105 AC - Kings Landing - Third Person POV
The small council chamber in the Red Keep was a crucible of ambition and caution, its high windows casting slanted light across an oak table etched with Westeros's map. King Viserys I Targaryen presided, his silver hair dulled by grief, his Valyrian steel crown a quiet weight. At the wine table stood Princess Rhaenyra, her violet eyes composed, her black gown a nod to mourning, though her heart raced with knowledge she could not share. Around the table gathered the council: Ser Otto Hightower, Hand of the King; Grand Maester Runciter; Lord Lyman Beesbury, Master of Coin; Lord Lyonel Strong, Master of Laws; Lord Corlys Velaryon, Master of Ships; and Ser Ryam Redwyne, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. The air buzzed with anticipation, Corlys's return from the Stepstones the day's focus.
Viserys opened the meeting, his voice weary but warm. "Lord Corlys, you've sailed to the Stepstones and returned swiftly. The council awaits your report. What silenced the pirates? Is Craghas Drahar truly gone?"
Corlys Velaryon, his sea-green robes embroidered with silver seahorses, leaned forward, his weathered face alight with intrigue. "Your Grace, my lords—the Stepstones are no longer the lawless rocks we knew. Craghas Drahar and his pirates are dead, their ships sunk or scattered. But it's not our doing, nor the Triarchy's. A new power rules those islands—a king, self-proclaimed, named Domonic Augustus."
The chamber stilled, Rhaenyra's hands tightening in her lap, her expression schooled to neutrality. Otto Hightower's eyes narrowed, his green doublet pristine, his voice measured. "A king? Lord Velaryon, you speak of a man claiming dominion over the Stepstones, yet we know no such lord. Who is this Domonic Augustus, and by what right does he crown himself?"
Corlys's smile was wry, his voice resonant. "By right of conquest, Ser Otto. I met him on Bloodstone, where he's raised a castle unlike any in Westeros—towers carved out of stone, lush gardens where rocks once stood. He claims he slew Drahar's thousand alone, and though it strains belief, the Triarchy's emissary fled his wrath, half their men cut down in a single stroke. My spies in Myr whisper of… unnatural feats."
Viserys's eyes widened, his voice tinged with excitement. "Unnatural? Lord Corlys, do you mean magic? Tales of sorcery from Old Valyria, or the shadowbinders of Asshai? Speak plainly!"
Corlys nodded, his tone cautious but firm. "Magic, Your Grace. His castle's doors opened without touch, as if by will. My soldiers trembled, and I confess, I felt the weight of something beyond our ken. Augustus is no mere knight—he's a force, and his wife, Daenerys Augustus, carries Valyrian blood, though she denies Targaryen ties."
Rhaenyra's heart pounded, but she kept her gaze on the table, her silence a shield. Grand Maester Runciter, his chain clinking, spoke, his voice grave. "Magic, Lord Velaryon? A dangerous claim. The Citadel warns against such arts—Valyria's fall was wrought by sorcery's hubris. This Augustus could be a charlatan, or worse, a threat to the realm's order."
Otto's voice was sharp, his tone wary. "I concur, Grand Maester. Magic, if true, is a blade without a hilt. This self-styled king upends the Narrow Sea's balance. He humbles the Triarchy, yet what of us? Does he eye Westeros next? We must tread carefully, Your Grace."
Viserys leaned forward, his voice eager, undeterred. "Careful, yes, but consider the possibilities! A king wielding magic, allied with us, could secure the Stepstones forever. No more pirates, no Triarchy schemes. Imagine it—dragons and sorcery, as in times of old Valyria! Should we not invite him to King's Landing, learn his intent?"
Lyman Beesbury, Master of Coin, fidgeted, his voice quavering. "An invitation, Your Grace? A bold move, but costly. Hosting a king, even a foreign one, drains the treasury—feasts, gifts, guards. And if he's a sorcerer, what if he brings… curses?"
Lord Lyonel Strong, his broad frame steady, spoke, his voice calm. "Curses are tales, Lord Beesbury. But a king in the Stepstones changes trade and war. Lord Corlys, you met him—what's his character? Is he friend or foe?"
Corlys's eyes glinted, his voice thoughtful. "He's guarded, Lord Strong, but not hostile. He welcomed me, shared wine, and struck a deal. Augustus seeks stability, not conquest. An alliance with him strengthens us against the Triarchy."
Ser Ryam Redwyne, his white cloak stark, nodded, his voice gruff. "A practical man, then. But magic unsettles the smallfolk, Your Grace. If word spreads, the Faith may cry heresy. Still, an ally in the Stepstones outweighs a foe."
Otto's voice rose, his tone insistent. "Your Grace, I urge caution. This Augustus claims kingship without lineage, wields powers we don't understand. Inviting him risks legitimizing a usurper. What if he demands tribute, or worse, challenges House Targaryen? We should scout further, not open our gates."
Runciter's voice was firm, his eyes uneasy. "Ser Otto speaks wisdom. Magic is a wildfire—beautiful, but it consumes. The Citadel records Valyrian mages twisting men's minds, raising horrors. We must verify his intentions before he sets foot here."
Viserys's voice softened, his excitement dimming. "You counsel wariness, Otto, Runciter, and I hear you. But if this king offers peace, should we not seize it? Lord Corlys, you trust him enough to ally. Why not invite him here as a guest?"
Corlys leaned forward, his voice earnest. "We can, Your Grace, he's no threat to us—yet. Augustus could have attacked my ships, but he parleyed. The Triarchy fears him, their emissary broken by his hand. Inviting him shows strength, not weakness. We offer friendship, gain an ally, and keep the Narrow Sea ours. Refuse, and we risk him turning to Lys or Myr."
Rhaenyra's fingers traced her necklace, her silence a calculated mask. Viserys's gaze swept the table, his voice resolute. "Lord Corlys's words carry weight. A king in the Stepstones is a chance, not a curse. We'll invite Domonic Augustus to King's Landing, treat him as an equal, and forge an alliance. What say you, my lords?"
Beesbury's voice was hesitant. "If it secures trade, I agree, Your Grace, but mind the costs."
Strong's tone was steady. "A prudent move, Your Grace. An ally strengthens us."
Redwyne nodded, his voice gruff. "I stand with Lord Corlys. Invite him, but keep swords sharp."
Otto's jaw tightened, his voice grudging. "If Your Grace wills it, I'll obey, but I mislike this. Magic breeds chaos."
Runciter's voice was strained, his eyes dark. "As does the Hand, I consent—reluctantly. We must watch this sorcerer closely."
Viserys smiled, his voice firm. "Then it's settled. Ser Otto, draft a letter to King Domonic Augustus, inviting him to King's Landing as our guest. Offer hospitality, hint at alliance, and send it by swift ship."
Otto bowed, his voice tight. "As you command, Your Grace."
Viserys rose, his voice warm. "Good. We'll meet again when the reply comes. Dismissed."
The councilors filed out, Otto and Runciter exchanging wary glances, Corlys's stride confident. Rhaenyra lingered, her expression serene, her mind racing. She curtsied to Viserys, her voice soft. "Father, may I retire?"
Viserys's smile was tender. "Of course, my heir. Rest well."
---
Rhaenyra slipped into her chambers in the Red Keep, the candlelight casting shadows on her canopied bed. Locking the door, she clasped her sapphire necklace, whispering "Sanctuary." The portkey's magic whisked her to Edinburgh Castle on Bloodstone, where the great hall glowed with warmth, its silks and candelabras a stark contrast to King's Landing's cold stone. Aemma Arryn sat by the hearth, Visenya cooing in her cradle, her blue gown soft in the firelight.
"Mother!" Rhaenyra called, rushing to embrace her, her violet eyes bright.
Aemma's smile was radiant, her voice warm. "Rhaenyra, you're early today. All well in King's Landing?"
Rhaenyra nodded, her voice urgent. "I was at the small council today. Lord Corlys returned from the Stepstones and told them about Domonic—called him King of the Stepstones, spoke of his magic. Father was thrilled, wants to invite him to King's Landing."
Aemma's eyes widened, her voice curious. "Thrilled? Viserys and magic? Tell me everything, sweetling."
Rhaenyra sat, her voice animated. "Corlys said Domonic built a castle on Bloodstone, green islands where rocks were. He mentioned the doors opening themselves, scaring his men. Father asked if it was Valyrian sorcery, his eyes like a boy's hearing tales of Aegon. But Ser Otto and Grand Maester Runciter warned against it—called magic dangerous, unpredictable. They fear Domonic's a threat."
Aemma's smile was wry, her voice soft. "Otto's ever cautious, Runciter bound by his chain. What of the others?"
Rhaenyra's voice quickened. "Lord Beesbury fretted about costs, Lord Strong saw trade benefits, Ser Redwyne backed Corlys. Corlys pushed hardest—said Domonic's no foe, that an alliance keeps the Triarchy at bay. He told of their deal—Velaryon men and smallfolk for tariffs. Father agreed, ordered Otto to send a letter inviting Domonic. Otto and Runciter grudged it, but they bowed."
Aemma's voice was thoughtful, her eyes distant. "A letter to Domonic… this changes things. I'll tell him and Daenerys tonight. They'll need to decide how to answer."
Rhaenyra glanced at Visenya, her voice warm. "How's my sister?"
Aemma laughed, lifting the baby, her voice teasing. "Fussy, like you at her age. Play with her—she loves your voice."
Rhaenyra tickled Visenya, her giggles filling the hall. They talked—court intrigues, Aemma's new household, Rhaenyra's dreams of ruling. As dawn neared, Rhaenyra stood, her voice reluctant. "I must go, Mother."
Aemma hugged her, her voice soft. "Come tomorrow, sweetling. We'll be here."
Rhaenyra clasped her ruby necklace, whispering "Dragon's Rest," apparating to her Red Keep chambers. She hid the necklaces, her resolve firm, ready to face the court as heir, her secret family her strength.
---
#### Bloodstone: A Kingdom Awaits
In Edinburgh Castle, Aemma sought Domonic and Daenerys, sharing Rhaenyra's news. Domonic nodded, his voice calm. "Viserys's invitation… interesting. We'll draft a reply, play the game."
Daenerys's eyes sparkled, her voice teasing. "A royal visit, love? You'll charm them or terrify them."
Aemma smiled, her voice grateful. "You'll keep Rhaenyra safe, won't you?"
Domonic's voice was resolute. "Always, Aemma. The Stepstones are ours, and your family's under our wing."