- The Red Keep -

Rhaenyra entered the throne room draped in the invisible shroud of a thousand ghosts. The hall stretched vast before her, a solemn cathedral of stone, its walls heavy with the echoes of whispered betrayals and the blood of those who had dared claim dominion beneath its vaulted ceiling. Shadows pooled in every corner, thick and oppressive, as if the room itself mourned the legacy it bore.

Her footsteps fell soft upon the polished marble floor, hesitant yet driven, the throne drawing her forward with an almost magnetic pull. At the room's end, it rose—the Iron Throne, jagged and cruel, forged in flame and blood. It stood as a testament to her family's legacy.

The ascent awaited her, steep and lonely, for her and for Jacaerys—her child, her heir, her sun stolen before its zenith. At the first step, her breath caught, a tremor betraying the resolve she willed into her bones. She carried grief as a crown unseen, its weight rivaling the iron crown that awaited her.

The steps were sharp beneath her boots, unforgiving spikes that seemed ready to slice at misstep or hesitation. Her foot faltered once, a treacherous stumble, but she regained herself quickly. At last, she reached the summit, standing tall before the assembly. Her gaze swept across the gathered lords and ladies, a sea of silks and jewels muted under her command. Their faces revealed nothing but deference, as though fear and duty were the threads holding their bows and pledges together.

Lowering herself onto the throne, the jagged edges bit into her skin—a silent warning, a tribute demanded. Rhaenyra bore the pain without flinching, the Iron Throne itself seeming to test her mettle.

Then, the applause began. It was soft, hollow—a murmur more for the sake of tradition than fervor. Yet they bowed and swore their fealty anew, voices trembling as they pledged before her burning gaze. This time, Rhaenyra vowed, it would be permanent. This time, the city would not see her leave.

And so she remained. Through the hours of the night, she sat upon the throne, listening to the promises of the lords and witnessing the rituals of allegiance. Each vow was a stitch in the fabric of a realm still fractured, fragile, but destined to be made whole once again.

When the pomp and tradition had finally ebbed away, Rhaenyra dismissed the gathered throng with a wave of her hand, her tone commanding yet weary. Only her inner circle remained, their faces cast in the muted glow of the chamber's torches. The silence that settled was heavy, a pause laden with unspoken alliances and simmering tensions.

Rhaenyra's eyes, sharp and unyielding, swept over her advisors. "Other than my stepmother, her daughter, and her grandchildren, were there any other Greens among the prisoners?" she asked, her voice low yet carrying the weight of her authority.

Her husband stepped forward, his grin that of a conqueror basking in his moment. "No," he said, his voice smooth as silk. "But having the Green's heir and spare in our grasp is enough to break their resolve and bring the rest to heel." He began to pace, his boots echoing against the stone floor. "Aemond, that one-eyed serpent, holds Harrenhal. We have him choked from North to South and East. All that remains is for Jeyne to finally take action."

From the corner, Corlys Velaryon spoke, his tone grave. "Ser Corwyn Corbray is still mustering his host. It'll be weeks yet before they march from the Gates of the Moon." The Sea Snake looked older than his years, his face etched with lines born of worry and war. Rhaenyra couldn't help but wonder if his thoughts lingered on his wife, her burns still healing from the horrors of Rook's Rest.

The queen's gaze lingered on Corlys for a moment longer than she intended before flicking back to the others. A somber determination settled over her features.

"What course of action do you propose we take, Lord Hand?" Rhaenyra's voice cut through the tension in the throne room, her command ringing clear as she turned her expectant gaze upon Corlys Velaryon.

The Sea Snake hummed in thought, his weathered features unreadable. But it was her husband who spoke first, his voice laced with fervor and conviction. "I propose we start by beheading the Queen Dowager," he said, each word deliberate and heavy. "And Aegon's pretender queen, as a warning to the rest of the Greens. Let them see the price of their rebellion. Should they continue to fight for their nephew, know this: Jaehaerys and Maelor will follow, their heads mounted upon spikes. And when Jaehaera comes of age, she will be wed to our son, Aegon."

The words hung in the air, sharp as the sword that had severed so many lives at Rook's Rest. The stain of kinslaying had been crossed once, and her husband's proposal came with the casual ruthlessness of one accustomed to bloodshed. Yet her stomach turned as Rhaenyra considered the faces of her half-sister's children—her little nephews and her niece. Such actions felt monstrous, beyond even the cruelty of the Iron Throne. She was not a monstrous queen.

"No," Rhaenyra said at last, her voice unyielding. "I will not harm Helaena or my niece and nephews." The room seemed to shift with her words, the tension morphing from anticipation to quiet judgment. "But Alicent…" She paused, her eyes narrowing as the weight of betrayal pressed heavy upon her. "Her fate I will consider. She was the ringleader in the Greens' rise to power. Her actions are treason, and that cannot go unanswered."

Her gaze swept over those gathered, her inner circle. A queen's wrath simmered just below the surface, a fire tempered by duty and conscience. Rhaenyra would not be the monster her enemies painted her as—but justice would be served.

Beneath the Red Keep, in one of its shadowed cells, Queen Dowager Alicent knelt before her idols. The soft glow of candlelight danced across the symbols of her faith, casting fleeting shapes upon the cold stone walls. Even as a prisoner, Alicent retained certain privileges befitting her station. Yet here, beneath the weight of chains unseen, she seemed more supplicant than sovereign.

Her prayers rose fervently. She prayed for Aemond's return astride Vhagar, his vengeance swift and unrelenting, to tear Rhaenyra and her bastards from the throne they dared claim. She prayed for Daeron's triumph in the south, for the black banners to be vanquished and for Baelon's Dornish host to scatter to the winds. Alicent squeezed her eyes shut, the words tumbling from her lips faster and faster, desperate in their rhythm.

The sound of the cell door creaking open broke her focus. Slowly, she opened her eyes and turned her head. Her gaze settled on the intruders—Rhaenyra stood in the doorway, flanked only by Ser Harrold Westerling. The sight of the former Lord Commander was a betrayal Alicent could not forget, another dagger twisted deep.

"Should I bow? To the usurper queen?" Alicent's voice dripped with venom, her posture regal despite the chains of her circumstance.

Rhaenyra scoffed, her lip curling in disdain. "I am far from the usurper here. That title belongs to you. Was it not you who crowned your son before the masses in the Dragonpit, defying the rightful heir named by my father? You," she said, her voice sharpening, "you who usurped the decree made in the throne room when I was but ten-and-three. Old lords remembered it long before their graves claimed them. Do you not?"

Alicent rose from her knees with quiet dignity, dusting her skirts. Her eyes met Rhaenyra's, and for a fleeting moment, the shadows of the past stirred between them. She saw the girl Rhaenyra had once been—innocent, smiling, a friend. But then another memory surged forward, her husband's final words spoken in the haze of death.

"In his dying hour, Viserys changed his mind," Alicent said, her voice trembling with conviction. "He told me Aegon was his heir. He spoke of the Song of Ice and Fire."

Rhaenyra's expression shifted, the faintest flicker of something crossing her face—curiosity, disbelief, or fury. A smile curled her lips as Alicent spoke, but it did not reach her eyes. When Alicent finished, Rhaenyra's face fell into a frown, her eyes narrowing as her voice dropped to a murmur.

"He spoke of the Song? Truly?" Rhaenyra asked, her tone quiet yet cutting. Alicent nodded, triumphant in her revelation. But her triumph was short-lived. Rhaenyra's laughter broke the silence, a hollow, bitter sound that echoed off the stone walls. "Alicent, you fool," Rhaenyra muttered, shaking her head. "You idiot…" Each word dripped with scorn, her rage simmering just beneath the surface. "Do you even realize what you've done?"

"What?" Alicent demanded, her certainty faltering. "What proof have you of this, Rhaenyra?"

Rhaenyra chuckled darkly, the sound devoid of mirth. She placed a hand over her stomach, the memory of recent grief flickering across her features—the daughter she had birthed and buried. "It matters not anymore," Rhaenyra said, her voice thick with contempt. "Aegon the Conqueror had a dream, yes, and he called it the Song of Ice and Fire. He told his son, who told his sons, until my father told me before Balerion's skull. But it doesn't matter, Alicent. Blood has been spilled. The realm lies fractured, and now it falls to me to restore it, under its rightful Queen."

Her voice carried finality, a cold certainty that left no room for argument. Alicent stood silent, her hands trembling at her sides. The flickering candlelight seemed to grow dimmer, and for the first time, she felt the full weight of the storm she had helped unleash.

AN: A bit of a Rhaenyra only chapter, so sorry for those wanting to read more on Baelon and Aemond, but I have been thinking.

So I went into this not desiring to rewrite anything, but I was thinking about maybe rebooting this and fleshing out the scenario a little better. My reasons are mainly wishing I had done things a little differently, but doing that would significantly reshape what happens in the story as a whole.

Would any of you be interested in a reboot after, or perhaps doing it now? Let me know, yeah?