The flagship of Chaotou Island, the Sea Snake, cut through the waters of Blackwater Bay with deliberate slowness, its hull slicing silently through the gentle waves. The familiar silhouette of King's Landing rose on the horizon, framed by the pale afternoon sun glinting off the Red Keep. At the bow stood Rhaenys Targaryen, her long black hair threaded with silver, lifted by the wind as her eyes scanned the city with quiet vigilance.
Beside her, Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake himself, stepped lightly onto the deck. His voice, low and steady, broke the silence.
"We've arrived."
Rhaenys did not turn to acknowledge him. Her gaze remained fixed on the Red Keep, unwavering, sharp, and unyielding.
"Daemon still refuses to return?" she asked, her tone almost rhetorical, tinged with a faint, sarcastic edge.
Corlys exhaled slowly, a barely audible sigh. "He claims the title of 'King of the Narrow Sea and the Stepstones' now. Full of pride, he believes that his Korakshu and bloodworms are enough to fend off any threat—even the so-called 'New Dragon King' from the East."
Rhaenys's lips curled in an almost imperceptible smirk. "Arrogant. He has no understanding of what the rise of a new Valyrian Empire in the East entails. According to Pentos' reports, that black dragon of his—growing at an abnormal rate—is already unlike anything seen in centuries."
Corlys took her hand, weathered and rough from the sea, and squeezed it gently. "That is precisely why we are here in King's Landing. Daemon may act as he pleases, but we, the Velaryons, cannot. The marriage between Laenor and Rhaenyra must proceed."
Their son, Laenor Velaryon, emerged from the cabin, his handsome face composed, expression almost indifferent. He bowed briefly to his parents, but his eyes drifted to the activity on the dock—the bustling sailors, the creaking ropes, and the crew attending to the ship. Corlys frowned slightly but refrained from comment. In this moment, the future of their family eclipsed all other considerations.
---
Inside the Red Keep, the atmosphere in the king's study was thick with tension. King Viserys I Targaryen sat at his ornate desk, papers and scrolls scattered before him, his face pale and lined with fatigue. Across from him stood Princess Rhaenyra, her posture rigid, her expression a mixture of resistance, defiance, and confusion—a young dragon caught in an iron cage.
"I don't want to marry Laenor!" Rhaenyra said, her voice clear, sharp, and unwavering. "Father, you know he… he has no interest in women!"
Viserys's expression softened momentarily with pain, but his tone remained resolute, carrying the weight of absolute authority.
"This is not a matter of personal interest, Rhaenyra," he said firmly. "This is a matter of duty."
"Duty?" she shot back, voice rising with indignation. "My duty is to marry a man who will never love me, to bear him children? How is that a duty? Is he even capable of such a thing?"
"Your duty is to secure your inheritance!" Viserys's hand slammed down on the desk, sending a parchment scroll leaping into the air. He coughed violently, gripping his chest briefly before straightening, fingers clenched into a fist.
"The three dragons of House Velaryon! Their wealth rivals entire kingdoms! The most formidable fleet in the Seven Kingdoms! These are your cornerstones, Rhaenyra! Without them, your claim is meaningless!"
He panted slightly, a flicker of desperation glinting in his eyes, but beneath it was an unwavering command:
"You desire freedom, yet you also desire the crown. Such a choice does not exist. You must choose."
Rhaenyra's gaze swept over her father, noting his haggard appearance and the unflinching determination in his eyes. She felt a surge of helplessness, a quiet terror at the realization that there was no room for negotiation. The shadow of Damian Thorne, the rising Dragon King from the East, loomed over Westeros like a massive eclipse, weighing heavily even on her usually steady father.
"What if I refuse?" she asked finally, her voice tinged with fear.
Viserys's eyes grew cold, hard as Valyrian steel.
"Then you are no longer my heir."
The words struck Rhaenyra like a spear, piercing her heart with surgical precision. Her face went pale, her body stiffened, yet she understood immediately. Liberty and the Crown—she could not have both. And so, with a trembling breath and a heart heavy with sacrifice, she chose the latter.
"I… agree," she said between clenched teeth, turning sharply and leaving the study without another word.
Viserys slumped back in his chair, exhaustion finally washing over him. He had made the correct decision—for the realm, for his family—but he also knew the act had planted an indelible thorn in Rhaenyra's heart.
---
Meanwhile, Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, brooded in his chamber, the bright sun outside doing nothing to illuminate the darkness within. Rhaenyra's engagement to Laenor had struck like a hammer to the fragile foundations he had labored to build for his grandson, Aegon.
Three dragons, the unmatched fleet of House Velaryon—Rhaenyra's inheritance was more secure than ever. Otto's hand tightened around the goblet of wine he lifted to his lips. He swallowed the contents in a single, bitter gulp.
Viserys, you fool! he seethed silently. You tear this kingdom apart with your own hands, thinking you are mending the rift.
He recalled the 101st Grand Council, where Viserys had leveraged his advantage as the adult male heir to defeat Laenor's claim via Rhaenys and claim the Iron Throne. The law of Westeros, eternal and unyielding, dictated male succession. And now, Viserys was willing to pass power to a woman, despite having a strong, healthy eldest son—Aegon.
Otto did not see this as personal ambition; he saw it as defense of law, tradition, and order. If, in the process, a king of Hightower blood could sit on the Iron Throne, that was simply a bonus.
He moved to the window, gazing out over King's Landing, the city teeming with nobles, merchants, and commoners alike.
Rhaenyra, your luck has run out.
The king's favor, Velaryon's support… all temporary.
The true measure of victory lies in the hearts of men and the strength of tradition.
His eyes, sharp and calculating, glinted with resolve.
---
In the Red Keep's grand hall, the solemnity of the occasion contrasted sharply with the undercurrent of tension. Witnessed by the Seven Gods and watched by the majority of the capital's nobility, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen and Ser Laenor Velaryon formally entered into a marriage contract.
King Viserys stood upon the dais, a rare, heartfelt smile gracing his features. Two ancient Valyrian houses, once separate yet bound by blood, were now united. Rhaenyra's succession rights had been secured more firmly than ever. The king believed he had forged an unassailable defense for his kingdom.
The assembled nobles offered blessings, their faces animated with apparent warmth and approval. Yet beneath the polite smiles and courteous bows, whispers swirled like an undertow:
"The fleet and wealth of House Velaryon are now tied to the princess's fate."
"Yes, and their dragons. No one will dare question her status now."
"Status secured, but as for matters in bed…" a corpulent lord murmured, winking slyly.
"I heard Ser Laenor prefers handsome and strong squires. I wonder if he can… maintain his post with Lady Rhaenyra?" another noble beside him added, laughter dripping with concealed malice.
Viserys, standing tall atop the dais, was aware of the murmurs yet chose to ignore them. To him, the unity of the two houses and the consolidation of power for his daughter outweighed any petty scandal or whispered gossip.
Still, in the quiet of his heart, he understood the precariousness of all things. The shadow from the East—Damian Thorne, the new Dragon King—loomed like a storm about to break over Westeros. Alliances, marriages, and claims to the throne were the fragile shields against a power that might not respect borders, customs, or kingdoms.
Yet for now, on this day, the crown and succession were secured. And in this fleeting moment, Viserys allowed himself the rare luxury of satisfaction.
---