Meanwhile, the Small Council hall in Westeros was like a barrel of Wildfire, swollen and volatile, threatening to burst into a flurry of flames at the slightest spark.
Voices clashed and crackled like kindling, each word eagerly feeding the tension rather than quelling it.
And, among it all, Rhaenyra sat in her seat, fidgeting with her fingers as she stared on at the war of words unfolding before her.
Never had her place at the council felt so suffocating.
It was as though she had been lowered into a pot set upon a slow flame, heat creeping up inch by inch, pressing against her skin, tightening around her lungs, offering no respite, no escape, only the promise of being boiled alive should she remain.
"This is insolence!" Alicent hissed. "That fool has set fire to our only alliance among the Free Cities! What are we to do now?"
"Your Grace…" Tyland Lannister shook his head with a weary sigh. "There is little we can do to salvage this."
"Lord Tyland is quite right," Lord Beesbury added. "At present, we have neither the goodwill nor the reason to continue this alliance. Volantis spurns us, and the effort it would take to re-establish ourselves among them would not be worthwhile, considering their current weakness."
"All those weapons and armour…" Lord Beesbury groaned softly, rubbing at his brow. "…wasted."
His words fell into a biting silence. He had given voice to what the rest dared not say. All their effort in maintaining the fragile triad of Volantis, Westeros, and Dragon's Bay…gone.
Like smoke in the wind.
They would be fortunate if the Volantenes did not already despise them.
For it was one thing for the Twin Daughters to best Volantis in open conflict, but another entirely for an ally to humiliate them before the world, to rain upon their parade and grind their pride into the dirt.
"We cannot do nothing," Grand Maester Alfador interjected. "Daemon is still at large, and he is a traitor to the realm. Each moment he roams free, the greater the chaos he may yet rouse."
Rhaenyra's gaze shifted to the wretch opposite her. Alfador sat hunched beneath the weight of his chains, his long grey beard spilling down his chest in uneven strands.
His eyes, however, held no warmth in them, no patience, only a restless fire that spoke of greed and ambition.
Grand Maester Mellos had been dismissed by Alicent on the grounds of failing the king's health, only for her to place this…this obedient hound in his stead.
And now she was expected to listen as he spoke.
"Daemon Targaryen is my Prince Consort," Rhaenyra said at last, eyes boring into the Grand Maester. "I will not have you prattle on about his sins when the man is not here to defend himself. He fought in his own name, with not a single Westerosi man at his back, and yet you name him a traitor."
Alfador's lips curled into a thin, hesitant smile. "W-well, Your Grace, his actions have cost the realm dearly."
Rhaenyra turned her head away from him; even looking upon him wearied her soul. "How so? Other than the Twin Daughters, the other Free Cities have been bled dry. And the two that still hold strength now seem rather eager to seek our favour."
Her words rang firm, confident even. Yet beneath it all lay a current of doubt she could not fully smother.
She had been a woman grown when Tyrosh and Myr made war upon Westeros over the Stepstones, and she remembered the cost of it all too well.
The blood, the bitterness, the hatred that had festered in its wake. To now welcome them as allies felt…wrong. Horribly so. As though the dead had been bartered away for convenience.
Worse still, it had been Daemon who set all this in motion.
For what?
Men had died for him back then, cursing those cities with their final breaths. And now he clasped hands with the very same foes, as though their blood had never stained those rocky shores.
Nevertheless, her words were met with silence.
Not the silence of men cowed into quiet, nor one born of careful thought. No…this was a silence that lingered too long and stretched too thin as it slowly soured into something else entirely.
It pressed in from all sides, tinged with quiet judgment, laced with a faint hint of mockery. All of it directed at her.
Rhaenyra's gaze swept the table. Every eye had found her.
Some were cold, measuring. Others did not even bother to hide their amusement.
"Princess." Otto Hightower spoke at last, for the first time since the meeting's announcement, derision seeping into every word. "As you so aptly mentioned, only Tyrosh and Myr remain. Yet both are realms of no small ambition, particularly where the Stepstones are concerned." He leaned forward slightly. "You speak well…alas, I can only hope you are prepared to shoulder the tolls such barbarians will levy upon our trade when they take the Stepstones."
A ripple of laughter followed, spreading across the table like oil on water.
Lord Beesbury alone remained untouched by it, his expression grim as his eyes flicked between his fellow councillors, searching for a face untouched by mockery but failing all the while.
Alicent, for her part, said nothing, though she seemed all too pleased by the current mood of the council.
Jasper Wylde smiled thinly, raising a fist to his mouth as if to stifle a cough, though it did little to hide the curve of his lips. "You speak true, Lord Hand. However…" His gaze drifted toward Rhaenyra for but a moment before returning to Otto. "I find myself in agreement with the Grand Maester. Daemon's actions cannot go unanswered. To allow such transgressions to pass unpunished would only invite further disorder."
"We must consider the matter plainly," Larys likewise spoke, making the most of his recent admission as Master of Whisperers. "Prince or not, he acted without the crown's permission and has now cost us a vital alliance. If that is not grounds for treason, then what is?"
"An official decree would…stabilise matters," Tyland Lannister said carefully. "It would distance the Crown from his actions. Make clear to the Free Cities that this was not Westeros' doing, helping reestablish trust in our word."
"And if he returns?" The Hightower dog pressed eagerly.
"Then he returns as a man outside the king's peace," came Clubfoot's reply. "And is dealt with accordingly."
"And his children?" Jasper Wylde asked, almost idly. "They remain on Dragonstone, do they not?"
"That can be remedied," Otto said at once. "The children should be brought to King's Landing. For their safety, of course." His gaze flicked briefly toward Rhaenyra, mirth clear despite the softness of his tone. "And to ensure their father does not act…rashly."
"A prudent measure," Tyland agreed. "So long as they remain here, he is less likely to provoke any further conflict."
Around the table, heads began to nod. What had begun as a scattered suggestion was quickly taking shape.
And all of it, decided as though the man in question were already condemned.
As though his blood, and hers, were matters for their convenience.
Rhaenyra felt it then…like a blade drawn across her chest.
Fury.
An unbridled and ruthless fury.
"And what, pray tell," she said, her voice trembling with barely restrained rage, "of my children?"
The chamber stilled, though not in any way she had hoped.
Her gaze swept across them, daring any man to answer. "You speak of dragging Daemon's blood to King's Landing. Do you mean to say that the sons I bore him are to be seized as well? Detained, like criminals, for an undetermined crime of their father's will?"
Clubfoot shifted in his seat, his fingers steepled as his eyes gleamed. "It is… not without merit," he murmured, his voice soft yet carrying across the table with ease. "If the concern is to prevent Prince Daemon from acting rashly, then it would be…consistent, to extend such precautions to all his issue."
A few heads turned. Others nodded slowly.
And, before anyone knew it, the sarcastic jab was seriously pondered upon.
That…was all it took.
Rhaenyra surged to her feet.
Her hands slammed against the table, the force of it sending a tremor through the carved wood.
Goblets rattled, parchments shifted, and for a fleeting moment, silence returned, not mockery this time, but shock.
"Treason," she spat, her voice ringing sharp and clear. "You dare sit here, beneath my father's roof, and speak of seizing royal blood as though it were some petty measure of state?"
Her eyes burned as they moved from one face to another. "You would name my husband a traitor without trial, without word, and now you would lay hands upon his children? Upon my children?" Her lip curled. "Call it what you will, prudence, necessity, caution, I name it for what it is."
"Treason."
The word hung heavy in the air.
And then came...laughter.
Low at first, then spreading in cruel and dismissive waves. Otto's lips twitched into a faint smile. Tyland exhaled through his nose. Jasper Wylde looked openly amused.
Even Larys did not bother to hide the curve of his mouth.
Her word had no weight here.
Not against them.
Rhaenyra's breath caught, her fury stuttering for just a moment as the sound washed over her. She turned, almost instinctively, toward Alicent, as though seeking something. Support. Reason. Anything.
But Alicent only looked back at her with cold, distant eyes.
There was no warmth there. No hesitation. No recognition.
Only a measured detachment, as though she were observing a stranger across the table.
Rhaenyra's words died on her tongue.
"My lords," Lord Beesbury spoke then, sweeping them with a cold gaze. "Surely this is too far. Prince Daemon is the king's own brother. Whatever his faults, he would never betray the realm so wholly." He glanced around, searching for agreement. "It would be best and wisest, to place this matter before His Grace. Let the king decide."
But his words found no purchase.
"We cannot afford delay," Otto spoke.
"The realm requires certainty, not hesitation," Larys added softly.
And just like that, Beesbury's protest was swept aside, dismissed as though it had never been spoken.
The voices rose again, overlapping, pressing forward, carrying on without pause.
Rhaenyra stood amidst it all, unmoving.
A lone ship upon a storm-torn sea.
The waves battered her from every side, relentless and unyielding, dragging her further from steady ground with each passing moment.
She could feel it slipping, the control, the certainty, the fragile order she had clung to, torn from her grasp while she watched, powerless to halt it.
Confusion gnawed at her as dread followed close behind, coiling in her gut.
And beneath it all lay, hatred.
Cold. Quiet. Growing.
Yet, hatred nonetheless.
She opened her mouth, drawing breath to speak again, to fight, to tear through their arguments if she must—
Thud!
The doors burst open.
The sound smashed through the chamber like thunder, silencing every voice at once.
"All rise! His Grace, King Viserys of House Targaryen!"
Every head in the room turned.
There, framed within the doorway, stood Viserys.
He seemed smaller than she remembered, hunched beneath some invisible weight, his form frail, his movements slow.
Yet his presence filled the room all the same. His eyes, though rimmed with fatigue, burned with a merciless edge as they swept across his council.
"Pray tell," he said, stepping forward, his cane striking the stone floor with a sharp tap.
The sound echoed through the hall, and with it, something shifted.
Another step.
Tap!
Tyland's posture stiffened, his earlier confidence faltering.
Tap!
Jasper's smile faded, his gaze dropping ever so slightly.
Tap!
Even Otto's composure tightened, the lines of his face hardening as unease crept in.
With each strike of the cane, fear washed over everyone's faces.
"I was gone for a few moons," Viserys continued, his voice quiet, yet its tone made all who listened shudder, "and you have already seen fit to brand my own blood a traitor…and seize royal heirs."
Alicent rose swiftly, her expression shifting as she moved to his side, a practised warmth settling upon her features. "Your Grace," she said gently, reaching for him in support.
Viserys shook her off.
That gesture spoke more clearly than any word could have.
And then, Rhaenyra met his gaze.
For a heartbeat, the storm within her stilled.
Relief flooded through her, sudden and overwhelming, loosening the tightness in her chest as she looked upon him, not as king, not as ruler, but as her father.
And for the first time since the council had begun...she had found her confidence.