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Chapter 100: The Dragon Crowned
Rhaella Targaryen's Perspective – The Great Hall, Red Keep
The bells of the Great Sept tolled through the city, but their sound was a faint echo inside the vast stone belly of the Red Keep. The Great Hall had never looked so full, or so silent. Hundreds of lords and ladies stood shoulder to shoulder beneath the vaulted ceiling, their silks rustling like leaves in the wind. The banners of the great houses flanked the hall, and above them, high on the walls, the dragon of House Targaryen unfurled like wings in the dim torchlight.
Rhaella stood near the base of the Iron Throne, her hands folded in front of her. She wore a gown of deep Targaryen red and black, trimmed in silver. A dragon clasp fastened her cloak at the collarbone. Her long silver hair was woven back into a regal braid. She stood tall, proud—and yet beneath it all, her heart pounded like a war drum.
She had lost her son to the waters of the Trident. She had fled with her children into the dark, into the cold, into exile. For years, she'd clung to survival by sheer will. And now, here she stood again, where it all began—and ended—and began once more.
The doors of the Great Hall opened, and the sound of booted feet echoed off the stone.
Daeron entered alone.
He wore black and red armor chased with gold, his sword at his hip, his hair tied back in a warrior's knot. He looked every inch a king already—taller than Aerys, broader than Rhaegar, steadier than any Targaryen she had ever known.
Behind him came his Kingsguard—Arthur Dayne and Barristan Selmy in white cloaks, twin pillars of legend—and behind them, the major lords of the realm. Stark. Tully. Martell. Tyrell. Velaryon. Viserys stood still and silent, dressed better than he had for years, in their exile. Somewhere near the front, she saw Daenerys, watching her nephew with wide, shimmering eyes.
The High Septon raised his hands and began the ceremonial prayers, intoning the blessings of the Seven over the assembled court. The Warrior to give Daeron strength, the Father to grant him justice, the Mother to keep his heart merciful.
But Rhaella barely heard it.
She watched her grandson kneel.
He bowed his head. The hall fell silent.
The High Septon stepped aside—and the hush deepened. Hundreds of nobles turned their heads toward her.
It was not the Seven who had raised Daeron. It was not the Faith that had kept him alive. It was her blood, and their Stark kim. Fire and the Winter in his blood had carved his path—and fire and blood would bless his rule.
She stepped forward.
A hush of silk and steel followed her as she ascended the small stone steps toward him, the crown cradled in her hands. The crown was made just like Aegon the Conqueror's—not Robert's circlet of stag antlers, but of blackened steel and deep red rubies. The true crown of dragons.
As she reached him, her hands trembled.
Not from fear.
From awe.
She placed the crown upon his brow.
"I crown you Daeron of House Targaryen," she said clearly, voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling, "Third of Your Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. Protector of the Realm."
He looked up at her, and their eyes met. For a heartbeat, she saw not the king—but the boy. The boy she had held for the first time not so long ago—now he rose.
The crown caught the torchlight.
The Great Hall erupted in cheers. Lords shouted his name. Banners waved. Steel rang against stone. Daenerys clapped her hands in joy, and even serious Ned Stark allowed himself a small nod.
But Rhaella didn't move. She only looked at Daeron.
The dragons had returned.
And she had lived to see her grandson crowned
Daeron Targaryen's Perspective
The Red Keep, That Night
The Great Hall looked entirely different bathed in firelight and laughter.
The long tables overflowed with roasted meats, spiced wines, sweetbreads, and fruits glazed in honey. Minstrels played soft tunes in the gallery above, and the hum of conversation filled the air like a distant tide, rolling in waves of toast, laughter, and carefully veiled tension. Everywhere Daeron looked, there were eyes—some warm, many watchful.
He sat at the high table beneath the Iron Throne, no longer merely a presence in the room.
His crown sat heavy on his brow—not physically, but in his bones. He had worn it for hours, and already it felt less like a crown and more like a burden waiting to slip.
Rhaella sat to his left, regal and composed, but Daeron could feel the pride radiating from her like a silent fire. On his right sat Daenerys, practically buzzing with excitement, her violet eyes dancing as she took in the splendor of it all. Viserys sat further down the table, quiet, focused entirely on enjoying the feast.
"Seven hells," Robb said from beside him, not bothering to keep his voice down. "This feast put Winterfell's to shame."
Daeron smirked. ''I am king now. Lavishing gold on such trifles is expected of me". Robb snorted.
Greywind had curled up beneath the table, calm for once, Ghost lying beside him like a pale shadow. No guards had dared shoo them out.
Across the hall, Daeron's eyes found the gathered lords. Prince Doran's emissary stood with Arianne Martell, who had arrived only the night before. She smiled when she noticed him looking her way—cool, curious, calculating. The Tyrells sat across from them, Mace puffed up with pride, while Loras seemed less interested in the food and more in brooding in the corner.
Stannis Baratheon, dour and brooding, had not spoken a word all night. He'd arrived only hours ago, escorted by Monford Velaryon, with Tyrion, Tommen and Myrcella in tow—both under heavy guard. Daeron had ordered them treated with dignity. They were children, after all. They would not be harmed.
Not unless Jaime went back on his word.
Tyrion sat beside them, sipping from a goblet and cracking jokes no one asked for. He looked like a man accepting his death with a jape on his lips.
Daeron's gaze swept further. Every alliance and every threat in the realm sat under this one roof. Every house, every voice, every ambition now rested on the boy with a crown and a dragon—and the question of whether he was strong enough to hold them together.
He raised his goblet in silence, staring into the red wine before him.
This was the easy part.
Smiles. Toasts. Applause.
His fingers brushed the goblet rim before he drank, and somewhere nearby, he heard a bard beginning to sing—a soft ballad about dragons returning and kingdoms reforged.
Daeron set his cup down and leaned back, the weight of the Iron Throne behind him.
The great hall thundered with cheers, toasts raised high in his name. But Daeron Targaryen—once Jon Snow—felt no triumph in his chest.
He was king now—but not of peace, not yet. The true war waited in the cold beyond the wall.