Chapter Text
She was seated on the Iron Throne again. No brothers left to take her place. Only one son to follow her. Her precious Aegon. She loved him and grieved his childhood even as it became difficult to look at him. Her only child.
Jacaerys was supposed to follow after her, but he was taken from this world. Just like Lucerys was before him, and gods, the guilt she felt for sending him to his death. It was consuming her heart. Joffrey... She knew dragons were imperious, but just as she missed Syrax, she loathed her, and in turn hated herself for hating her. It wasn't Syrax's fault; you can't change the nature of the dragon.
But now, she was alone. No mount to breathe flames upon her enemies. No husband to share parenthood with. No mentor to guide her. Only her, her son, and the crown.
But that is not true. Rhaenyra glanced to her side, where Baela stood. Fifteen, barely leaving maidenhood. She was supposed to be queen of her Jacaerys. A dragonriding queen, a mother to the future of the crown, and now she was like Rhaenyra: alone in almost everything.
Her sister Rhaena still lived, though. What a gift, truly. Rhaenyra could never forget the protection of the Vale, whatever grudges she had. Daemon's little girls... she didn't know if she could handle them gone, too.
And her. Rhaenyra's eyes shifted once again, this time to a quivering young girl. That usurper's spawn. She was a child, but she detested her. She could see Alicent's features in her cherubic face, her brother's brows and her sister's ears. The cruel part of Rhaenyra wants the girl dead; the calculating one desires to send her to the Silent Sister's or septa training; yet this petty vengeance was taken from the queen.
Her little Aegon was standing next to the wretched girl. What a horrid betrothal. Her only son, the only child left of her womb, her heir, tied to Jaehaera. As if the girl is worthy to be named after the Councilator.
But the betrothal must stand. For the sake of peace. In privacy of her quarters, Rhaenyra would scoff and sneer. Peace. The Greens steal her throne and ravage the realm, and yet she has to treat them with soft grace and respect. Traitors, all of them.
(But she has no army, no dragons. And the smallfolk are restless, hungry and afraid. And when they have nothing to lose, they are not afraid to lash out. Rhaenyra will never forget the Storming of the Dragonpit.)
Today, she will receive lords' fealty and pretend that their vows matter. That half of them didn't go back on their word before. They may bow, but she will never forget.
"Her Grace Rhaenyra, First of Her Name, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Protectress of the Realm, long may she reign, shall receive fealty of her subjects before the throne..."
She took a deep breath as the herald prattled on. The hastily-mended black dress projected nowhere near the grandeur she needed, but she held her head high. A long day remained ahead of her. A long day indeed.