As dawn broke over the Narrow Sea, the Sea Snake's sleek vessel made its final preparations to depart from Braavos. Laenor stood at the rail, watching the early morning mist rise from the lagoon as it had every day during their stay. The Titan loomed in the distance, its massive form gradually emerging from the fog, a silent guardian bidding them farewell. His thoughts drifted to the song he had composed, to the unexpected connection he had forged with this city of canals and secrets. Perhaps someday he would return, not as a child but as a man, to build upon the foundations his father had established.
The diplomatic mission had been a success beyond even Corlys Velaryon's ambitious expectations. Formal agreements had been signed, promises of mutual defense against Triarchy aggression secured, and trade routes guaranteed. Yet as his father had noted, it was Laenor's song that had truly sealed their alliance, touching hearts where gold and parchment could not reach.
Little did the Velaryons know that as they set sail for Westeros, events were already unfolding that would soon test the strength of all their carefully crafted alliances.
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In King's Landing, the year 101 AC marked a turning point for the Seven Kingdoms. King Jaehaerys Targaryen, found himself facing another succession crisis.
Fate, ever capricious in its dealings with the blood of Old Valyria, dealt another cruel blow to the stability of the realm. Barely three moons into his tenure as Hand of the King, Prince Baelor Targaryen, called Baelor the Brave by many, collapsed during a small council meeting, clutching his abdomen in evident agony. The maesters, summoned with great haste, could do nothing but ease his passing as infection ravaged his body. A burst appendix, they would later determine, had been his undoing; a humble ailment bringing low one of the mightiest dragonriders in the realm.
At seven and sixty name days, his once-keen mind increasingly clouded by grief and senility, Jaehaerys had outlived not only his beloved Queen Alysanne, but most of his children as well. The death of his son and heir, Prince Baelon the Brave, to a burst belly had left the succession uncertain.
Precedent suggested that Baelon's eldest son, Viserys, should inherit the Iron Throne. Yet the matter was complicated by an earlier decision. When Prince Aemon, Jaehaerys's previous heir, had died, his daughter Princess Rhaenys had been passed over in favor of her uncle Baelon, a choice that had established male-preference primogeniture but left lingering resentments among certain factions at court.
Now, with Baelon dead, those old wounds reopened. Princess Rhaenys put forward her son Laenor Velaryon's claim to the throne, arguing that as the son of Aemon's daughter, he stood as the rightful heir according to strict principles of bloodline succession. Supporters of Viserys countered that the Great Council of 101 AC had already established that the male line took precedence.
The aging King Jaehaerys, weary of conflict and increasingly detached from daily governance, made an unprecedented decision. Rather than name an heir himself, he called for a Great Council to be held at Harrenhal, where the lords of Westeros would gather to settle the matter once and for all.
Ravens flew to every corner of the realm. Lords great and small prepared for what would be the largest gathering of nobles in living memory. The stakes could not have been higher—the future of the Iron Throne and the Targaryen dynasty hung in the balance.
House Velaryon's position was clear. Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, leveraged his immense wealth and influence to champion his son's claim. Fresh from his diplomatic triumph in Braavos, Corlys now turned his considerable talents toward securing the highest prize in the Seven Kingdoms. The alliance with Braavos, originally negotiated to counter the Triarchy's aggression in the Stepstones, now offered potential international support for Laenor's candidacy.
Princess Rhaenys, the Queen Who Never Was, threw herself into the campaign with the fierce determination. Though passed over once before, she would not allow her son to suffer the same fate without a fight.
The Great Council assembled at Harrenhal in mid-101 AC surpassed all expectations in scale and grandeur. More than a thousand lords attended, arriving with entourages that transformed the grounds around the massive castle into a vast sea of pavilions and banners. The gathering represented the largest concentration of power in Westeros since Aegon's Conquest nearly a century before.
For nine days, the lords deliberated. Arguments for both Viserys and Laenor were presented, examined, and debated. The Velaryons, backed by House Baratheon through Princess Rhaenys's mother's blood, made a strong showing. Yet Viserys, supported by House Hightower and many of the traditional powers of the realm, commanded significant support as well.
Other claims were put forward and dismissed. A total of fourteen Targaryen descendants, of varying degrees of legitimacy, presented themselves as candidates. Most notable among the rejected claimants was Laena Velaryon, Laenor's sister, whose claim was dismissed almost immediately on account of her sex.
When the final tally came, it was decisive. By a vote of twenty to one, the lords of Westeros chose Viserys Targaryen over Laenor Velaryon.
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Corlys slammed the solar door with such force that the ancient wood splintered at its hinges. The journey from Harrenhal had been a blur of tightly coiled rage, each league only stoking the inferno building in his chest. Now, safely within his ancestral seat, he finally allowed the carefully constructed mask of the diplomat to crumble.
"Viserys," she spat the name like poison. "A man who can't navigate his way out of a tavern without assistance, much less rule the Seven Kingdoms."
Corlys reached for the decanter of Arbor gold, foregoing a cup entirely as he took a long pull straight from the vessel. The sweet liquid did nothing to douse the fire in his veins.
"Twenty to one," he growled, slamming the decanter down. "Twenty lords to every one who recognized Laenor's rightful claim. And that doddering old fool Jaehaerys, sitting there with his ancient bones creaking, pretending at wisdom while perpetuating the same horseshit that denied you your throne."
He paced like a caged shadowcat, each step vibrating with barely contained fury. Outside, the waves crashed against Driftmark's shores, mimicking the tempest within him.
"Did you see Lord Beesbury's face?" Corlys laughed, a harsh sound devoid of humor. "The man could barely meet your eyes, mumbling some nonsense about 'tradition' while pissing himself at the thought of a woman's blood claiming the throne."
Rhaenys turned to him, her midnight hair whipping about her face like war banners. "They fear what they cannot control, husband. A woman's claim today, perhaps a bastard's tomorrow, gods forbid they question the sacred order of their small, pathetic world."
Corlys moved to her side, taking her hand in his. Her skin was hot to the touch. "For three hundred years, House Velaryon has been the Crown's most loyal servant," he said, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Our ships, our gold, our blood, all given freely to strengthen the realm. And how are we repaid? With mockery. With dismissal."
Rhaenys squeezed his hand so tightly her knuckles whitened. "They will regret this. All of them."
Her violet eyes blazed with a fury that matched his own, but beneath it, Corlys recognized something else, the same calculating intelligence that had first drawn him to her decades ago.
He released her hand and stalked to the map of Westeros mounted on the wall, jabbing his finger at Harrenhal.
"They sit in their castles, these great lords, growing fat on peace purchased with Targaryen fire and Velaryon gold. They've forgotten what it means to face true power."
A slow, dangerous smile spread across Rhaenys' face. "Perhaps they need a reminder."
Corlys felt an answering smile tug at his lips, the rage in his blood cooling to something more calculated, more deadly. "Indeed, my queen. And I believe I know just where to start."
Rhaenys moved behind him, her hands coming to rest on his shoulders, fingers digging pleasurably into the tense muscle. "And what are you proposing, my Sea Snake?"
Corlys took a deep breath, forcing the red haze of rage to recede. Anger without direction was useless, a lesson learned through decades of naval command. He released her hand and moved to the large window overlooking the harbor, where Velaryon ships rocked gently in the evening tide.
"The game isn't over," he said, more to himself than to her. "It's merely... changed."
"Changed?" Rhaenys let out a bitter laugh. "They've stolen our son's birthright, Corlys. Twice now, they've denied the true heir because of some outdated fear of a woman's blood."
"And yet," Corlys turned, the beginnings of a plan forming in his mind, "they may have given us exactly what we need."
Rhaenys raised an eyebrow, curiosity momentarily overtaking her anger. "Explain."
"Viserys is weak," Corlys said flatly, returning to the decanter and this time pouring two proper glasses. "Amiable, well-liked, but weak. More interested in feasting and hunting than ruling." He handed her a glass. "And he has but one child, a girl."
Understanding dawned on Rhaenys's face. "Rhaenyra."
"Precisely." Corlys smiled. "Viserys dotes on that girl. He'll want a suitable match for her."
"And who more suitable than the son of his cousin Rhaenys?" she finished, taking a sip of wine. "The very match would help heal the rift this council has created."
"Better still," Corlys added, warming to the subject, "it puts our son one step closer to the throne. Not as king, perhaps, but as the king's consort, father to future kings."
Rhaenys paced the room, her wine forgotten. "Viserys could still father sons."
"He could," Corlys acknowledged. "But his wife has given him only the girl after years of marriage. And should he remarry..." He shrugged. "The future is uncertain. What is certain is that Rhaenyra is currently his heir."
Corlys drained his glass, feeling the rage transmute into something more productive, a cold, calculating ambition, a nose for opportunity when all seemed lost, that had served him well across nine legendary voyages. The humiliation of the Great Council still burned, but fire could forge as well as destroy.
"Moreover, we need to think beyond the Iron Throne," he said, moving to the ornate chest in the corner of his solar. He withdrew a rolled parchment bearing the seal of the Sealord of Braavos, their newly minted alliance, still fresh with possibilities. "
"The Triarchy grows bolder by the day," Corlys said, tapping the map where the Stepstones lay between Westeros and Essos. "Their tolls strangle trade, their ships harass our vessels.
And you propose we do what the king will not?" A slow smile spread across Rhaenys's face, dangerous and beautiful.
"The Sealord has already committed ships and gold. With our combined naval power and Braavosi financing..." Corlys traced his finger along the Stepstones. "We take the islands ourselves."
"You've been planning this since before the Council votes were counted," she said, not a question but an observation.
Corlys chuckled, the sound low and predatory. "A captain always charts multiple courses, my queen. The winds may change, but the destination remains the same."
Corlys moved to the large ironwood table dominating the center of his solar, sweeping aside the papers and ledgers to unroll a detailed map of the Stepstones. Each island was rendered in exquisite detail, Bloodstone with its red-tinged shores, Grey Gallows with its natural harbor, Torturer's Deep with its treacherous shoals. He had commissioned this map years ago, when the first whispers of Triarchy ambition reached his ears.
"Their strength lies in their unity," he said, jabbing a finger at the cluster of islands. "Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh together command a formidable fleet. But unity born of convenience rarely survives true pressure, and Craghos Drakhar has made some men very upset indeed."
"But," Corlys said slowly, a grim look spreading across his face, "Jaehaerys still lives. As long as he sits on the Iron throne our plans remain on hold."
Rhaenys moved to his side, winding her arms around his waist and lips brushing his neck. "The old dragon clings to life out of sheer stubbornness."
"Even the greatest dragons must eventually land," Corlys replied, though there was no joy in his voice."
Corlys's eyes shone. "Laenor also has his gifts, his magic is unlike anything we know, and whatever power our son possesses, it grows stronger by the day. Perhaps this is a blessing in disguise to allow him to cultivate his talents away from the prying eyes of the Red Keep. Better he masters it here, where loyal eyes watch and loyal tongues stay silent, than in King's Landing where every shadow hides a spy."
"And once he's betrothed to Rhaenyra?" Rhaenys asked.
"Then we have a foot in both worlds," Corlys replied, his mind racing with possibilities. "Our son as consort to the heir, our daughter married into Braavosi power, and House Velaryon controlling the most strategic waterway in the known world."
Rhaenys laughed again, the sound warming him from within. "You almost make me pity the king, having you as a subject."
"Not his subject," Corlys corrected. "His loyal vassal, who merely seeks to serve the realm in ways His Grace might not have considered."
"Such pretty words to dress up naked ambition," Rhaenys teased.
"The court prefers pretty words," Corlys replied with a shrug. "And I've learned to speak their language when necessary." He pulled her into his arms again. "But here, with you, I need no such pretense. Here, I am simply a man who refuses to accept defeat, who sees opportunity where others see only loss."
Rhaenys pressed her lips to his, a kiss that tasted of wine and promise. When she pulled away, her eyes were bright with the fire that had first drawn him to her all those years ago.
"Then let us begin," she said, "this conquest of ours."
Corlys smiled, the last vestiges of his rage from Harrenhal transmuting into iron determination. They had lost a throne, yes, but perhaps they would gain a kingdom.
"To new beginnings," he said, raising his glass once more.
"And to making our own destiny," Rhaenys replied, "when others would deny us our due."
As their glasses clinked together, Corlys felt the familiar surge of anticipation that had driven him to sail farther than any Westerosi captain before him. The Great Council may have ruled against them, but the game was far from over.
x____LEMON TEASER WARNING____X
Corlys watched as Rhaenys drank, the elegant line of her throat working as she swallowed. Something primal stirred within him, the familiar heat that only she could ignite, even after all these years.
Rhaenys lowered her glass, her violet eyes darkening as they met his. The corners of her mouth lifted in a knowing smile that sent blood rushing through his veins. She set her wine down deliberately, never breaking eye contact.
"All this talk of conquest," she murmured, her voice dropping to a husky timbre that made his breath catch. "It reminds me of our early days, when you'd return from your voyages full of fire and ambition."
Corlys felt his pulse quicken. "Those fires have never dimmed, my queen."
"Show me," she challenged, tilting her chin up in that imperious way that had always undone him.
He needed no further invitation. In two strides, Corlys crossed the space between them, capturing her mouth with his. The taste of wine and her familiar sweetness flooded his senses as he pulled her against him, one hand tangling in her midnight hair while the other pressed against the small of her back.
Rhaenys responded with equal fervor, her fingers digging into his shoulders as she arched into him. Their shared rage and ambition transmuted into something equally powerful but infinitely more pleasurable.
Corlys broke the kiss to trace a path along her jawline, his lips finding that sensitive hollow behind her ear. He lingered there, breathing in the scent of her, like summer roses and salt air, as she shivered against him.
"Corlys," she gasped, her head falling back to grant him better access. "The council, the realm, they can all burn. Tonight, I want only this."
A growl rumbled deep in his chest as he hoisted her up, large hands gripping the firm flesh of her thighs. Her legs wrapped around him instinctively as he carried her the few steps to his desk, sweeping maps and documents to the floor with one arm before setting her down on the polished wood.
The sight of her there, cheeks flushed, lips parted, eyes dark with desire, sent a surge of possessive hunger through him. Without thinking, he gripped the front of her gown and tore it open with a satisfying rip of expensive fabric.
The purple silk fell away to reveal her breasts, full and perfect, the pale skin glowing in the fading light from the windows. Corlys felt his mouth go dry at the sight. Gods, but she was magnificent, a queen in truth if not in title, and every inch his match.
x____LEMON TEASER END____X (For full access please see my Patreon)
For long moments, they remained joined, both panting heavily as they came down from their shared peak. Finally, Corlys withdrew, helping Rhaenys turn and sit on the edge of the desk. Her face was flushed, her hair a wild tangle, and she had never looked more beautiful to him.
"Well," she said with a breathless laugh, "I think we've thoroughly desecrated your precious maps."
Corlys looked down at the ruined parchments beneath them, trade routes, naval charts, and diplomatic correspondence all stained and crumpled beyond repair. He couldn't bring himself to care.
"A small price to pay," he murmured, pulling her into a tender kiss that contrasted with their earlier frenzy.
When they parted, Rhaenys rested her forehead against his chest, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his skin. "What do we do now, Corlys?" she asked, her voice small in a way few ever heard it. "How do we move forward from this defeat?"
He tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze. "We are Velaryons," he said firmly. "We do not bend, we do not break. We adapt, we plot, and we rise stronger than before."
A slow smile spread across her face, the fierce, determined expression that had first captivated him returning to her features. "Yes," she agreed. "We do."
"And in the meantime," he added, his hands sliding possessively down her sides, "we remind ourselves what we're fighting for."
She laughed, the sound rich and warm in the dimly lit solar. "I believe you've made that abundantly clear, husband." Her fingers traced the scratches she'd left on his back. "Though perhaps next time, we might make use of an actual bed."
As she Rhaenys bent to retrieve what remained of her gown, Corlys admired the elegant curve of her spine, the strength evident in every movement. This woman had given him children, shared his dreams, supported his ambitions, and matched his passions flame for flame. What was a throne compared to that?
Corlys swept her into his arms, eliciting a surprised squeal that she would deny making if anyone else had been present to hear it. "An excellent suggestion, my queen," he said, carrying her toward the door that led to their private chambers. "And I believe we have all night to continue our... strategic planning."
As he carried her through the doorway, Corlys felt a renewed sense of purpose. They had lost a battle, yes, but the war was far from over. And with Rhaenys at his side, he had never lost a war.
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