"The house that puts family first will always defeat the house that puts the whims and wishes of its sons and daughters first."

―Tywin Lannister

…

The sun rose red and swollen over King's Landing as Rhaenys Targaryen soared towards the city atop her dragon, Meleys. The copper-scaled beast moved with a grace that belied her age, her wings casting long shadows over the muddy streets below. Beside them, the silver-grey form of Moondancer kept pace, her rider, Baela, clinging with practised ease. The winds carried the mingled smells of the bustling city to them—charred wood, river water, sweat, and the sharp tang of smoke from a thousand chimneys. The Red Keep, stark and monumental, rose above it all, the symbol of Targaryen power and legacy. As they descended, the city moved beneath them like the flow of a tide—people running to see, pointing and cheering, their voices drowned by the great leathery beats of the dragons' wings.

As Rhaenys and Baela alighted within the wide courtyard of the Red Keep, their dragons settling with low, rumbling growls, a small party awaited their arrival. The shining white of the Kingsguard cloaks was unmistakable, though one of the knights stepped forward with more authority than the others. His armour gleamed, polished to a blinding sheen, the white of his cloak almost too pristine under the morning sun. Ser Criston Cole.

"Princess Rhaenys," he began, bowing his head, his voice measured, respectful but devoid of warmth. "Welcome to King's Landing. I have been instructed to escort you upon your arrival."

Rhaenys took in his appearance—the way he moved, the way the other guards looked to him for direction. She had known Ser Harrold Westerling to be the Lord Commander for years, steadfast and true. She had not heard of his dismissal, yet here stood Cole, seemingly in his place. It spoke of something, though she was not yet certain what.

"What has happened to Ser Harrold?" Rhaenys asked, her tone sharp as she allowed herself to be helped from the saddle, her skirts settling around her as she dismounted.

"Ser Harrold has retired," Criston said, his lips curving into a smile that did not reach his eyes. "Matters of health, my lady. The king's wishes. I am honoured to now hold the position of Lord Commander."

Rhaenys pursed her lips, glancing at Baela who had landed lightly beside her and dismounted with a dancer's grace. No more was said of Ser Harrold as Ser Criston led them through the winding corridors of the Red Keep. The air was heavy, filled with the echoes of footsteps and distant voices. The castle felt different, colder somehow, as if a certain warmth was waning.

They walked the unfamiliar halls—the halls she had once known all her life, halls that had seemed warmer and livelier in her youth. She remembered her time in this castle, her laughter echoing against these stones when dreams still seemed possible, when the crown could have been hers. The shadows seemed longer now, the air fraught with something unseen. They reached a set of great carved doors, and Criston Cole pushed them open, motioning for Rhaenys and Baela to enter.

Rhaenys hesitated as she stepped inside, expecting to find Viserys reclining in his usual seat, that weary but well-meaning smile upon his lips. Instead, her eyes met with a strikingly familiar lavender eye, staring back at her, cold and watchful. It was Aemond Targaryen who stood there, in a room filled with maps and parchments, books strewn across the table as though mid-study. His posture was relaxed, his gaze regarding her with an intensity that was almost unsettling.

"Prince Aemond," Rhaenys said, her voice sharp, confusion blooming across her features, and a flicker of irritation darkening her gaze. "Where is my cousin?"

Aemond's lips curled, though it was not quite a smile. He inclined his head, gesturing to the chairs set near the table. "The king is... unable to greet you, Princess Rhaenys," he began, his voice calm, betraying nothing. "Please, take a seat. There are matters to discuss."

Rhaenys took a step forward, her voice rising. "Enough of this charade. Where is Viserys?"

Aemond did not flinch, but his gaze grew heavier, and he met her stare unblinking. "He has passed, my lady." He spoke the words without ceremony, almost as if he were simply stating the time of day. "He died peacefully in his sleep, late last night."

The world tilted, and for a moment, Rhaenys felt a wrenching in her chest—the dawning of something she was unwilling to name. Sadness mingled with a swell of anger. She had loved her cousin once, for all his weaknesses, for all the ways he had wronged her and her family. She steadied herself, swallowing hard, drawing herself up tall.

"Why was I not told immediately?" she demanded, her voice thick, a deep frown lining her brow.

Aemond moved slowly, gesturing towards a nearby seat once more, his voice never rising. "I can understand your grief and your anger, Princess Rhaenys. But there are matters of importance that must be addressed. I ask again, take a seat." His calmness was almost infuriating—the way he held himself, the absolute stillness in his demeanour.

Rhaenys clenched her teeth, then lowered herself into the offered chair, her gaze never leaving his face. Aemond watched her, then turned to a small chest on his desk, opening it carefully. He withdrew a letter, sealed with the unmistakable sigil of House Targaryen. He held it out to her.

"The king, your cousin, left you this. Written the night before he passed," Aemond said quietly. His eye was steady, fixed on her face as he passed the letter into her hands.

Rhaenys hesitated for a moment, the wax seal shining under the flickering light of the chamber's candles. Slowly, she broke it and unfolded the letter. The words were scrawled in Viserys's familiar hand, though shaky, unsteady, as if penned by a man fighting against the fading of his strength.

Her eyes moved across the parchment, reading every line, feeling every word like a blow. He wrote of his regret—for her daughter Laena, for Laenor's death, and for the betrayals her family had suffered, which he, in his weakness, had allowed. He spoke of his hope for the future, for mending old wounds. He wished to see her granddaughter, Baela, wed to his youngest son, Daeron, and for their offspring to be tied into the lineage of Aegon's own children. A Velaryon upon the throne, in time, he promised, could be within reach, if old grudges could be set aside.

Rhaenys read the words twice over, her eyes narrowing as she absorbed their meaning. The phrasing, the distinct turns of thought, the pointed lack of mention of Rhaenyra—it slowly became evident. Rhaenyra had been replaced. Aegon was to be king.

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She looked up, her eyes locking with Aemond's. He inclined his head ever so slightly, as though he understood what she had gleaned, his expression devoid of either malice or satisfaction.

"You are not mistaken, Princess Rhaenys," he said, his voice low. "My brother, Aegon, has been named the heir in the king's final moments."

The silence that followed was thick, as though the very air had turned to stone, and for a moment, Rhaenys did not breathe, her heart a thunderous drum in her ears. Her gaze hardened, her fingers tightening around the parchment, her knuckles paling. She took in a slow, deliberate breath, feeling the weight of the realization settling upon her. Aegon as heir meant a fundamental shift in all she had come here expecting—and yet, more than anything, her thoughts now drifted to suspicion. Something felt amiss. The Greens had always been clever, always seeking an advantage over Rhaenyra. The timing of this revelation, paired with Viserys's sudden death, reeked of opportunism.

She let her eyes linger on Aemond, trying to gauge the truth of his words in his expression, but Aemond—cold, collected, his face as still as stone—gave nothing away. Rhaenys knew that whatever thoughts he might be harbouring lay well-hidden beneath the surface. Aemond was a son of Alicent, yes, but there was something more about him, something darker, something relentless and calculating. And now, he was the one standing between her and what had once been her family's birthright.

"A letter from the king," she repeated, her voice devoid of inflection. "A noble request, truly," she said, her lips pulling into something that was neither quite a smile nor a frown.

Aemond inclined his head, a flicker of something passing through his eye, though whether it was amusement or something else, Rhaenys could not tell. "The king's intentions were clear, Princess," he said softly. "But I am aware that these decisions cannot be made lightly. You will, of course, need time to consider." He paused, his gaze shifting briefly towards Baela, who had remained silent beside her grandmother, her own eyes wide, her expression caught somewhere between confusion and disbelief. "And I expect that you will wish to discuss this with your lord husband as well."

Rhaenys felt a twist in her gut. He was playing her, that much was obvious—he was offering her a choice that was not truly a choice at all, giving her the illusion of freedom while tightening his control over the situation. She took another breath, steadying herself, her eyes narrowing.

"Indeed, Prince Aemond," she said, her voice cold. "It is a matter that requires careful consideration, and my husband's counsel will be most vital. I will deliberate, and when the time is right, I shall give you my answer."

Aemond nodded, his lips twitching at the edges, as though he had expected this. "Of course," he said, and then he paused, studying her with that penetrating gaze. "But you must understand, Princess, that time is a luxury we do not have in abundance. My brother's coronation must proceed, and unity within the realm will be paramount."

Rhaenys stiffened, and for a heartbeat, her carefully constructed composure cracked. He knew. He knew what she was truly thinking—that she would fly from here, that she would bring word to Rhaenyra, that she would do what she could to protect her niece's claim. But Aemond's smile widened, and he gave a slight nod, as though he could read every thought passing through her mind.

"And that is why I've taken the liberty of making arrangements to ensure that you and your granddaughter will be well cared for here in King's Landing," Aemond said, his voice still calm, almost too casual, as he waved a hand dismissively towards one of the nearby guards. "I am sure Lord Corlys will join you soon, given that I've dispatched Ser Malentine Velaryon to escort him here."

The words struck her like a blow. Her eyes flashed, and for a moment, Rhaenys could barely contain the rage that bubbled up inside her. She rose to her feet, the letter dropping onto the table, her eyes blazing. "You have no right," she hissed, her voice trembling. "No right to summon my husband, to act as though you can command House Velaryon."

Aemond did not move, but his gaze grew sharper, his smile fading into something colder, something far more dangerous. "I have every right, Princess," he said, his voice now like iron. "Because the throne, and the realm, demand it. I know what you think. I know what you plan. And I am not so foolish as to allow you to rush headlong into action that could doom your house, your family, and everything that we might yet achieve together."

Rhaenys's heart pounded, her hand clenching at her side. The room felt smaller, the air pressing in upon her from all sides, suffocating, as though she were being backed into a corner. She glanced towards Baela, her granddaughter watching her with wide eyes, her face pale.

"You will remain here, both of you," Aemond continued, his voice softer now, though it was no less unyielding. "You will be my honoured guests, and you will await Lord Corlys's arrival. Until then, I must insist that you refrain from taking any rash actions. For your own good, Princess."

Rhaenys's gaze snapped back to Aemond, fury boiling beneath her skin. "You would imprison us," she said, her voice a low growl.

Aemond shook his head slowly, that faint smile returning. "Not imprisonment, Princess. Merely precaution. The realm is in a delicate state, and we cannot risk anything… unfortunate. You and Baela shall be well taken care of, and when the time comes, I am sure we will have much to discuss."

He turned his head towards the guards standing by the door, motioning to them. "Escort the Princess and Lady Baela to their chambers. No visitors are to be admitted without my explicit permission."

The guards stepped forward, and Rhaenys felt Baela's hand slip into hers, her fingers tight, trembling. Rhaenys stood for a long moment, her gaze locked on Aemond's face, seeing nothing but coldness there, nothing but calculation.

"This is not over, Prince Aemond," she said, her voice low, her eyes narrowed. "You cannot control the sea, no more than you can control a dragon. The tides will turn, and when they do, you will find yourself swept away."

Aemond did not reply. He merely inclined his head, watching as the guards moved forward, leading Rhaenys and Baela away, his eye following them until the doors closed, the heavy sound echoing through the hallway.