors than an hour with the King himself. He never raised his voice, never lost his temper, and never forgot a slight.
To some, this made him invaluable. To others, intolerable.
Nobles called him cold — and they were not wrong. His decisions were rarely impassioned, but they were always precise. A lord with too much influence in the Vale would suddenly find his levy tied up in legal petitions. A merchant prince who whispered too boldly in the Red Keep's solar might discover his tariffs unexpectedly revised. He worked through letters, rules, and whispers — and perhaps most dangerously, through family.
His daughter Alicent — clever, composed, and warm where her father was not — had become a fixture of the court by 110 AC. She read to the king in his solar, dined at his table, and brought gentleness to a throne that many saw as vulnerable. Rumors swirled about her influence over the Princess and her ambitions, but no one could deny her charm. Not even the king.
Where Otto Hightower was the steady hand, Prince Daemon Targaryen was the unsheathed sword.
The King's younger brother, Daemon had not the patience of Otto nor the softness of Viserys. He was fire made flesh — quick, proud, and as dangerous as the dragons he loved. Where Otto governed with parchment, Daemon favored steel. In the Stepstones, he had led campaigns of dubious legality but unquestioned valor. At court, he had once held the title of Master of Laws, and then Master of Coin — neither position lasted. Some said he lacked the temperament for them. Others said he simply did not care.
What Daemon did care for was loyalty. And in that, he was absolute.
Though often far from the Red Keep — riding Caraxes above the Narrow Sea or drilling swordsmen in the City Watch he had reformed or at least was trying — Daemon's name burned in men's minds like a warning. He was the shadow beneath the throne, the threat behind the crown. No lord dared speak openly of rebellion when Daemon Targaryen might be listening. And he did listen, or so the whispers claimed.
There were stories, half-true and wholly feared. Of minor lords in the Crownlands who vanished after too-bold toasts. Of a knight whose tongue spoke treason and whose head graced a spike the next week. Of Daemon walking unarmored through Flea Bottom and being met only with silence.
He had no official role in the king's councils now — but no one mistook him for absent. When a voice in court dared question the King's judgment too strongly, it was not Otto they feared — but the Prince of the City, the Rogue Prince, the dragon-blooded brother who might take offense and settle scores with fire and blood.
The realm was quiet in these years — but it was a quiet that knew its boundaries. A quiet held fast by one hand in velvet, and the other in black steel.