Note:- This story is inspired by Ramzes's Dark Light of Time. If you haven't read it, do it now. :) That said, I'll try to make this interesting. Thanks for reading!
Prologue
Criston Cole stood at the bedside of the dying Viserys Targaryen, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, adopting an appropriately remorseful mien. 'Daemon,' the dying King wheezed, 'My brother…' Queen Alicent gently whispered to him, 'Neither Daemon nor your daughter can come, Your Grace. She is nearing her time.' 'Have you sent a raven to Dragonstone?' he asked querulously. Alicent nodded, smoothing back her husband's hair, and darting a discreet glance at Criston, who nodded himself.
He recalled that the Queen had all but gutted the hapless Maester who had tried to send a raven to Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon, citing that the Princess was heir to the Iron Throne and had the right to know. Criston came back to the present when the Queen hissed, 'Even now, that daughter of his is the one who matters.' Aye, the Kingsguard thought. Though old, ill, and dying, to the King the woman who had whored herself to Harwin Strong and that turncloak husband of hers were important.
To his Queen, he whispered, 'Fear not, my Queen.' The arrangements have been made. To commit treason, his mind spoke. To save the Realm, he corrected himself. The Queen and her White Cloak kept vigil on the failing King until he had breathed his last. When his frail frame stilled, Alicent gently closed his eyes. Criston immediately left to bring Prince- now King Aegon to his rightful place.
For nigh a week, those preparations continued, while the King lay rotting in his bed. When the bells finally rang for the King's death, it was then a missive left for Dragonstone. Dragonstone, and to all Lords, great and small. It was on this day a Council convened, and Lord Lyman Beesbury was killed. On this day were Prince Aegon and his sister-wife crowned as King Aegon the Second of his Name, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, and his Queen Consort.
Criston savored triumph. For naught but a day, before it soured…