Hello, AMagicWriter here. I'm happy to publish a new Chapter of The Realm's Alpha
If you want to Read 10 More Chapters Right Now. Search 'Patreon.com/AMagicWriter40' on Websearch (Without space and without ' )
The following 10 chapters are already available to Patrons.
Chapter 20 (The Alpha's Roar), Chapter 21 (Daughter of Conquest), Chapter 22 (Seven Crowns at Her Feet), Chapter 23 (Royal Submission), Chapter 24 (Between Stones and Flames), Chapter 25 (Blood on the Stepstones), Chapter 26 (From Blood to Pleasure), Chapter 27 (Fire and Flesh), Chapter 28 (Fire Made Flesh), and Chapter 29 (Green Banners, Red Dragons) are already available for Patrons.
The late summer sun hung low over Blackwater Bay, casting a golden sheen across the dark, restless waters. A stiff breeze whipped through the docks of King's Landing, tugging at the crimson-and-black Targaryen banners that snapped atop the weathered wooden piers. The air carried the tang of salt and fish, mingling with the faint rot of the city beyond. Rhaenyra Targaryen stood beside her father, King Viserys, her posture rigid beneath her silver-threaded black doublet, the wind teasing strands of platinum hair loose from her intricate braid. Her violet eyes, sharp as Valyrian steel, scanned the horizon where the Velaryon fleet emerged like a pod of sea dragons breaking the surface.
"There," Viserys said, his voice warm with anticipation as he pointed a ringed finger toward the approaching ships. "The pride of Driftmark comes to grace us." His broad smile crinkled the corners of his eyes, softening the lines of a face that had grown wearier since Baelon's death nine weeks past. He wore a tunic of deep red, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen embroidered in gold across his chest, a crown of black iron resting lightly on his silver hair. "Corlys has outdone himself this time."
Rhaenyra's lips twitched into a tight, practiced smile, her gaze fixed on the lead ship—a sleek, triple-masted galley with a hull painted in the turquoise and silver of House Velaryon. Seahorse banners fluttered from every mast, their silken tails curling in the wind. "Floating pride indeed," she muttered, just loud enough for her father to catch. "I suppose it's only fitting for a house that prefers waves to stone."
Viserys chuckled, a low rumble that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Mind your tongue, Rhaenyra. We're here to welcome allies, not spar with them." He adjusted his stance, leaning slightly on the carved dragon-headed cane he'd taken to using after too many hours hunched over council tables. "The Velaryons are the blood of Old Valyria, same as us. Their strength at sea keeps the realm secure."
"Secure for whom?" Rhaenyra shot back, her tone light but edged with a spoiled petulance she couldn't quite mask. "They guard their own coffers more than your throne, Father." She tilted her head, letting the breeze catch her hair dramatically—she knew it made her look every inch the dragonrider she was.
Before Viserys could respond, the lead ship nosed up to the dock with a groan of timber and rope. Sailors shouted orders in a lilting Valyrian cadence as they tossed lines to the waiting dockhands, who scrambled to secure the vessel. A gangplank thudded down, and Lord Corlys Velaryon stepped onto the weathered boards, his presence as commanding as the tide itself. His sea-green cloak billowed behind him, clasped with a silver seahorse brooch, and his white hair—braided tightly against the wind—gleamed like polished Driftwood. Beside him came Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, the Queen Who Never Was, her dark violet eyes scanning the crowd with a predator's calm. Her silver-streaked hair was swept back beneath a circlet of pearls, and her gown of deep blue shimmered like the depths of the Narrow Sea.
And then there was Laena.
Rhaenyra's breath caught as Laena Velaryon descended the gangplank with the grace of a dancer, her silver-gold hair cascading in loose waves down her back, catching the sunlight like molten metal. Her gown, a pale sea-green that hugged her lithe frame, rippled with every step, and a necklace of coral and pearl gleamed at her throat. Rhaenyra's fingers flexed at her sides, a possessive thrill surging through her veins. She remembered the taste of that neck, the way Laena's gasps had filled her chambers not four weeks ago, their bodies tangled in secret beneath silk sheets. Her lover—hers, not her father's, not anyone's. The thought made her jaw tighten.
"Your Grace," Corlys boomed, his voice carrying over the creak of the docks and the cries of gulls overhead. He bowed low, though his broad shoulders never lost their proud line. "You honor us with your presence."
Viserys stepped forward, clasping Corlys's forearm in a gesture of camaraderie. "The honor is ours, Lord Corlys. Your fleet is a marvel—twenty ships, did I count right? The Stepstones must tremble at the sight."
"Twenty-two," Corlys corrected with a flash of teeth, his pride as palpable as the salt in the air. "And they'll do more than tremble. Driftmark stands ready to defend the realm's waters.
Rhaenys inclined her head, her smile cool and measured. "As we always have, cousin." Her gaze flicked to Rhaenyra, lingering just long enough to make the princess's skin prickle. There was no warmth there, only the faintest hint of disdain—like a storm cloud gathering on the horizon.
"Princess Rhaenys," Viserys said, bowing slightly. "You grace us as ever. And Lady Laena—" He turned to her, his expression softening. "You've grown into a beauty worthy of Old Valyria. The court will be brighter for your presence."
Laena curtsied. "You're too kind, Your Grace," she replied, her voice a soft melody that sent a shiver down Rhaenyra's spine. Their eyes met for a fleeting moment—violet on violet—and Rhaenyra felt a spark flare in her chest. She masked it with a smirk, stepping forward to join her father.
"Welcome to King's Landing, Lady Laena," Rhaenyra said, her tone dripping with affected sweetness. "I trust the voyage didn't dampen your spirits—or your hair." She flicked her own braid back, a teasing glint in her eye.
Laena's lips quirked, a knowing amusement dancing in her expression. "The sea's kinder than most, Princess. And I've learned to tame it, hair and all."
Rhaenyra's smirk widened. "A skill I'd love to see up close sometime." The words hung between them, bold and reckless, and she caught the faintest flush creeping up Laena's neck. Good. Let her remember who she belongs to.
"Rhaenyra," Viserys said, a note of warning in his voice as he shot her a sidelong glance. He turned back to Corlys, gesturing toward the Red Keep looming atop Aegon's High Hill. "Come, let's not linger by the water. The castle awaits, and I've a feast planned to celebrate your arrival. We've much to discuss—alliances, futures..." His smile broadened, oblivious to the storm brewing in his daughter's heart.
Corlys nodded, his eyes gleaming with calculation. "Aye, futures indeed. House Velaryon is eager to see where this tide takes us." He offered his arm to Rhaenys, who took it with a regal tilt of her chin, and the pair moved forward, Laena trailing just behind.
As they passed, Rhaenys's gaze slid to Rhaenyra again, sharper this time. "Careful, Princess," she murmured, her voice low enough that only Rhaenyra caught it over the wind. "Not every wave bends to a dragon's whim."
Rhaenyra's smile froze, her eyes narrowing as Rhaenys swept past without a backward glance. The barb stung, but she swallowed her retort, her attention snapping back to Laena. The girl paused to adjust her cloak, offering Rhaenyra a fleeting, conspiratorial smile before hurrying after her parents.
Otto Hightower lingered at the edge of the scene, a silent shadow in his dark green robes, watching the exchange with his usual pinched expression. Rhaenyra barely spared him a glance—her focus was on Laena, on the way her hips swayed beneath that damned gown, and on the gnawing certainty that her father's "discussions" meant more than he let on.
"Rhaenyra," Viserys called, already a few steps ahead with the Velaryons. "Come along. We mustn't keep our guests waiting."
She lingered a moment longer, the wind tugging at her doublet as she stared after Laena's retreating figure. "Oh, I won't keep her waiting," she muttered under her breath, her voice a low growl of promise. "Not for long."
With a toss of her head, she strode after the party, her boots striking the dock with defiant purpose. The Velaryons might have sailed into her father's plans, but Rhaenyra was a dragon—and dragons didn't share their treasures willingly.
.
.
The gardens of the Red Keep sprawled beneath the late afternoon sun. Rose bushes lined the winding gravel paths, their crimson and pink blooms heavy with fragrance, buzzing with the lazy hum of bees. The air was warm, and a faint breeze rustled the leaves of the trees at the garden's center. King Viserys Targaryen strolled along the path; he gestured expansively with his free hand. Beside him walked Laena Velaryon, her sea-green gown shimmering like the waves of Blackwater Bay, her silver-gold hair spilling over her shoulders in a cascade that seemed to glow.
"Come, Lady Laena," Viserys said, his voice rich with warmth. "Let me show you the roses my grandmother, Queen Alysanne, planted. She swore they bloomed sweeter here than anywhere else in the Seven Kingdoms." He paused by a particularly lush bush, its petals a deep, velvety red, and inhaled deeply. "What do you think? Does Driftmark have anything to rival this?"
Laena tilted her head, a diplomat's smile playing on her lips as she bent to sniff the bloom. "They're lovely, Your Grace," she replied, her tone soft but measured, like a harp string plucked just right. "Driftmark's beauty lies more in its cliffs and tides than its gardens, but I'll admit—these roses might tempt even the sea to jealousy." She straightened, brushing a stray petal from her sleeve, and her violet eyes sparkled with a hint of mischief.
Viserys chuckled. "Well said! You've a way with words, my lady. It's no wonder your father boasts of you so." He resumed his walk, gesturing for her to follow, his cane marking a steady rhythm. "I was just telling Corlys at the docks how vital House Velaryon is to the realm. Our houses—blood of Old Valyria, both—should be bound closer, don't you think? The future of the throne depends on such ties."
From the balcony overlooking the gardens, Rhaenyra Targaryen watched the scene unfold, her hands clamped around the cool stone railing until her knuckles gleamed white. She'd slipped away from the bustling halls of the Red Keep after the Velaryons' arrival, claiming a need for air, but really craving a glimpse of Laena. Now, clad in her black doublet with silver dragon embroidery, her braid fraying in the breeze, she stood frozen, her violet eyes narrowed into slits. Her father's words—future of the throne—sank into her like a dagger, and the sight of Laena beside him twisted the blade deeper. She could still feel Laena's skin under her fingers, the heat of their secret night in her chambers, the way Laena had arched beneath her, moaning her name. That memory clashed violently with the image below, and her dragon blood simmered, hot and restless.
Laena nodded politely at Viserys's remark, her hands clasped demurely before her. "My father would agree, Your Grace. The sea and the sky have always been kin—Velaryons and Targaryens, waves and dragons." She paused by another rose bush, this one a soft pink, and traced a petal with a fingertip. "Mother says it's why we've endured where others faltered."
"Precisely!" Viserys beamed, leaning closer as if sharing a confidence. "Did I ever tell you about the time I visited Driftmark as a boy? Your grandfather took me out on a skiff—nothing grand, just a little boat—and we nearly capsized when a storm blew in. He laughed the whole time, said it was the sea testing my mettle. I think I passed, though I was green as a cucumber by the end!"
Laena laughed softly, and Rhaenyra's grip tightened until the stone bit into her palms. That laugh—she'd coaxed it from Laena herself, sprawled across her bed with wine-stained lips and wandering hands. Now, her father drew it out. Rhaenyra's mind spun, painting a wretched picture: Laena in a queen's crown, her belly swollen with Viserys's child, her bed no longer Rhaenyra's to claim. The thought was a torch to dry tinder, and her breath hissed through clenched teeth.
"She's mine, not his," she muttered the words a low growl that barely stirred the air. Her eyes tracked Laena's every move—the tilt of her head, the curve of her smile—each one a dagger to her pride. She was the Alpha, the dragon, the heir; she didn't share, not with anyone, least of all her own father. Her nails scraped the railing.
Below, Viserys gestured toward the tallest tree. "You know, in Old Valyria, they say the dragons bonded families as much as they conquered foes. Aegon himself took two wives—sisters, true, but the principle holds. Strength in unity, Lady Laena. Imagine what our houses could forge together—sea and fire, a legacy to outlast us all."
"A grand vision, Your Grace," she said, her voice steadying as she regained her poise. "Though I suspect my brother, Laenor, might argue the sea's strength needs no fire to prove itself. He's quite fond of his ship—calls it his second best friend."
Viserys laughed again, louder this time, clapping a hand to his thigh. "A sailor through and through! I like that boy—he's got spirit. But you, Laena, you've a grace that could steady any storm. The court could use more of that." He paused, his tone softening into something almost paternal. "And perhaps more than the court, if the gods will it."
Rhaenyra's stomach churned, bile rising in her throat. If the gods will it. She knew that tone—her father's clumsy hinting, his way of dangling a future without saying it outright. He'd used it when he'd first told her she'd marry one day, some lady of his choosing, as if her desires meant nothing. Now he aimed it at Laena, her Laena, and the implication set her pulse pounding in her ears. She imagined storming down there, dragging Laena away by the wrist, claiming her in front of the whole damned garden—rules be damned. But she stayed rooted, her fury a coiled beast clawing at her chest.
Laena inclined her head. "The gods have their ways, Your Grace. And the sea has its own currents. Who knows where they'll carry us?" Her words were smooth and evasive, and Rhaenyra clung to them like a lifeline. Laena wasn't agreeing—not yet. There was still time, still a chance to keep her.
Viserys nodded, seemingly satisfied, and pointed toward a bench beneath the tree. "Shall we sit? I've more tales of Valyria if you'll humor an old man. Your mother's likely told you the good ones, but I've a few she might've skipped."
"I'd be honored," Laena replied, gliding toward the bench with a grace that made Rhaenyra's mouth dry. As they settled, Viserys launched into another story—this one about a dragonrider lost at sea—his voice fading into a dull hum as Rhaenyra's focus sharpened on Laena alone. The way she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the curve of her neck exposed to the sun—it was torture, exquisite, and unbearable.
"She's mine," Rhaenyra whispered again, her voice a vow now, etched with the heat of dragonfire. Her father could prattle about unity all he liked, but she'd burn the gardens to ash before she let him take what was hers. Her mind flickered to Mysaria's lessons—control, patience, power—and she forced herself to loosen her grip on the railing, though her hands trembled with the effort.
.
.
The corridors of the Red Keep stretched like shadowed veins through its ancient heart. Rhaenyra Targaryen stormed through the passage, her boots striking the flagstones with a rhythm born of fury, her black doublet clinging to her frame as if it, too, bristled with her rage. Her braid had unraveled further since the garden, strands of platinum hair whipping across her flushed cheeks, and her violet eyes burned with the heat of a dragon roused from slumber. The sight of Laena laughing with her father—her Laena, her flame—still seared her mind, each memory a lash against her pride.
She rounded a corner, intent on finding her chambers or perhaps Syrax's lair beyond the walls—anywhere to vent the storm churning in her chest—when a figure stepped into her path, blocking the dim light like a storm cloud across the sun. Rhaenys Targaryen stood there. Her violet eyes, so like Rhaenyra's yet colder, sharper, fixed on the younger princess with an intensity that halted Rhaenyra mid-stride.
"Not everything bends to a dragon's will, Princess," Rhaenys said, her voice cutting through the silence like Valyrian steel slicing silk. She tilted her head slightly, her expression a mask of cool disdain, though a flicker of something—amusement, perhaps—danced in her gaze.
Rhaenyra froze, her hands curling into fists at her sides. "What's that supposed to mean?" she snapped, her tone sharp and petulant. She took a step closer, squaring her shoulders, her height giving her a slight edge over the older woman. "If you've something to say, Aunt, spit it out. I've no patience for riddles."
Rhaenys's lips twitched, a ghost of a smirk that didn't reach her eyes. "Oh, I think you've patience enough when it suits you—lurking on balconies, glaring like a child who's lost her favorite toy." She stepped forward, closing the distance, her presence as commanding as the Meleys she rode. "I saw you up there, watching my daughter with your father. You wear your jealousy like a second skin, Rhaenyra. It's unbecoming."
Rhaenyra's jaw tightened, her pulse pounding in her ears. "Jealousy?" she scoffed, forcing a laugh that echoed off the stone walls, brittle and hollow. "I'm the heir to the Iron Throne, not some simpering maid pining for scraps. If I watch, it's because I choose to. Laena's no more your daughter's to barter than she is my father's to claim." Her voice rose, edged with defiance.
Rhaenys arched a brow, unruffled. "And yet here you are, stomping through the Keep like a dragonling denied its meat. Life doesn't bow to your whims, girl, no matter how loud you roar." She folded her arms, the pearls at her wrists clinking softly. "I learned that lesson long ago, when the Great Council chose a man over me—a man who'd rather play with toy dragons than rule. I could've burned them all for it, but I didn't. Do you know why?"
"Because you're too proud to admit you lost?" Rhaenyra shot back, her smirk sharp as a blade. She leaned in, her voice dropping to a taunting lilt. "The Queen Who Never Was—such a grand title for a woman who'll never sit the throne. Is that what this is? You're bitter, and I'm the nearest target?"
Rhaenys's eyes flashed, a storm breaking behind them, but her composure held like iron. "Bitter?" she mused, her tone deceptively calm. "Perhaps once. Now I'm simply wiser than you'll ever be if you keep acting like the world owes you its every pleasure." She straightened, her gaze piercing through Rhaenyra's bravado. "If Viserys chooses Laena—and he might, given how he fawns over her today—you'll need more than a dragon's temper to face it."
"Father can prattle about alliances all he likes, but I'm the blood of the dragon. I don't bend, and I don't break."
Rhaenys laughed then, a short, sharp sound that rang like a slap. "Oh, sweet child, you're more glass than dragon if you think that's true." She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a steely whisper. "You think I don't see you? Flitting about with your conquests—Alicent, Laena, half the handmaidens in this castle—like some rutting stag in a crown? You're a spoiled brat playing at power, and it'll shatter you when the world turns its back. It always does."
The words struck like a lash, each one stoking the fire in Rhaenyra's chest. "You don't know me," she spat, her fists trembling at her sides. "You don't know what I'm capable of. I'll burn this whole damned Keep to ash before I let anyone take what's mine—Father, you, anyone. Call it a tantrum if you want, but I'll win this game you're all so fond of playing."
Rhaenys's smirk widened, a rare crack in her icy facade, and she leaned in until their faces were mere inches apart. "Win? You?" Her voice dripped with mockery, each syllable a dagger. "You're a pup barking at the moon, Rhaenyra. The throne doesn't care for your little victories in the dark—nor does Laena, when she's draped in a queen's silks instead of your sheets. Keep dreaming, Princess. It's all you'll have left when the real players move."
"You're nothing but a shadow of what you could've been. I'm the future—me, not you, not your precious sea lords."
Rhaenys held her gaze for a long moment, her eyes glittering with something between pity and contempt. Then she stepped aside with a deliberate grace, her gown whispering against the stone. "Prove it, then," she said, her parting shot as she turned away. "But don't cry to your dragon when fate laughs in your face."
She swept down the corridor, her footsteps fading into the shadows, leaving Rhaenyra alone with the echo of her words. The princess stood rooted, her chest heaving, her nails digging crescent moons into her palms. Rhaenys's taunts clawed at her—spoiled brat, barking pup—each one a mirror to the doubts she buried beneath her swagger. But it was the image of Laena in a queen's silks, smiling at Viserys's side, that fueled the inferno in her gut.
"She's wrong," Rhaenyra muttered, her voice a vow to the empty air. "I'm not made of glass. I'm more than that. I'm better than that."
.
.
The Small Council chamber was a vault of stone and shadow, its high ceiling swallowing the flicker of torchlight that danced along the walls. The long, polished table at its center gleamed beneath the weight of maps, goblets, and parchment, the seven seats around it filled with tense figures cloaked in the trappings of power. At the head sat King Viserys Targaryen. It was morning.
Rhaenyra slouched in her seat to Viserys's right, her violet eyes smoldering as she toyed with a dagger, spinning it idly on the table. Across from her sat Lord Corlys Velaryon, his sea-green cloak draped over broad shoulders. Beside him, Rhaenys Targaryen perched like a hawk. Otto Hightower occupied the seat to Viserys's left, his dark green robes immaculate, his pinched face a mask of quiet triumph. Alicent stood near the wall, her green gown subdued, her hands clasped tightly as she avoided Rhaenyra's glare. Lord Lyonel Strong and Grand Maester Mellos rounded out the group, their expressions a mix of curiosity and unease.
Viserys cleared his throat, raising a hand for silence as the murmur of side conversations died. "My lords, my lady," he began, his voice warm but firm, carrying the weight of a king who still believed in his own benevolence. "We've spoken much today of unity—of strengthening the realm after recent... losses." His eyes flickered briefly, a shadow of Baelon's death passing over them. "House Velaryon's arrival has reminded us of the ties that bind us, the blood of Old Valyria that flows in our veins. But unity requires more than words—it demands action."
Rhaenyra's dagger stilled, her fingers tightening around the hilt as she leaned forward, a smirk tugging at her lips. "Action, Father? Do tell. Are we finally sending Daemon to drown the Triarchy, or is this another lecture on ships?" Her tone was light, barbed, earning a sharp glance from Otto.
Viserys chuckled, undeterred. "Patience, Rhaenyra. No, this is about the future—a future secured through bonds as strong as dragonsteel." He paused, his smile broadening as he leaned back in his chair. "I've decided to take a wife, to ensure the stability of the throne and the realm. And I've chosen Lady Alicent Hightower, whose loyalty and wisdom have been a comfort to me, as has the counsel of her father, Lord Otto."
The room erupted.
Corlys's fist slammed onto the table, the crack of wood echoing like thunder. "What in the Seven Hells is this?" he roared, his voice a tidal wave of fury. "You dangle alliances before us—parade my daughter through your gardens—and now this? Another slight, Viserys? Driftmark bleeds for your crown, and you spit on us!"
Rhaenys's glare could've melted steel, her violet eyes boring into Viserys with a disdain so palpable it thickened the air. "A Hightower," she sneered, her voice low and venomous. "You'd rather bed Otto's whelp than honor the blood of Valyria. Pathetic." She didn't shout, but her words cut deeper than Corlys's bellow.
Rhaenyra froze, her dagger clattering to the table as her head snapped toward Alicent. The air rushed from her lungs, betrayal stabbing through her like a lance—first Laena threatened, now Alicent claimed by her father. Her eyes locked onto the girl, who stood rigid against the wall, a faint flush creeping up her neck as she stared at the floor. "Alicent?" Rhaenyra's voice was a hiss, barely audible over the chaos, but it carried a dragon's rage. "You?"
Viserys raised his hands, his tone placating. "Lord Corlys, Princess Rhaenys, please—House Velaryon remains vital to us. This choice strengthens the crown, not weakens it. Alicent's a fine match, a lady of grace and—"
"Grace?" Corlys barked, shoving his chair back as he stood. "You think grace wins wars? I've twenty-two ships ready to bleed for you, and you choose a girl who's barely out of her swaddling cloths over my Laena? This is an insult—a slap to Driftmark's face!"
Otto's voice sliced through the din, smooth and oily. "The king seeks stability, my lord, not provocation. Lady Alicent's virtues complement his rule. Surely you see the wisdom in—"
"Wisdom?" Rhaenys interrupted, her laugh a bitter shard. "I see a puppet dancing to your strings, Otto. You've been sniffing around the throne since the Prince's death—don't pretend this isn't your doing."
Lyonel Strong coughed, his gruff voice tentative. "If I may, Your Grace, perhaps a discussion—"
"No discussion!" Corlys snapped, glaring at Viserys. "You've made your bed—lie in it. But don't expect my fleet to guard it."
"Enough!" Viserys's shout cut through the chaos, his fist banging the table as Corlys and Rhaenys made their way over to the door. "This is my will! The matter's settled. We'll speak more when tempers cool." He rose, leaning on his cane, his face flushed with exertion.
Corlys paused at the door, throwing a final glare. "Temper or no, you've lost more than you've gained today, Viserys." He swept out, Rhaenys trailing him, her parting glance at Rhaenyra a mix of pity and scorn.
Rhaenyra didn't move, her glare boring into Alicent, who shrank under it, her hands twisting in her skirts. The room dissolved into muttered arguments—Lyonel and Mellos debating precedents, Otto murmuring to Viserys—but Rhaenyra's mind raced with plans, dark and jagged. Mysaria's spies, Daemon's ruthlessness—she'd use them all. Betrayal burned in her gut, fueling a resolve as hard as dragonbone.
She turned away, her boots ringing as she strode out, her glare promising Alicent a reckoning. The game had changed, and Rhaenyra would play it to win—or burn it all down trying.
If you want to Read 10 More Chapters Right Now. Search 'Patreon.com/AMagicWriter40' on Websearch (Without space and without ' )