105 AC - King's Landing - Third Person POV
King's Landing was cloaked in grief, the Heir's Tourney's fleeting glory overshadowed by the tragic deaths of Queen Aemma Arryn and her newborn son—or so the realm believed. The Red Keep mourned, its halls draped in black, while across the Narrow Sea, on the verdant Stepstones, a secret truth unfolded. Domonic Augustus, Daenerys Targaryen, and Missandei had reshaped the islands into a sanctuary, where Aemma and her daughter Visenya, lived, saved by magic.
---
For Queen Aemma's funeral, Lords from every corner of Westeros gathered, their condolences a ritual of loyalty to King Viserys I Targaryen. Viserys, his silver hair dulled by grief, stood beside Princess Rhaenyra, her violet eyes red from tears. The smallfolk lined the streets, tossing flowers, their whispers praising Aemma's kindness. Lord Corlys Velaryon, his sea-green robes somber, bowed to Viserys, his voice grave. "The realm mourns with you, Your Grace." Rhaenyra remained silent, her heart heavy with loss.
That evening, the city's underbelly pulsed with a different energy. On the Street of Silk, in a pleasure house aglow with lanterns, Prince Daemon Targaryen hosted a celebration for his City Watch loyalists. Goldcloaks caroused, their laughter raucous, as Daemon, spurred by his paramour Mysaria, raised a goblet. "To Baelon, the Heir Who never was!" he slurred, his voice mocking yet tinged with grief. The room cheered, unaware of the insult's weight.
Otto Hightower, Hand of the King, received word from his spies. In the Red Keep, he reported to Viserys, his voice measured but sharp. "Your Grace, Daemon's revelry at the brothel was… unseemly. My sources claim he toasted your son as 'the Heir Who never was,' mocking his brief life."
Viserys's face darkened, his grief twisting into fury. "Summon him," he ordered, his voice cold.
The confrontation unfolded in the throne room, its Iron Throne looming, its jagged blades glinting under torchlight. Viserys sat, Blackfyre in hand, flanked by Ser Ryam Redwyne and Ser Clement Crabb of the Kingsguard. Daemon entered, his black armor unpolished, his smirk defiant. "Brother," he began, but Viserys cut him off.
"Did you call my son 'the Heir Who never was'?" Viserys demanded, his voice trembling.
Daemon shrugged, his tone casual. "My way of grieving, Viserys. A toast to a nephew I'll never know."
Viserys erupted, his voice echoing. "Grieving? You celebrate with lickspittles, mocking my son, while Rhaenyra and I mourn! You throw every honor I've given you back in my face!"
Daemon's smirk faded, his voice sharp. "Honor? You've only ever sent me away—Runestone, the City Watch, anywhere but your side! Ten years you've ruled, and never once offered me Hand of the King!"
Viserys scoffed, gripping Blackfyre. "You, Hand? You'd burn the realm for your pride!"
Daemon stepped closer, his voice fierce. "I deserve it, as your brother! I'd do better than Otto, that overambitious second son scheming for himself. He doesn't protect you—I would!"
"Protect me from what?" Viserys snapped.
"Yourself," Daemon said bluntly. "You're weak, Viserys. Your council of leeches knows it, preying on you for their ends."
Outraged, Viserys rose, Blackfyre trembling. "I'll name my heir publicly, and it's not you! Return to your wife in the Vale, Daemon!"
Daemon moved to protest, but the Kingsguard drew swords, blocking him. He glared, then withdrew, his boots echoing. Viserys slumped, his anger spent, the throne's weight heavier than ever.
That night, Viserys summoned Rhaenyra to Balerion's shrine, a cavernous chamber beneath the Red Keep where the dragon's skull loomed, its sockets dark. Rhaenyra, confused by her father's silence since the funeral, followed, her gown black with mourning. "What do you see in the dragons, Rhaenyra?" Viserys asked, his voice soft.
Staring at Balerion's skull, Rhaenyra replied, "Our family. The smallfolk say we're closer to gods than men, but it's our dragons that make us so."
Viserys nodded, his tone grave. "Dragons are a dangerous power. They caused Valyria's Doom and could destroy us if we're careless. A Targaryen ruler must understand this."
Rhaenyra frowned, sensing a shift. Viserys continued, "I've chased a son for years, ignoring the heir I had. You, Rhaenyra, have the makings of a great queen."
Her eyes widened, her voice hesitant. "Me… queen?"
Viserys's gaze softened. "Aegon the Conqueror wasn't driven by ambition alone. Like Daenys foresaw Valyria's Doom, Aegon had a vision: a terrible winter from the North, bringing an evil to destroy the living. Only a united Westeros, led by a Targaryen, could stop it. He called it 'The Song of Ice and Fire,' a secret passed from king to heir. Now, I pass it to you."
Rhaenyra's breath caught, the weight of destiny settling on her young shoulders. "I'll make you proud, Father," she whispered.
---
That night, in Rhaenyra's chambers in the Red Keep, a shadow moved. Domonic Augustus, under Disillusionment, slipped inside, casting *Muffliato* to seal the room from sound. He dropped his charm, revealing himself, his simple tunic unassuming. Rhaenyra, reading by candlelight, gasped, leaping to her feet. "Guards!" she shouted, her voice shrill. "Kingsguard!"
No one responded, the spell muffling her cries. "Who are you? What do you want?" she demanded, her hand reaching for a dagger on her table.
Domonic raised his hands, his voice calm. "Calm down, Princess. I haven't harmed you."
Rhaenyra's eyes blazed, her voice fierce. "Speak, or I'll scream louder!"
Domonic sighed, stepping closer. Rhaenyra backed away, her dagger raised, until she hit the wall. "Stay back!" she warned.
He placed a hand on her shoulder, his voice gentle. "This'll be a bit uncomfortable." Before she could react, he apparated, the world squeezing them through a magical conduit. Rhaenyra stumbled on Bloodstone's castle floor, clutching her stomach, fighting nausea. "What… was that?" she gasped, her eyes wide.
Opening them, she saw Domonic seated at a table, his expression amused. Confusion gripped her as she scanned the stone chamber, its silks and candelabras unfamiliar. Then her gaze landed on Aemma Arryn, seated near a cradle, her face radiant. "Mother?" Rhaenyra whispered, running to her, tears spilling. They embraced, Aemma's sobs mingling with her daughter's.
"Is this heaven?" Rhaenyra asked, her voice trembling.
Aemma laughed, wiping her eyes. "No, sweetling. Didn't Domonic explain?"
Rhaenyra frowned, turning to Domonic. "Who? The stranger in my room? You know him?"
Aemma smiled, gesturing to Domonic. "He saved me, Rhaenyra. Let me introduce you—Domonic Augustus, King of the Stepstones, and a magician."
Rhaenyra's jaw dropped. "Magic? Stepstones? I thought we were in King's Landing!"
Aemma's voice softened, recounting her ordeal: Viserys's betrayal, Runciter's knife, Domonic's rescue, and Visenya's birth. She led Rhaenyra to the cradle, where the baby cooed, her silver hair glinting. "Your sister, Visenya," Aemma said, her voice proud.
Rhaenyra's smile was radiant, her fingers brushing Visenya's cheek. "She's beautiful."
Domonic stood, his voice practical. "I'm heading to Strongsong to fetch Desmera Belmore's handmaidens for Aemma. I'll be back soon."
Aemma nodded, her voice grateful. "Thank you, Domonic."
He apparated with a *pop*, leaving mother and daughter alone. Aemma took Rhaenyra's hand, her voice serious. "I won't return to King's Landing, Rhaenyra. I had enough of that place, if I stay there, your father will again get me pregnant and I can't handle it. But Domonic says you can visit every night—he has a solution."
Rhaenyra nodded, her voice firm. "I'll come. I need you, Mother."
Aemma's eyes shone, her voice warm. "Congratulations, my heir. Your father chose wisely, but King's Landing is a pit of snakes. Be wary, especially of your uncle Daemon."
Rhaenyra's expression hardened. "I know. He's… reckless."
They talked, laughter mingling with tears, as Rhaenyra played with Visenya, tickling her tiny feet. The chamber door opened, and Daenerys entered, her black-and-red gown regal, her silver hair loose. Aemma smiled, rising. "Rhaenyra, meet Daenerys Augustus, Domonic's wife."
Rhaenyra's eyes widened, noting Daenerys's Valyrian features. "You look like a Targaryen."
Daenerys laughed, her voice warm. "Valyrian blood, but not your house. A pleasure, Princess."
They sat, Daenerys joining their talk. "Your mother's strong, Rhaenyra," she said, her tone admiring. "And you'll need that strength as heir."
Rhaenyra nodded, her voice resolute. "I'll protect our family."
Aemma squeezed her hand, her voice soft. "You will, my dragon."