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The Realm's Alpha Chapter 14 (A Crown of Silver-Gold)
🕑 Added 2024-12-11 22:10:55 +0000 UTCThe wind whipped across the grassy field of Dragonstone, carrying the salt of the sea with it. Rhaenyra stood straight-backed, her silver-gold hair dancing in the breeze as she watched the silent preparations. The small bundle that was her brother looked almost peaceful atop the carefully constructed pyre, wrapped in pristine white sheets that seemed to mock the darkness of the occasion.
Her mother's quiet sobs carried across the field, each one making Rhaenyra's chest tighten. Queen Aemma stood supported by two handmaidens, her face tear-stained and her usually immaculate appearance showing signs of her grief. Beside her, King Viserys looked like a man who had aged ten years in two days, his shoulders slumped beneath the weight of his loss.
Rhaenyra searched within herself for grief, for some echo of the pain that was so evident on her parents' faces. But when she looked at the tiny bundle that had been Prince Baelon, she felt... nothing. Just a hollow emptiness where she supposed sorrow should be.
"Am I broken?" she whispered to herself, the words carried away by the wind.
The septons finished their preparations, stepping back from the pyre with heads bowed. The moment of farewell had come. Viserys stepped forward first, his voice rough with emotion.
"My son," he began, then had to pause to collect himself. "My beautiful boy. You were everything I dreamed of, everything I prayed for. Even if only for an hour, you were perfect. May the Seven welcome you into their light."
Aemma could barely speak through her tears, but she managed to step forward, reaching out to touch the white bundle one last time. "My sweet Baelon... I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry I couldn't keep you safe. I couldn't... I couldn't..."
She broke down completely then, and Rhaenyra had to fight the urge to run to her mother's side. But this was a moment for parents to grieve their son, and she felt like an intruder in their sorrow.
"You should stand with them," Daemon's voice came from behind her, low and serious for once. "They need you now more than ever."
Rhaenyra turned slightly to look at her uncle, studying his unusually solemn expression. "Do you think he was happy?" she asked quietly. "Father, I mean. That one hour when he had his son, his heir... do you think that single hour made him truly happy?"
Daemon's silence was answer enough. They both knew the truth - that single hour of joy would haunt Viserys far more than if Baelon had never drawn breath at all.
A screech from above announced Syrax's arrival, the young dragon landing gracefully nearby. Her golden scales caught the morning light as she settled, waiting for her rider's command. Rhaenyra felt the familiar warmth of their bond, sensing her dragon's readiness.
"It's time," Daemon murmured.
Rhaenyra nodded and finally moved forward, her boots crushing the grass beneath them as she approached her parents. She took her place between them, feeling her mother immediately lean into her for support.
"Would you like me to..." Rhaenyra started to ask, but Viserys shook his head.
"He was my son," he said firmly, though his voice shook. "I should be the one."
He raised the torch he held, but his hand trembled so badly he could barely keep his grip. Without a word, Rhaenyra placed her hand over his, steadying him. Together, they stepped forward and touched the flame to the pyre.
The fire caught quickly, spreading across the carefully arranged wood. Rhaenyra stepped back, keeping one arm around her mother while maintaining her grip on her father's hand.
The heat was intense, but none of them moved back. They watched as the white sheets blackened and burned away, as the tiny bundle at the center of it all disappeared into ash and smoke.
Aemma's sobs had quieted to silent tears. Viserys stood rigid, as if afraid he might shatter if he moved. And Rhaenyra... Rhaenyra still felt that strange emptiness, that disconnect between what she knew she should feel and what she actually felt.
"I should have been enough," she thought, not realizing she'd spoken aloud until her father turned to look at her.
"Rhaenyra..." he started, but she cut him off.
"No," she said firmly. "Look at what this has cost. Look at what mother has suffered. I should have been enough."
"You are enough," Aemma whispered, clutching her daughter tighter. "You are more than enough."
But Rhaenyra saw the shadow that crossed her father's face, the slight turning away that spoke volumes. She felt Daemon's presence behind them, knew he saw it too. The weight of expectations, of tradition, of what a proper heir should be - it all hung in the air between them, heavier than the smoke rising from the pyre.
Syrax let out another cry, this one softer, almost mournful. The dragon understood loss, understood pain, even if Rhaenyra herself couldn't seem to feel it properly. The flames were beginning to die down now, leaving behind only ash and embers.
"We should return to the castle," Daemon suggested gently. "The wind is picking up."
Indeed, the breeze had grown stronger, threatening to scatter the ashes before they were properly collected. Viserys nodded mechanically, allowing himself to be led away by his brother. Aemma remained for a moment longer, staring at the smoldering remains of the pyre.
"Mother," Rhaenyra said softly. "Please. You need rest."
"Will you stay with me?" Aemma asked, sounding so vulnerable it made Rhaenyra's heart ache. "Just for a while?"
"Of course," Rhaenyra promised, though she knew her presence was a poor substitute for what her mother had lost. "As long as you need."
Rhaenyra - Later
The waves crashed against the rocky shores of Dragonstone, their distant roar barely audible through the thick castle walls. Rhaenyra stood at her chamber window, violet eyes fixed on the dark waters below. The fireplace crackled behind her, casting dancing shadows across the stone floor, while the wind whistled through the cracks of the castle.
She pressed her forehead against the cold glass, her breath fogging the surface. What would he have looked like, she wondered, if the gods had been kinder? Would his dragon by a young one or an old one like Vermithor? Questions without answers, about a person who had barely existed.
"Who decides?" she whispered to the empty room. "Who lives, who dies?" Her fingers curled into fists against the windowsill. "Why make mother suffer so?"
The sound of her chamber door opening broke through her thoughts. For a moment, she expected to see Alicent's familiar silhouette, but instead, Laena Velaryon's form slipped inside. She closed the door quietly behind her.
"Rhaenyra," Laena's voice was soft, gentle in a way that made something in Rhaenyra's chest tighten uncomfortably. "How are you feeling?"
Rhaenyra didn't turn from the window. "I'm fine."
"You can be honest with me," Laena moved closer, her footsteps nearly silent on the stone floor. "You don't have to pretend."
Warm hands wrapped around Rhaenyra's own, and finally, she turned to face her lover. Laena's silver-gold hair caught the firelight, making it seem as though she wore a crown of flame. Her eyes, so similar to Rhaenyra's own, held nothing but concern and understanding.
"There's nothing to say," Rhaenyra tried to pull away, but Laena's grip remained firm.
"There is," Laena insisted. "You lost your brother today. Your only sibling-"
"Lost?" Rhaenyra let out a harsh laugh. "How can you lose something you never had? How can I mourn someone whose name I learned only after they were dead?"
Laena fell silent, her thumbs tracing soothing circles on Rhaenyra's hands. The princess felt something hot and angry building in her chest, rising like bile in her throat.
"Everyone expects me to be devastated," she continued, her voice growing thick. "To weep and wail like mother, to be broken like father. But I..." Her eyes burned with unshed tears, but they weren't tears of grief. "What's wrong with me, Laena? Why don't I feel what I'm supposed to feel?"
"There's nothing wrong with you," Laena released one of her hands to cup Rhaenyra's cheek. "Grief isn't something that can be commanded or controlled. It's not something that follows rules or expectations."
"But I should feel something," Rhaenyra insisted, leaning into Laena's touch despite herself. "He was my brother. My blood. And when I look at that pyre, when I think of him, I feel..." She struggled to find the words. "Empty. Hollow. Like I'm watching a mummer's show about someone else's tragedy."
Laena stepped closer, until their bodies were nearly touching. "The only thing you feel strongly about is your mother's pain."
"Of course I do!" Rhaenyra pulled away, beginning to pace the room. "I was there, Laena. I heard her screams. I saw her face when they made me leave. She wanted this child so badly, tried so many times..." She ran her hands through her hair in frustration. "And father... gods, the way he looked at that bundle. Like all his dreams were wrapped in those white sheets."
"And how did he look at you?"
The question stopped Rhaenyra in her tracks. She turned to face Laena, her expression knowing.
"Like I wasn't enough," Rhaenyra whispered. "Like I never will be."
"Is that why you can't mourn your brother? Because part of you resents what he represented?"
The words hit Rhaenyra like a dragon. She sank onto the edge of her bed, the truth of it washing over her like ice water.
"I'm horrible," she breathed. "My mother is broken with grief, my father can barely look at anyone, and I'm... I'm angry. I'm angry that they wanted him so much when they already had me. I'm angry that his death hurts them more than my life seems to please them."
Laena crossed the room in swift strides, kneeling before Rhaenyra and taking her hands once more. "You're not horrible. You're human. Forced to watch your parents pine for something they think they need more than what they already have."
"But he was innocent," Rhaenyra's voice cracked. "He didn't ask for any of this. He didn't choose to be born, to die, to become the symbol of everything I can never be."
"No, he didn't," Laena agreed. "But neither did you. You didn't choose to be born an Alpha, to be caught between what you are and what tradition says an heir should be. You didn't choose to have your worth measured against a dream of a son who might someday come along."
The tears finally fell, hot and angry down Rhaenyra's cheeks. Laena rose from her knees, sitting beside her on the bed and pulling her close.
"I love them," Rhaenyra sobbed into Laena's shoulder. "I love them so much it hurts. But sometimes I think they love the idea of who I should be more than who I am. And now, with him... even dead, he's still that idea. That perfect prince who could have been everything they wanted."
"Then they're fools," Laena said firmly, stroking Rhaenyra's hair. "Because who you are is extraordinary. You're strong, passionate, brilliant... and you feel things so deeply that you're afraid to let yourself feel this, because you know it might break you."
Rhaenyra pulled back slightly, meeting Laena's gaze. "How do you know me so well?"
"Because I see you," Laena smiled softly, wiping away Rhaenyra's tears with gentle fingers. "Not the heir, not the princess, not the Alpha. Just you, Rhaenyra Targaryen, in all your complicated glory."
The wind howled outside, and the fire popped in the hearth, but in that moment, Rhaenyra felt anchored by Laena's presence, by her understanding. She leaned forward, pressing their foreheads together.
"Stay with me tonight?" she whispered. "Not for... just... stay?"
"Of course," Laena promised, pulling them both to lie back on the bed. She wrapped her arms around Rhaenyra, letting the princess bury her face in her neck. "I'll stay as long as you need."
As the night deepened around them, Rhaenyra finally let herself feel - not the grief everyone expected, but the complex tangle of emotions she'd been trying to suppress. And in Laena's arms, she found that feeling them didn't break her after all.
Viserys Targaryen
The royal chamber felt like a tomb. Shadows danced across the walls from the flickering candles, but neither Viserys nor Aemma seemed to notice the growing darkness. The queen sat in her favorite chair by the window, her delicate fingers tracing the intricate patterns she had lovingly embroidered on the dark red blanket meant for their son. Each dragon she had stitched was perfect - hours of work for a child who would never feel their warmth.
Viserys stood before the ornate mirror, barely recognizing the man who stared back at him. His eyes were sunken, rimmed with red, and his usually well-kept appearance had given way to dishevelment. He watched his reflection as he ran a trembling hand through his unkempt hair, noting how much more gray seemed to have appeared in just two days.
The silence between them was deafening, broken only by the occasional catch in Aemma's breath as she fought back fresh tears. The blanket in her lap trembled with her hands.
"How..." Aemma's voice was hoarse from crying, barely above a whisper. "How are you feeling, my love?"
Viserys let out a laugh that sounded more like a sob, turning from the mirror to face his wife. "I already loved him," he said, his voice cracking. "Gods help me, I already loved him so much."
Aemma's fingers tightened on the blanket as Viserys continued, his words spilling out like water from a broken dam.
"One hour. I held him for one hour, but in that time..." He moved across the room, sinking to his knees before Aemma's chair. "I saw everything, Aemma. Everything he could have been. I saw him taking his first steps in the great hall, saw him mounting his first dragon, saw him growing strong and tall..."
His voice broke completely then, and Aemma reached out with a trembling hand to touch his cheek. Her own tears fell freely now.
"I saw it too," she whispered. "Every time. Every baby we lost, I saw their whole lives stretched out before me. All the moments we'll never have."
Viserys covered her hand with his own, pressing it closer to his face. "The Grand Maester says... he says after a year, we could try again. With the right preparations, the right care-"
"No." Aemma's voice was soft but firm.
Viserys looked up at her, his eyes pleading. "My love-"
"No," she repeated, pulling her hand away. The blanket slipped from her lap as she stood, forcing Viserys to rise and step back. "I won't do it again. I can't."
"But this time could be different," Viserys said, desperation creeping into his voice. "We could take more precautions, bring in different maesters-"
"Different maesters?" Aemma turned to face him, and the raw pain in her expression made him flinch. "Different potions? Different prayers? How many more ways can we find for me to fail?"
"You haven't failed-"
"Haven't I?" She gestured to the empty cradle in the corner of their chamber, the one that had been filled for such a brief, precious moment. "Our son is dead, Viserys. Dead like all the others. Dead like every hope we've ever had."
Viserys stepped toward her, hands outstretched. "But the next one might live. We have to believe-"
"The next one?" Aemma's voice rose sharply, then dropped to an almost deadly quiet. "The next time, my love, you'll have two bodies to burn."
The words hung in the air between them like a physical thing. Viserys staggered back as if struck, his face draining of what little color it had.
"You don't mean that," he whispered.
Aemma's laugh was hollow, empty of any joy. "Don't I? Look at me, Viserys. Really look at me." She spread her arms wide, showing how the pregnancy had ravaged her body, how each loss had carved away at her very being. "I'm not the girl you married anymore. Each time we try, each time we fail, another piece of me dies with our child."
She moved to the cradle, her fingers trailing along its ornately carved edge. "I've given you everything I have to give. My body, my heart, my hope... there's nothing left." Her voice caught. "I love you too much to make you watch me die trying for another heir."
Viserys crossed the room in three long strides, pulling her into his arms. She didn't resist, but she didn't melt into his embrace as she once would have. Her body remained rigid, as if she was holding herself together through sheer will alone.
"You are more important to me than any heir," he murmured into her hair. "You know that, don't you?"
Aemma pulled back just enough to look into his eyes. The sadness in her smile made his heart ache. "Am I? Then why do we keep doing this? Why do we keep sacrificing everything for the chance of a son?"
"We have Rhaenyra," Viserys said, but even as the words left his mouth, he knew they weren't enough. The weight of tradition, of expectation, of what a proper heir should be - it all hung unspoken between them.
"Yes, we have Rhaenyra," Aemma agreed. "Our beautiful, brilliant daughter. And she should be enough." She touched his face gently. "But she isn't, is she? Not for the realm, not for the court... not for you."
"Aemma-"
"I'm tired, Viserys," she cut him off, stepping out of his embrace. "So tired. Of trying, of failing, of watching you try to hide your disappointment each time." She moved back to her chair, picking up the fallen blanket and folding it with careful, precise movements. "I can't do it anymore. I won't."
Viserys watched her, feeling more helpless than he ever had as king. He wanted to argue, to convince her, to promise that next time would be different. But the truth in her words stopped him. How many times had he watched her suffer? How many times had he asked her to risk everything for the chance of a son?
"I love you," he said finally, because it was the only truth he knew for certain.
Aemma looked up at him, her eyes full of tears yet to fall. "I know," she said softly. "That's why it hurts so much."
The candles burned lower, casting longer shadows across the room. Neither of them moved to light new ones. Sometimes, Viserys thought, the darkness was easier to bear than the light that showed too clearly what they had lost.
Viserys ran his hands through his silver-gold hair, feeling the weight of his crown though it wasn't even on his head. "What would you have me do?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Aemma's eyes met his, steady despite their redness. "What you should have done long ago. Name Rhaenyra your heir... or if you cannot bring yourself to do that, then name Daemon."
"Seven hells," Viserys swore, his face contorting at the mention of his brother. The mere thought of Daemon on the Iron Throne made his stomach turn. "Daemon would burn the realm to the ground for his own amusement."
"Then make Rhaenyra your heir," Aemma pressed, her fingers still absently stroking the dragon-embroidered blanket. "She has the blood, the temperament, the intelligence-"
"I can't simply..." Viserys began pacing, his footsteps heavy on the stone floor. "Daemon is next in line. By all the laws and customs of the realm, he is my heir until I have a son. To set him aside without cause would be-"
"Would be what?" Aemma's voice carried an edge he rarely heard. "Unfair to him? When has Daemon ever concerned himself with fairness?"
"That's not the point-"
"You are the King," Aemma cut him off, rising from her chair. Though she was shorter than him, her presence seemed to fill the room. "Your word is law. The customs you speak of were made by kings, and they can be unmade by kings."
Viserys opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, the heavy door to their chamber creaked open. A Kingsguard in his white armor stepped inside, bowing deeply.
"Your Grace," the knight said, his voice echoing in the quiet room. "Lord Otto Hightower requests an immediate small council meeting."
Viserys felt his jaw clench. "At this hour? What in the seven hells could be so urgent?"
The Kingsguard kept his head bowed. "He did not say, Your Grace, only that the matter requires your immediate attention."
For a moment, Viserys was tempted to tell Otto to go fuck himself. The thought of leaving this room, of facing his council, of pretending to care about whatever political crisis had emerged... it exhausted him to his very bones. But then he looked around the chamber - at the empty cradle, at Aemma's tear-stained face, at the blanket that would never warm their son - and suddenly, the thought of staying here with his grief was even more unbearable.
"Tell Lord Otto I will join them shortly," he said, his voice taking on the authoritative tone he used as king rather than husband.
The Kingsguard bowed again and withdrew, the door closing heavily behind him. In the silence that followed, Viserys turned back to his wife.
"I won't be long," he promised, moving to kiss her forehead. "Try to rest, my love."
Aemma caught his hand as he pulled away, her grip surprisingly strong. "It's about Daemon," she said, not a question but a statement. "I can feel it."
Viserys felt a headache building behind his eyes. "Why do you say that?"
"Because Otto wouldn't dare disturb you tonight unless it was something he thought could threaten your position," she replied. "And the only person who consistently manages that is your brother."
"Daemon has been relatively quiet lately," Viserys said, though even as he spoke the words, he knew how foolish they sounded. Daemon was never truly quiet - he was always plotting something, always pushing boundaries, always finding new ways to embarrass the crown.
"Then perhaps that's what worries Otto," Aemma said. "A quiet Daemon is usually planning something spectacular."
Viserys sighed heavily, feeling every one of his years weighing on him. "I should go before Otto sends another messenger."
"Think about what I said," Aemma called as he reached the door. "About Rhaenyra. About succession."
He paused with his hand on the door handle, not turning back. "I will think on it," he promised, though they both knew thinking and doing were very different things.
As he stepped into the corridor, the Kingsguard falling into step behind him, Viserys couldn't shake the feeling that this night, already heavy with personal tragedy, was about to become even more complicated. The thought of facing Otto Hightower's schemes and possibly dealing with whatever chaos Daemon had unleashed made him long for the simplicity of his grief.
But he was king before he was a father or a husband, and kings didn't have the luxury of wallowing in their sorrows. So he straightened his shoulders, lifted his chin, and made his way toward the small council chamber, where he knew Otto would be waiting with that particular expression of barely concealed satisfaction he always wore when he had news about Daemon's latest transgression.
With each step, Viserys felt himself transforming from the grieving father into the King of the Seven Kingdoms. It was a familiar metamorphosis, one he had performed countless times before. But tonight, with the weight of Aemma's words about succession still ringing in his ears and the fresh pain of losing Baelon raw in his heart, the transformation felt more difficult than ever.
As he approached the small council chamber, he could hear muffled voices through the thick oak door. Otto's distinctive tone, sharp and insistent, rose above the others. Whatever news awaited him in that room, Viserys knew it would demand decisions he wasn't ready to make - not tonight, not when his son's body was barely cold.
But ready or not, he was king. And kings must rule, even with broken hearts.
.
.
Otto Hightower's face was grim as he delivered the news. "Your Grace, I bring disturbing tidings about Prince Daemon's behavior following... following Prince Baelon's passing."
Viserys gripped his goblet tighter. "Speak plainly, Otto."
"Your brother was seen at a pleasure house in Silk Street, celebrating." Otto's disgust was evident. "He made a toast, calling your son 'the heir for a day.'"
The goblet shattered in Viserys's hand, wine and blood mixing on the floor. No one moved to help him.
"Leave me," he whispered, deadly quiet. "All of you."
One Week Later
The flames in the hearth cast long shadows across the floor of the small council chamber as Viserys stood lost in thought. The door creaked open, and he heard his daughter's familiar footsteps.
"Father?" Rhaenyra's voice carried that hint of impatience she'd developed lately. "You wanted to see me?"
Viserys didn't turn immediately, studying the dancing flames. "What were you doing when my guard found you?"
"I was with Laena," she answered, and he could hear her dropping into a chair without invitation. "In the gardens."
Now he did turn, observing his daughter carefully. She was already showing signs of the powerful ruler she might become, though her current expression held more annoyance than regality.
"You and young Lady Velaryon have grown quite close," he said carefully, moving to pour himself some wine. "Good friends, are you?"
Rhaenyra rolled her eyes, a gesture that reminded him painfully of her mother. "My business with Laena is not your concern, Father."
"Perhaps not," he conceded, taking a measured sip. "Though if Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys were to discover certain... aspects of that friendship, it would become my business rather quickly."
A flash of something - defiance, perhaps, or guilt - crossed Rhaenyra's face, but she lifted her chin. "Why did you summon me? Surely not to discuss my choice of companions?"
Viserys studied her carefully. She had her mother's beauty and strength, but there was something else there too - that dangerous spark he recognized from Daemon. The difference was, in Rhaenyra, it seemed tempered by something greater.
"No," he said finally, setting down his cup. "I called you here because changes are coming to the realm, changes that will affect us all."
Rhaenyra straightened in her chair, her irritation giving way to curiosity. "What changes?"
"Your uncle has proven himself unworthy of the crown," Viserys began, pacing slowly. "And your mother... she will bear no more children."
A shadow passed over Rhaenyra's face at the mention of her mother, but she remained silent, waiting.
"The succession must be secured," he continued. "The realm must know beyond any doubt who will follow me on the throne. There can be no room for dispute or civil war."
"Father," Rhaenyra interrupted, leaning forward. "What exactly are you saying?"
Viserys stopped pacing and turned to face her fully. "Tomorrow, I will summon all the lords of the realm. They will be called to witness as I name my heir." He took a deep breath. "They will swear fealty to you, Rhaenyra, as Princess of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne."
The silence that followed was absolute. Rhaenyra sat frozen, her violet eyes wide with shock. When she finally spoke, her voice was thoughtful.
"The lords won't like it," she said slowly. "Even with my... particular condition, they'll resist a woman ruling."
"Then they will learn to accept it," Viserys said firmly. "You are my blood, my firstborn. You have been trained in governance since you could walk. You have the temperament, the intelligence, the strength..."
"And the cock," Rhaenyra added dryly, making him wince slightly. "Though I doubt that will satisfy the more traditional houses."
"You are my heir," Viserys said firmly. "From this day until my last day. Any who question that question the crown itself. Do you understand?"
Slowly, Rhaenyra nodded, a small smile playing at her lips. "Laena will be pleased," she said softly. "She always said I was meant for greater things."
Viserys chose to ignore the implications of that statement. "Get some rest," he said. "Tomorrow will be a long day. And Rhaenyra?" She paused at the door. "Do try to be... discreet in your friendships. For now, at least."
After she left, Viserys returned to the fire, wondering if he had just secured his legacy or sown the seeds of its destruction. The realm had never had a ruling queen, let alone one like Rhaenyra. But perhaps that was exactly what it needed - someone who understood both sides of power, who could bridge the gap between tradition and progress.
Only time would tell if he had made the right choice. And time, he was learning, was not always kind to the plans of kings.
Comments
oWell
Yes
Aegon
Will Viserys still marry Alicent?
