105 AC
Kings Landing
The death of Queen Aemma and the newborn Prince Baelon plunged King Viserys into grief. The funeral, a stark contrast to the earlier tourney's joyous clamor, was a somber affair, filled with whispered condolences and veiled anxieties about the succession. It was amidst this raw sorrow that Prince Daemon Targaryen, ever the provocateur, struck a blow far more damaging than any lance. In a drunken jest in a tavern, he raised a toast, referring to the dead infant as "the heir for a day."
The words, laced with mockery and a callous disregard for the King's heartache, reached Viserys's ears like dragonfire. Fury, cold and swift, replaced his despair. This was not just a slight; it was a betrayal, a brutal affirmation of Daemon's perceived unworthiness, and a direct challenge to the very dignity of the Crown.
Summoning his brother to the throne room, Viserys, his voice trembling with barely suppressed rage, confronted Daemon. No longer the jovial king, he was a furious dragon, his authority absolute. He stripped Daemon of his position as commander of the gold cloaks, his seat on the Small Council, and, most significantly, disinherited him. The once presumptive heir, the "Prince of the City," was exiled, sent packing to Runestone in the Vale, his future in King's Landing seemingly extinguished.
With Daemon cast out, the question of succession became paramount. The precedent of the Great Council loomed, a shadow over the realm's future. Yet, in his grief and his newfound resolve, King Viserys made a choice that would reshape the Targaryen dynasty. He would not allow the uncertainty to fester, nor would he bend to the desires of those who sought to sideline his only surviving child.
In a solemn ceremony held within the throne room, before the assembled lords and ladies of the court, King Viserys looked upon his daughter, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen. His gaze, though still touched by sorrow, now held a fierce determination. He declared her, unequivocally, his heir to the Iron Throne. Each lord and lady present was made to swear fealty to her, acknowledging her as the rightful successor.
Rhaenyra, a girl barely on the cusp of womanhood, stood tall, accepting the unprecedented burden of her new destiny. Her ascension was a defiant challenge to centuries of tradition and a direct refutation of the very principle that had placed her father on the throne. The realm had a new heir, a princess, and with her naming, the stage was set for a future that would be anything but peaceful. The seeds of the Dance of the Dragons, though still dormant, had just been deeply sown.
The air in the Small Council chambers was thick with the scent of parchment and the stale odor of worry. King Viserys, still visibly weary from his recent bereavements, sat upon the ornate council table, not the Iron Throne, a preference that spoke to his desire for counsel over confrontation. His advisors were gathered: Ser Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, sharp and observant; Grand Maester Mellos, a man whose wisdom was as vast as his years; Lord Lyonel Strong, the Master of Laws, stoic and dependable; Lord Lyman Beesbury, the Master of Coin, perpetually anxious about the Crown's coffers; and Lord Corlys Velaryon, the Master of Ships, his weathered face a testament to a life spent on the sea.
The topic of discussion was the Stepstones, a treacherous string of islands that had become a nest of pirates. Craghas Drahar, a Myrish prince who had crowned himself 'Crabfeeder,' was choking off maritime trade routes, disrupting the lifeblood of the realm.
"My King," Lord Corlys began, his deep voice carrying the weight of his vast mercantile empire. "The situation in the Stepstones grows dire. Craghas Drahar's piracy chokes off our trade. My ships, my men, they face ruin. We must act. We must send the fleet, burn them out, and clear the shipping lanes." Corlys's hands, usually restless, were clenched, betraying his deep frustration.
Otto Hightower, ever the cautious politician, gently cleared his throat. " Lord Corlys," he said, his voice smooth and measured, "We understand your concerns deeply. However, direct Crown involvement… it carries significant risks. If we attack the Stepstones, the Triarchy—the alliance of Myrish, Tyroshi, and Lysene—may interpret it as an act of aggression against them. We could find ourselves embroiled in a far larger, more costly war...." He trailed off, his gaze subtly flicking to Lord Beesbury, who flinched.
"A larger war?" Corlys scoffed, his patience wearing thin. "They are pirates, Lord Hand! Not a kingdom! We have dragons! We have ships! Let us use them and show the world the might of the Targaryens!"
Viserys sighed, running a hand over his tired face. The mention of dragons brought a flicker of pain to his eyes, a grim reminder of their defeat in the North. He disliked violence, abhorred the thought of shedding more blood, especially after the Northern debacle. The prospect of war, one that could drain the Crown's resources and perhaps even spark more open conflict with the Free Cities, filled him with dread.
After listening to the spirited debate for a while, Viserys finally spoke, his voice quiet but firm. "Lord Corlys, your concerns are valid, and I appreciate your vigor. But the realm cannot afford a war. Not now. Ser Otto is right. We must seek a more... diplomatic solution. We will send envoys. Perhaps terms can be negotiated, a price paid for passage."
Corlys's likely fury at this decision was a silent, unacknowledged presence in the room, but the Hand's influence had won the day. The council meeting continued for a while longer, discussing other minor matters, until eventually, one by one, the advisors bowed and departed. Only Otto Hightower remained with the King.
Viserys, weary, rubbed his temples. "Another day, Otto. Another challenge. I confess, sometimes the burden of this crown feels heavier than any stone."
Otto approached, his footsteps soft on the marble floor. "Indeed, Your Grace. But it is a burden you bear for the realm and for your daughter. Speaking of Princess Rhaenyra…" He paused, gauging the King's mood. "She is a spirited girl, strong-willed, intelligent. But the world she is inheriting is… complex."
Viserys sighed. "She is heir, Otto. She must learn. I have given her a place on the council, allowed her to observe."
"Observation is one thing, Your Grace. True preparedness is another," Otto pressed gently, his voice almost a murmur. "She must be trained, not just in the customs of the court, but in the harsh realities of the world. And frankly, King's Landing, for all its splendor, cannot offer her the breadth of experience she will need."
Viserys looked at him, intrigued. "Where then, Otto? Where can she learn what she needs?"
"Your Grace. Princess needs to understand the new ways. She needs to see the world not just from the vantage of the Iron Throne, but from the perspective of those who now stand apart from it. She needs to understand their strength, their philosophy, and their thinking. And there is a place, unique in all Westeros, that could offer her precisely such a training."
Otto paused for effect, then delivered the unexpected proposal. "College of Winterhold. In Asgard."
Viserys stiffened. "Asgard? In the North? Otto, are you mad? We just fought a war with them! They are no longer part of our realm!"
"Precisely, Your Grace. That is why it is so brilliant," Otto countered smoothly. "Think of the knowledge she would gain there. They teach practical skills, not just dusty histories. They understand the land, the people, perhaps even… the more esoteric forces that now exist beyond the Neck. She would learn statecraft from a kingdom that has just proven its self-sufficiency and resilience against overwhelming odds. She would learn how to govern, not just how to rule."
Viserys rubbed his temples. "Send my heir, the future Queen of the Six Kingdoms, to a foreign, independent realm? A realm that just extorted us for millions? It's… It's preposterous."
"Is it?" Otto challenged gently. "Or is it a stroke of genius, Your Grace? Consider the message it sends. It shows the realm, and indeed the world, that the Targaryens are not arrogant, that we are willing to learn, even from those we have fought. It shows a profound respect for their new independence, a gesture of peace and cooperation that no parchment agreement could ever convey."
He leaned in, his voice dropping to a persuasive whisper. "And there is another matter, Your Grace. I have heard whispers that the granddaughter of King Artor will be beginning her studies at the Winterhold College at the start of the next year. Imagine, Your Grace, if your daughter and the princess of Asgard could forge a friendship. A bond built not on conquest, but on shared learning. This could increase the relationships between our two kingdoms for generations to come."
Viserys's expression remained doubtful. "A friendship? After such a war?"
"A seed, Your Grace. A small, carefully planted seed," Otto pressed, his gaze unwavering. "This would be the first leap of faith, sending the heir to the Iron Throne to study in the North. Who knows, perhaps in the future, Asgard will see the benefits of reunion. Not through war, Your Grace, but through diplomacy. Through shared prosperity, through mutual understanding. It could truly make us Seven Kingdoms again, peacefully, honorably."
Viserys was torn. The prospect of Rhaenyra learning from the victorious North, of potentially mending relations, was tempting. The idea of a future peaceful reunification, however distant, appealed to his peace-loving nature. Yet, sending his only child, his precious heir, into the land of the Starks, the land of the ice dragons…
"It is a risk, Otto," Viserys murmured, his gaze distant.
"A calculated one, Your Grace," Otto countered, his voice firm. "And one with immeasurable rewards. It shows courage. It shows vision. It shows that the Targaryens look to the future, not just dwell on the past. And it will secure Rhaenyra's position, make her untouchable. No one would dare question the succession if she has trained in the very kingdom that humbled us, if she has shown herself capable of navigating such treacherous political waters."
The manipulation was subtle, playing on Viserys's desire for peace, for Rhaenyra's secure future, and for the possibility of restoring the realm without bloodshed. Slowly, the King's hesitation began to wane, replaced by a glimmer of conviction.
Finally, Viserys took a deep breath, the weight of the decision settling upon him. "Very well, Otto," he said, the words heavy with resignation and a flicker of desperate hope. "It is a bold move. A dangerous one. But… perhaps it is the only way forward. Send a message to the King of Asgard. Inquire about Princess Rhaenyra's joining the Winterhold College. Make it clear that the Iron Throne will bear all expenses, from her tutors to her comforts. And emphasize our sincere desire for renewed ties."
King Viserys slumped back on his chair, the weight of his decision already pressing down on him. The notion of sending Rhaenyra to the North, to Asgard, still felt alien, a violation of every instinct that screamed to keep his heir close, safe within the familiar, if tarnished, walls of the Red Keep. Yet, Otto's words had planted seeds of hope: of peace, of Rhaenyra's enhanced legitimacy, and of a future where the realm might mend its profound fracture without further bloodshed. He chose to believe in that distant, peaceful vision, even if it meant a terrifying leap of faith.
"Ensure the message is crafted with the utmost respect," Viserys added, his voice still tinged with weariness. "No hint of demand. It must be an appeal for cooperation. For the sake of future generations."
"It shall be, Your Grace," Otto Hightower affirmed, his voice respectful, his face a mask of earnest dedication. He bowed deeply, a movement both deferential and imbued with a quiet, inner satisfaction. "I shall see to it personally. Perhaps this daring step will indeed prove to be the wisest of your reign, Your Grace."
Viserys merely nodded, closing his eyes for a moment, the heavy silence of the throne room swallowing his anxieties.
Otto turned and walked towards the chamber doors. Each step was measured, composed. But beneath the stoic facade, a wave of profound satisfaction washed over him. The King, in his grief and his aversion to conflict, had been swayed. The Princess, his greatest obstacle to his own family's ascension, was now being sent to the far reaches of the realm, to a land still viewed with suspicion and fear by the Southern courts.
He imagined Rhaenyra, young and hot-headed, navigating the cold, ancient ways of the North. She would be far from the influence of King's Landing, far from her father's doting protection, and far from the machinations of those who might support her claim against his own blood. The grand daughter of King Artor would be there, yes, a potential friendship. But a child's friendship could be fragile, and a queen's education in a foreign land might mold her in unexpected ways, perhaps even estrange her from the very court she was meant to rule.
More importantly, it secured the future for his own daughter, Alicent. With Rhaenyra gone, even temporarily, the King's affections and attentions would naturally drift closer to those who remained loyal and present. A new queen might yet sit by Viserys's side, and her children, male children, might yet supersede the princess he had just sent north.
As the heavy doors of the Small Council chamber swung shut behind him, cutting off the last sliver of light from the King, Ser Otto Hightower allowed himself a faint, almost imperceptible smile. It was not a smile of triumph, not yet, but one of a game well-played, of a strategic advantage seized. The pieces were moving. And the board was now, very subtly, tilted in his favor.
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A/N: I made changes in the previous timeskip chapter Company of Rose joins Northern Army.