The afternoon sunlight slanted in through the high windows of the throne room.
Black and green.
On the right, Rhaenyra stood at the very front in a plain white gown, her back held straight, her chin slightly raised.
Daemon stood at her side, clad in dark crimson, his eyes half-lidded as he measured the Greens opposite.
Behind him stood Rhaenyra's three eldest sons.
On the left, it was another scene entirely.
Otto Hightower, Hand of the King, stood foremost, dressed in a white robe threaded with gold, his greying hair combed without a strand out of place.
Aemond stood to one side, clad in black hunting leathers, a sword at his waist, watching the opposite side in silence.
Helaena stood beside Aemond. Today she wore a pale blue gown, her silver hair loosely gathered.
Aegon and his betrothed, Lady Alyn Rogare, stood beside the Hand.
And the youngest, Daeron Targaryen, stood behind them all.
At this moment, within the Iron Throne, no one spoke.
The nobles entering one after another broke the silence.
One by one they kept their heads lowered, their steps hurried. Most said nothing as they moved to stand on the side of the Greens.
Only five or six nobles, after a brief hesitation, went to stand in the empty space behind the Blacks.
At the sight of the present situation, Rhaenyra bit down hard in secret.
She knew the Greens had been entrenched in King's Landing for many years. She knew men's hearts were ever shifting. Yet seeing this with her own eyes, her chest still felt as though struck by a hammer.
These nobles who once fawned before her, smiling and praising her as "the Light of the Realm."
Now none of them stood with her.
Two years ago, Vaemond Velaryon had been executed by Aemond's own hand in the throne room. The old fool's blood had splashed across the floor—and stained her name as well.
She drew a breath and forced herself to stand straighter, to lift her chin higher, like a swan.
It did not matter. Once today had passed—
Once her father publicly confirmed little Aegon's right of succession, these weathercocks would know which way the wind blew.
The future of the realm would, in the end, stand with her.
"Heh."
A clear scoff broke the silence.
Daemon tilted his head, his gaze passing over Otto, lingering for a moment on Aemond's face, then sweeping across the mass of dark-clad nobles behind the Greens.
"Quite the display, is it not?"
Otto turned his head and met Daemon's eyes.
"Your Grace jests. The Iron Throne is a place of counsel. The more gathered, the more who concern themselves with affairs of the realm."
"We merely stand where we ought, and defend what ought to be defended."
He paused, then turned his gaze to Rhaenyra.
"For instance, the realm's lawful order. For instance, the line of succession."
The smile upon Daemon's face deepened, but he said nothing more.
In his heart, he knew full well.
The Greens' years of maneuvering had already drawn most of the hearts of the Crownlands and King's Landing into their grasp.
Now, standing in this hall, aside from the king upon the Iron Throne, who truly stood with Rhaenyra?
The smallfolk of King's Landing mocked and derided her. The songs in the streets, the whispers in the alleys—
All had been carefully contrived to strike at her.
Otto, that old fox, had not labored in vain these past years.
"His Grace approaches!"
The guards at the doors called out in ringing voices.
All the nobles bowed their heads at once.
At the entrance, Queen Alicent supported King Viserys as they walked, step by step, toward the Iron Throne.
The queen had given birth but two days past; her face still bore a wan pallor. She wore a dark green velvet gown, and noble maidens followed close behind, carefully lifting the hem of her skirts.
Supported by the queen, the king breathed with difficulty. Before coming, he had taken no small measure of milk of the poppy.
Though Grand Maester Orwyle had urged him to remain abed and rest, today's matters required his decision.
Viserys wore half a golden mask, concealing the rotted flesh upon the left side of his face.
His right was ashen, his eye sunken deep; each step drew from him a heavy breath.
Behind him followed five white-cloaked Kingsguard, their armor clinking. At their head walked Ser Criston Cole, silent as ever.
The Iron Throne had been layered with thick cushions by the attendants. Viserys nearly fell into it as he sat.
The king's clouded gaze lifted with effort, sweeping over the two ranks below, black and green clearly divided.
He was too weary. Pain and numbness ran through his bones; the haze of milk of the poppy and the torment of his illness mingled, casting darkness across his sight in waves.
He had no wish for idle words, nor the strength for pretense.
"The first matter."
The king spoke, announcing without ceremony: "I declare the betrothal between Jacaerys Velaryon and Helaena Targaryen dissolved."
A low stir rippled through the Greens.
In Otto's eyes flashed a flicker of astonishment.
He cast a swift glance toward the throne, then lowered his gaze at once.
This had not been part of the design.
Why would the king suddenly dissolve the betrothal? Who had swayed him?
Aemond could scarcely believe it; his violet pupils constricted to needlepoints.
At once his gaze shifted across the hall.
Upon Daemon's face lingered the faintest trace of a smile.
It was him—
Beside him, Helaena let out a soft "Ah," then quickly covered her mouth.
A true flush of relief spread swiftly across her cheeks, and even her eyes shone for a fleeting moment.
Without thinking, she leaned closer to Aemond, her fingers quietly catching his sleeve and giving it a small tug.
Aemond turned to look at her brightened face and gave a slight nod.
Beside the Iron Throne, upon the queen's seat, Alicent's hand trembled faintly upon her husband's arm.
A trace of grim satisfaction flickered in her eyes. The old fool had come to his senses at last?
He knew better than to place his daughter into the hands of those bastards?
On the side of the Blacks, Jacaerys's body jolted as if struck by a blow. Anger flared across his face, yet he lowered his head, not daring to show it.
Beside him, the fury on Lucerys and Joffrey's faces could scarcely be contained.
"Stand straight."
"Many are watching."
Daemon spoke sternly, not even turning to look at them. The young Velaryons fell silent.
"Your Grace!"
Rhaenyra cried out, stepping forward, the color draining from her face as she demanded, "What did you say? This betrothal was pledged by you in person! After Driftmark, you yourself—"
"That is my decision now."
Viserys cut her off.
He did not look upon his daughter's stricken face. He only breathed, gathering strength for the next breath.
Speech came hard to him; each word seemed forced from his lungs.
"The second matter…"
The hall fell so still a pin might have been heard to drop. Every heart rose to the throat; all held their breath to listen.
"Another betrothal."
Viserys breathed heavily, his words broken, coughing between them. "Rhaenyra's child… Aegon… shall wed my daughter… Ysera."
Another wave of restrained inhalations swept the hall.
The king's conduct this day was truly strange.
He dissolved one betrothal, only to forge another?
With difficulty, Viserys turned his head. The golden mask gleamed with an eerie light in the dim hall.
He looked toward the queen at his side, his voice so faint it was nearly lost: "My dear… you do not object?"
Alicent hesitated.
Her gaze swept across the core of the Greens below—her father Otto, her sons Aemond and Aegon. Each kept his head bowed, none moving at once to protest.
This was the king's proposal, after all. And the bride was her newborn daughter, Ysera…
To bind Ysera to Rhaenyra's youngest son might, in some measure, serve as a restraint—even a kind of joining?
The queen bit her lower lip and gave a small nod in assent.
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