The cold spikes of the Iron Throne pressed uncomfortably against King Viserys I's back. He leaned absentmindedly against the jagged mass of swords, forged from the blades of countless fallen foes, his fingers drumming lightly on the armrest. His gaze drifted past the Braavosi emissaries standing with disciplined patience before him, settling on the gray skies outside the Red Keep's massive stone walls.
Alison… it should be any day now.
His thoughts wandered through the palace corridors, far from the polished floors and ceremonial pomp. The king's mind was entirely consumed by one thing: the safe arrival of a child, a new heir to the Targaryen legacy. He imagined the cries of a healthy boy, the fulfillment of dynastic continuity, the promise of a lineage strengthened for generations. Not for the empire alone, but for his family… for Hightower.
"…Therefore, Your Majesty, in the face of the brutal expansion of the 'Dragon King' in the East, an alliance between Braavos and the Iron Throne is the only option to maintain world order and secure free trade!"
Trio Nenaris, leader of the Braavos delegation, concluded his impassioned speech. He bowed slightly, his posture perfectly composed, a confident smile playing on his lips as though he had already orchestrated the king's gratitude. Ships, wealth, and disciplined armies of Braavos had been promised, ready to back the Iron Throne against the threat of the Eastern Dragon King. Surely, Viserys would accept.
But silence filled the hall.
The smile on Trio's face slowly stiffened as he realized the king was not even listening. Viserys's gaze remained distant, lost in a world beyond the ceremonial chamber.
Finally, the king seemed to notice the delegation. He lazily adjusted his posture on the throne, the blades of the Iron Throne scraping harshly against his royal robe. He cleared his throat deliberately.
"We in Westeros do not wish to interfere in the affairs of Essos."
The words were quiet, almost casual—but they hit Trio like a hammer to the chest. Surprise, shock, and disbelief flashed across his face in rapid succession. He jerked his head toward the king, hoping he had misheard. Reject? The audacity of a monarch who dared to refuse the aid of Braavos!
"His Majesty!" Trio's voice rose, tinged with panic he did not fully understand. "You may not yet grasp the severity of the situation! The Dragon King of Essos is expanding at an unprecedented rate! Volantis has fallen, and his armies are advancing toward the Disputed Lands! He even… engaged in a fierce battle with your brother, Prince Daemon, on the Summer Sea!"
Trio emphasized "Prince Daemon" deliberately, seeking to provoke the king's pride. A Targaryen's arm had been severed in combat by an Eastern upstart—a humiliation for the entire bloodline.
Yet Viserys did not flinch. If anything, the words only stoked a fire of suppressed irritation deep in his violet eyes.
"That's enough!"
The king rose abruptly, the sudden movement casting the Braavosi delegation into a tense, frozen silence. His sharp gaze was a storm of boredom and fury combined.
"Daemon's reckless war should never have happened!" he snapped. "The Targaryen family has long since withdrawn from Essos. That was his choice alone, and it has nothing to do with the Iron Throne!"
"But, Your Majesty—" Trio tried to argue, his voice faltering as he realized that reason and diplomacy might not sway this man.
At that moment, a maid burst through the side door, her skirts lifted as she rushed across the marble floor, her face pale and anxious. She whispered urgently to Prime Minister Otto Hightower, whose expression instantly cracked in tension.
"Your Majesty," Otto said, turning to the king, eyes wide with restrained alarm, "Her Majesty the Queen… is about to give birth!"
Viserys froze, the irritation that had consumed him moments ago instantly replaced by a surge of anxious anticipation. Thoughts of past losses, of Emma's perilous labor, and of children barely clinging to life flitted through his mind.
He sprang from the throne. "Take me to her!" he commanded, voice sharp and urgent. The Braavos delegation froze, stunned by the abrupt dismissal.
Waving them away casually without a backward glance, Viserys said, "This meeting ends here today." His tone carried the subtle authority of a man who considered them insignificant insects in the greater scheme of his life.
The White Cloaks of the Kingsguard flitted past, a silent wall of protection as they guided him from the throne room. In a flash, Viserys was gone, disappearing into the labyrinthine halls of the Red Keep.
Only Trio Nenaris and his entourage remained, standing dumbfounded in the empty hall, their once-confident composure shattered. Outside, the wind from the city streets bit through the cracks of the windows, colder and harsher than the sea breeze of Braavos.
As the delegation returned to their residence, the streets' chaos—the stench, the poverty, the ragged figures—transformed into a bitter contempt in Trio's mind. Westeros, he realized, had become unpredictable, ruled by a king who valued a child over political expediency, a man who ignored flames at his doorstep in favor of family.
In the delegation's quiet study, the tension was palpable.
"We've been fooled," whispered a young Braavosi doctor. "The king is a fool!"
"The Iron Bank will not accept a fool's refusal," another added anxiously, breaking the heavy silence.
Trio waved his hand impatiently, silencing them. He moved to the window, scanning the chaotic streets below, trying to understand the strange, obstinate nature of Westeros. Did they not care for dragons, for dynasties, for the legends that held the realm together?
A soft knock interrupted his thoughts. A servant entered, voice low.
"My lord, a gentleman requests to see you. He claims to be… of House Velaryon."
Trio's eyes narrowed immediately. Velaryon. The Sea Serpent of Tidemark.
"Let him in," he said, his voice measured but alert.
Moments later, a man in dark green sailor's attire entered. His appearance was unpretentious but his posture carried authority. A simple bow was exchanged—no excessive courtesies.
"I come by order of Lord Corlys Velaryon," he said, voice firm and precise. "My lord knows what you endured at the Red Keep. We share the king's shortsightedness."
Trio gestured for him to continue, silently acknowledging the Velaryon's words.
"Just because the king refuses to act does not mean the dragons of Westeros will remain idle," the man said deliberately. "Most of the Targaryens currently riding dragons are stationed in the Stepstones, serving with Prince Daemon. House Velaryon also has its own dragon riders at the ready."
He paused, emphasizing the most crucial point:
"My lord, Corlys Velaryon has journeyed to the Stepstones. He will unite Prince Daemon, the fleets and dragons of Velaryon, and the might of Braavos to finally neutralize the Eastern threat. We can bypass the Iron Throne."
The words hung in the room like a sudden winter chill. Trio's breath caught in his throat.
Bypass the Iron Throne…
The plan was audacious, but impossible to ignore. A king may be cowardly, but Daemond Targaryen and his allies were not. Dragons, ships, money, and strategy coalescing into an unstoppable force—an opportunity that could reshape the balance of power across Essos.
Trio's mind raced. The fire of ambition, nearly extinguished by the king's refusal, flared back to life.
---
Meanwhile, outside the delivery room, Viserys paced in agony. His royal robes were soaked with sweat, each cry of pain from Alicent slicing through his chest like needles. He thought of Emma, of past tragedies, and of children lost too soon. Every suppressed wail from inside the chamber reminded him of the fragile line between life and death.
"This time, it must go smoothly…" he murmured, gripping the marble railing for support.
"Father."
A soft voice broke through his anguish. Rhaenyra stepped forward, her hand gently resting on his trembling arm. Concern clouded her features, but her voice was steady. "It will be all right. The gods will protect Alicent and the child."
Viserys nodded, words failing him. Rhaenyra's presence was a balm, yet it reminded him of the precariousness of life, the fragility of hope.
Time stretched, agonizing and unrelenting.
Finally, a loud, powerful cry pierced the hall—the unmistakable wail of a newborn.
The door swung open, and the attendant announced joyously, "Congratulations, Your Majesty! It's a little princess! Mother and daughter are safe!"
Viserys' body relaxed instantly, tension draining from his shoulders. A long, shuddering sigh escaped him, followed by a rare smile, a mixture of exhaustion, ecstasy, and awe.
Otto Hightower, stoic as ever, allowed a faint curve of satisfaction across his face. Though the child was not a prince, the union of Targaryen and Hightower blood was still a triumph in its own right.
Viserys entered the room, carefully cradling the delicate infant in his arms. Alicent leaned against him, her pale face softening with relief and happiness. The warmth between father, mother, and child radiated through the chamber—a scene of fragile but profound harmony.
"Call her Helena," Viserys whispered.
A gentle smile spread across Alicent's lips. She leaned lightly against her husband, the room awash with soft golden light as father and daughter, mother and child, bonded in quiet intimacy.
Yet beyond the room, Rhaenyra lingered. Her heart ached as she observed the scene. Memories of her mother, Queen Emma, and her deceased brother flashed before her, only to vanish into the harsh reality of loss and rivalry. Her friend, once sworn to loyalty, had now become an adversary.
Rhaenyra turned quietly, retreating from the warmth that could never belong to her. The long corridors of the Red Keep stretched endlessly, empty and echoing. Passing by her husband Laenor Velaryon's chambers, she caught faint sounds of laughter—intimate, shared moments between husband and squire. The sound, innocent as it was, filled her with a pang of longing she could never satisfy.
Her body stiffened, but she did not linger. She quickened her pace, retreating to her own room, almost running from the echoes of joy she could never join.
She slammed the door, cutting off the world beyond her, leaving the warmth and light trapped outside. The Red Keep, vast and mighty, offered no sanctuary. In that immense fortress, Rhaenyra felt utterly alone.
---
more chapter available in p@tréøñ(Atoki_29)