Chapter 1: The Coronation of Viserys
The year was 103 AC, when the lords of Westeros gathered in the Dragonpit for the coronation of Viserys I Targaryen. The Dragonpit had not seen such splendor since the days of King Jaehaerys. Banners of all the great houses rippled in the warm breeze, and the air was thick with incense and the low drone of septons chanting prayers. Thousands filled the seats—lords, knights, merchants, and common folk eager to glimpse their new king.
Viserys stood tall and golden, handsome in his youth, chosen by the Great Council of 101 AC as the heir to the realm. The High Septon anointed him with the holy oils of the Seven, and when the crown of Aegon the Conqueror was set upon his brow, the Dragonpit erupted in cheers. "Long live Viserys of House Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men!" The sound rolled like thunder across King's Landing.
At his side, Queen Aemma Arryn stood pale but proud, her belly round with another child. Already she had borne him twins—Rhaenyra and Rhaegar—and she looked upon them now with quiet love. Rhaenyra, only a little girl, clapped her small hands and laughed as her father was crowned, her silver hair catching the torchlight. Beside her, Rhaegar, her twin, watched solemnly, his violet eyes fixed not on his father but on the crown itself, as though the weight of it already stirred his young thoughts.
The lords of the realm made their obeisance one by one. Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, bowed with the dignity of a man who had sailed farther than any Westerosi before him. His wife, Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, watched in silence, her expression unreadable. Many whispered that she should have worn the crown, for had not the Great Council passed her over? Yet her eyes softened when they fell upon the twins, perhaps seeing in them a chance for House Targaryen's future to be stronger than the quarrels of the past.
Otto Hightower, the new Hand of the King, bent the knee with practiced grace. His daughter Alicent stood close by, radiant and dutiful, her green eyes studying the royal family carefully. She offered a smile to little Rhaenyra and Rhaegar, though some said there was calculation behind it, even then.
From the Stormlands came Boremund Baratheon, booming in voice and larger than life, who declared loudly that the twins were the truest dragons Westeros had seen in a century. The lords of the Reach muttered among themselves, some praising the king, others whispering that twin heirs might one day divide the realm. The Starks had not come so far south, but their sworn men in the capital sent word of northern loyalty—though it was a cold, careful loyalty, as ever.
Even within the royal family, reactions were mixed. Daemon Targaryen, the king's brother, stood resplendent in black and red, a smile curling on his lips. He applauded with enthusiasm, his eyes darting often to the twins. To some he looked the proud uncle, to others, a dragon measuring the future prey of ambition. The twins, delighted by his attention, adored their uncle, running to him when the ceremony ended. Daemon lifted both into his arms, their laughter echoing through the vaulted pit.
The smallfolk shouted themselves hoarse that day, tossing flowers as the royal procession wound back to the Red Keep. Songs were sung in every tavern, feasts filled every hall, and the realm, for a brief moment, felt united in joy. Viserys smiled as if the Seven themselves had blessed his reign with promise. His queen was radiant, his brother loyal, his children adored. Few could have foreseen that the birth of twins would one day plunge the realm into fire and blood.
But the lords who watched closely, the maesters who recorded, and the whisperers in shadow already knew one truth: two heirs born of fire could never stand without testing the world around them.