Before long, the news of Otto Hightower's dismissal became known. Spreading through court and city alike.
An abrupt and rather unexpected change to many.
Given that to them, it seemed impossible.
For near a decade... he had served as Hand to Viserys I Targaryen. First steadying the realm in the uncertain years after the passing of the Old King... and thereafter guiding the fledgling king through matters of coin, law, and diplomacy.
Even the smallfolk of Westeros knew his name, if not his face, and plenty actually credited him for the long seasons of relative calm that marked Viserys's reign.
More than that, he was father to the queen, Alicent Hightower... grandsire to Prince Aegon Targaryen and Princess Helaena Targaryen... and kin to one of the most powerful houses in the Reach.
A figure that was supposed to be the second most powerful man in the realm.
To think that such a man... so bound to crown and blood alike... could actually be set aside without ceremony and without reasons told.
Either way, it sparked intrigue and a lot of speculation.
Which were all given in equal measure to the newly appointed Hand... the Lord Lyonel Strong of Harrenhal.
Why him... is what plenty wondered.
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Then again, while the realm of Westeros pondered upon the causes of such a development... Rhaenyra actually knew much more than them.
Well-informed of the ins and outs despite the fact that she had been lodged upon the Targaryen ancestral seat for quite a while now.
More than anything, she was actually the one that compelled her father to do what has been done.
To get rid of that vulture who perched upon the throne.
The man desperate to have Aegon named Heir. Almost not stopping at anything to see it happen.
Alicent's haphazard recruitment of supposed "Greens"...
The shoddy securing of the newest kingdom with a marriage match...
Even the audacious correspondence with the Triarchy to redirect their support...
All of these paltry attempts, made known to Rhaenyra eventually... by virtue of people who have noted her position as the next Queen to be quite secured.
The court nobles that the bitch Queen couldn't really convince to her side... the courted Dornishmen who are still fearing Ronan's dragons... and even some raven-sorting maesters of the Keep had snitched her way.
A collective of informants was formed from that, and she didn't even have to do anything... just be her historic husband's wife.
Of course, how could she not take advantage... by simply funneling all these insightful information so that her dear father finally notice the atrocities.
Granted, Rhaenyra knew that that wasn't enough to get the King out of the Hightowers' wiles... so she also went and reminded him about something.
About the promise he's made... about family, succession, and the implausibility of supplantation... on her mother's memory.
In the end, it all worked out... and she can partly rest easy.
Just partly... for that Otto will most likely still lurk… and that there was still the matter of raising Rhaegal, after all.
Fortunately for her, there was always her husband to depend on. When it came to that spoiled bundle of relentless cries...
Their beloved boy.
And as attentive as Ronan was during her pregnancy, he's practically just shifted from that towards the babe finally outside of her belly.
While Rhaegal proved to be a loud creature from the start... red-faced, indignant, and possessed of lungs that could rival a warhorn.
Where Rhaenyra sometimes met those cries with royal impatience that she wasn't proud of, Ronan met them with method.
He learned quickly that not every wail meant the same thing.
Hunger had a rhythm to it... short, insistent bursts.
Weariness came in long, dragging sobs, fists rubbing at small violet eyes.
Discomfort was sharper, almost offended.
He listened. He paid attention. It was, in its own way, no different from how he probably studied the patterns of enemies before battle.
When the boy fussed after feeding, Ronan would settle him against his shoulder and pat his back in steady, measured taps to coax out trapped wind. And reactively... the babe would answer with a small, undignified burp and fall quiet.
He insisted the wet nurse keep to a regular feeding rhythm rather than rushing at every cry.
A well-fed child slept longer while a rested child cried less.
He saw to it that Rhaegal was laid upon his back in the cradle, swaddled snugly but not tight enough to hinder breath or movement.
The swaddling cloths were firm around the arms.... for Ronan discovered the boy startled himself awake otherwise... but it should also be loose at the hips so the legs might bend naturally.
When the crying turned relentless in the evenings, Ronan would walk.
Not pacing in agitation, but steady circuits about the chamber, babe cradled against his chest.
Motion calmed the child.
A slow sway, a quiet hum... tuneless but low... worked better than any lullaby sung by courtiers unused to infants.
Other times, he would opt to use his own lyric-ed originals like "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star", "Hush Little Baby", and "Row, Row, Row Your Boat".
And sometimes he would step onto the balcony where the sea air of Dragonstone moved gently... keeping the wind from the boy's face but letting the cooler air settle him.
He kept the chamber dim at night and brighter by day, saying the boy must learn when the world wakes and when it rests.
He ensured the cradle linens were changed often, that damp cloths were replaced before a rash could take hold. Even the smallest redness did not escape his notice.
Rhaenyra had always smiled seeing a man who commanded great beasts so carefully testing bathwater upon his wrist before lowering their son into it.
Of course, there was much more to say... like how he learnt all of that way too fast... but she left it there.
For her husband was just beyond reliable.
A father that Rhaegal was more than lucky to have.
Caring enough to pause a campaign against aggressors so that he sees through the first year of his child's life.
Granted, while Ronan was doing so... his other preoccupations were not hindered.
Balancing his self-imposed tasks quite well... which was about finishing certain projects of his and inventing new fanciful creations...
Like the swinging crib that made putting the babe to sleep much simpler.
As for the most stable crib, he's simply installed dragon and knight miniatures that hang upon a circular structure that spun.
He's called that a "mobile" and effectively enough... a laying Rhaegal would be mesmerized.
Not to be confused with the actually mobile stroller... which is another crib ot something else entirely.
And to top off his many sleep-inducing aids... he's crafted a nifty music box. All it needed was a slow spin and the melody does the trick.
Suffice it to say, their son just had quite the reserve of liveliness that Ronan had to make so many resting contigencies.
Lively enough that he also crafted a handy contraption like the walker... a wooden walker to spur the child to walk earlier.
In hopes that the more Rhaegal walks... the more he'd play with all the other toys that were made for him... so that his bountiful reserves be channelled properly.
Which was truly quite the system of advanced child care.
All the while that Ronan was actually runing, armoring, and coordinating an army that was awaiting his signals back in Runestone.
Not to mention his ever-present warging on his eyed targets that he plans to stackingly unleash them upon.
Then again, Rhaenyra noted that he was no longer holding his head in an odd manner or stuck in mindful concentrations... so, it would only mean that his magical skill has improved to inexplicable levels...
And she could only give half-hearted condolences to his pitiful enemies in advance.
For they will very much need it.
Against a meticulous 'dada'... who could very well be an equally meticulous destroyer as well.