The Dragon's Right (16)
- Summary: It was by grace of the gods that firstborn child of Viserys I and Aemma was born a boy and he lived. And all of the rest, scholars will later say, is by power of something more malevolent in kind.
- Paring: male!reader/Rhaenyra Targaryen
- Rating: Explicit 18+ (just to be safe)
- Previous part: 15
- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround @mrsjohnnysuh
The air is heavy with a somber weight as Jacaerys gently leads Rhaenyra through the corridors of Dragonstone. Her steps are slow and careful, her body still fragile from the birth and the grief that followed, but her eyes are clear, her expression set with determination. It’s been a week since they laid Visenya to rest, but the pain is still raw, a wound that refuses to heal. Yet, Rhaenyra has insisted on attending this council herself, determined to show strength despite her suffering.
“Are you sure you’re ready for this, Mother?” Jace asks quietly, his arm steadying her as they near the council chamber. His concern is palpable, his young face lined with worry.
“I have to be,” Rhaenyra replies, her voice firm though there’s a tremor beneath it. “This is our fight, Jace. I cannot hide away, not now.”
He nods, though his brow remains furrowed, and he pushes open the heavy wooden door, guiding her inside. The room falls silent as they enter, all eyes turning to the Princess. Rhaenyra pauses, taking in the faces around the table—men and women sworn to your cause, their expressions a mixture of respect and unease.
Daemon’s twin daughters, Baela and Rhaena, are seated near Luke, their young faces tense with the weight of the situation. Rhaenyra’s younger sons are being looked after elsewhere, kept away from the turmoil that threatens to consume them all. She draws strength from seeing Luke, his gaze filled with determination, and from the presence of others who have pledged their loyalty.
Rhaenys is there, standing with her son, Laenor. She looks older, the lines of worry etched deeper on her face, but there is a fire in her eyes that has not dimmed. She inclines her head to Rhaenyra as she approaches, a silent acknowledgment of shared grief and strength.
“How is Corlys?” Rhaenyra asks, her voice quiet but steady as she takes her seat.
Rhaenys steps forward, her voice calm and reassuring. “He is recovering. The worst has passed, and the fever has finally broken. He will be ready to join us soon.”
A murmur of relief sweeps through the room. Corlys Velaryon’s presence and support are invaluable, a cornerstone of their cause. Rhaenyra nods, a faint smile of gratitude touching her lips. “That is good to hear.”
Lord Darklyn clears his throat, drawing the attention of those gathered. “A raven arrived from Dorne this morning,” he begins, his tone carrying a hint of satisfaction. “It seems they intend to stay out of this conflict. They will not join the Greens and are leaning toward supporting Prince—your husband’s—claim.”
A ripple of approval spreads through the room. Jace, his shoulders squared with pride, speaks up, his voice filled with confidence. “It’s no surprise. Dorne remembers what happened the last time they challenged my father.”
There’s a murmur of agreement, and Rhaenyra’s gaze softens as she looks at her son. His courage, his strength—they remind her so much of you. She’s proud, but there’s a hollow ache in her chest, a yearning for your presence.
She glances around, her eyes searching the room, noticing your absence for the first time. “Where is he?” she asks, her voice quiet but edged with concern. “Where is your father?”
The room falls silent, the easy camaraderie dissolving into something more guarded. Jace exchanges a quick look with Luke, hesitation flickering across his face before he turns back to Rhaenyra.
“Mother, he… he hasn’t been well since Visenya’s funeral,” Jace admits, his voice low. “He’s been restless, angry. He and Daemon… they left this morning. They took off with their dragons.”
Rhaenyra’s heart clenches, a sudden fear gripping her. “Where did they go?”
Jace hesitates, glancing at Luke again before he speaks. “In the direction of Oldtown.”
The words hit her like a blow, and for a moment, the room seems to spin around her. She grips the arm of her chair, her knuckles white. “Oldtown…” she breathes, her mind racing, remembering your promise, the fire in your eyes when you swore vengeance for Visenya.
“Gods…” Rhaenyra murmurs, her voice barely a whisper as the realization sinks in. You had been consumed with rage, blinded by grief. You’d spoken of fire and blood, of making them pay for what they had done.
Her heart pounds in her chest, a mixture of fear and despair twisting inside her. You’re not just going to Oldtown—you’re going to burn it. To unleash your fury upon those you hold responsible, no matter the cost.
She takes a deep breath, steadying herself as she turns her gaze back to Jace. “We must prepare,” she says, her voice trembling but determined. “We need to be ready for what comes next.”
Jace nods, though the worry does not leave his eyes. “Yes, Mother.”
Rhaenyra looks around the room, her gaze sharp and commanding despite her weakened state. “This is just the beginning. They’ve made their move, and now we must make ours. We cannot let them tear us apart.”
There are murmurs of agreement, the council members straightening, their resolve hardening. Rhaenys steps forward, her eyes on Rhaenyra. “We stand with you, Rhaenyra. We will do what needs to be done.”
Rhaenyra nods, a flicker of gratitude passing over her face. “Thank you, all of you. We will not falter.”
She looks at Jace again, her hand resting briefly on his arm. “We will be ready for whatever comes next.”
The room is filled with the murmur of plans and strategies, a flurry of activity as the council prepares for the storm that is surely coming. And though the fear and worry gnaw at her, Rhaenyra knows she must be strong.
You are driven by grief and rage, but Rhaenyra will stand firm. She will hold Dragonstone, prepare their forces, and wait for your return.
The sun blazes high in the midday sky, its light blinding as it glares down on the unsuspecting city of Oldtown. Below, the streets bustle with life, unaware of the doom that soars toward them from the direction of the sun, the gleaming silhouettes of two dragons hidden in its harsh glare.
Silverwing’s wings cut through the air with powerful strokes, your heart pounding in sync with each beat. Ahead, Daemon and Caraxes fly with a fierce, relentless speed, their massive forms casting shadows over the sprawling city below. The Hightower, once a proud symbol of power and wealth, looms before you, a tempting target.
You share a look with Daemon, a single nod passing between you as you split off, his gaze fixed on the towering structure of the Hightower, while your own eyes lock onto the Starry Sept. The Faith of the Seven, who had crowned your half-brother, who had dared to deny your birthright. You can feel the rage boiling in your veins, the need for vengeance scorching through every thought.
Caraxes dives first, his roar shattering the midday stillness as flames pour from his maw, a torrent of fire that engulfs the great tower. The stones crack and explode under the intense heat, chunks of rock and debris hurtling through the air. Screams rise up from within the tower, and you see tiny figures—nobles, lords, and ladies—hurling themselves from the windows, desperate to escape the inferno, only to meet their end on the unforgiving ground below.
Silverwing’s roar answers Caraxes, and you direct her down toward the Starry Sept. The beautiful building, with its delicate spires and intricate carvings, stands as a symbol of the power that has been wielded against you, against your family. It will fall, just like everything else they have built.
“Dracarys!” you command, your voice echoing with fury. Silverwing responds with a roar that seems to shake the very sky, flames spilling from her jaws to wash over the Sept. The roof catches fire instantly, the ornate wood and stonework crumbling under the onslaught. The holy place of the Faith is reduced to a screaming, writhing mass of flames and smoke.
Septa and Septons flee from the burning structure, their robes ablaze, their cries filling the air. The smell of charred flesh and burning incense fills your nostrils as Silverwing lands atop the collapsing Sept, her claws crushing what remains of the once-proud building. The impact sends chunks of stone flying, the ground trembling beneath the force of her weight.
Silverwing lets out a triumphant roar, her voice carrying over the dying screams below. Debris scatters in every direction, the sky filled with a choking cloud of ash and smoke. The sight of it fuels the fire in your chest, your hatred, your grief, your rage. You lean forward, your eyes fixed on the chaos below.
“This is for Visenya,” you murmur, your voice lost in the cacophony. “For everything they took from us.”
Your gaze sweeps across the city, taking in the panic and confusion spreading through the streets. You see the Citadel in the distance, its towers rising arrogantly against the sky. A den of maesters, those who have spread their lies and manipulations, who have whispered poison into the ears of kings. They, too, will burn.
You signal Daemon, and Caraxes veers toward the Citadel, his wings beating furiously as he gains speed. Silverwing follows, her powerful form gliding effortlessly through the thickening smoke. Below, the people of Oldtown scatter like ants, fleeing in every direction, their shouts and cries blending into a single, desperate chorus.
Caraxes unleashes a torrent of fire upon the Citadel, the flames licking up the towers, devouring stone and wood alike. Scrolls and tomes, records of centuries, are consumed in an instant, knowledge and history reduced to ash and cinders. The maesters inside scream as they are caught in the blaze, their voices mingling with the roar of the flames and the shattering of glass.
Silverwing circles around, her flames joining those of Caraxes, the combined heat turning the once-proud Citadel into a blazing pyre. The fires leap higher, consuming everything in their path, the air thick with the stench of burning flesh and stone.
You watch, your heart a storm of emotions—anger, sorrow, satisfaction, all mingling into something fierce and unrelenting. This city, this place that has stood against you, that has defied your claim, that has crowned your half-brother in your place—it will be brought to ruin, every stone, every life, ground to dust under the might of dragonfire.
Silverwing’s wings beat against the hot air, her body glowing with the reflected light of the flames as she turns her gaze back to the rest of the city. There is no mercy in her eyes, only the reflection of your own vengeance, your need to see this place reduced to nothing but smoke and ash.
Your voice is a growl as you command her once more. “Burn it all.”
Silverwing’s roar answers you, and she dives, her flames sweeping over the city below, over houses and markets, over temples and towers. People run, screaming, trying to escape the oncoming inferno, but there is no refuge, no safety. The streets become rivers of fire, the buildings collapsing under the relentless assault.
You can see Daemon, his face a mask of grim satisfaction, as Caraxes lays waste to another section of the city. Together, your dragons are a force of nature, unstoppable, unyielding. You turn your gaze to the Hightower once more, the great structure now a smoking ruin, its walls blackened, its stones shattered.
You will leave nothing behind. You will raze it all to the ground, and when the ashes settle, they will remember this day, the day the wrath of dragons was unleashed upon them.
For Visenya. For your daughter. For the throne that was stolen. You will see them all burn. And Oldtown will be the first to fall.
Silverwing and Caraxes turn together, their flames lighting up the sky, and the city of Oldtown is swallowed by the inferno, the screams of its people echoing in the hellish glow. And still, you and Daemon do not stop, your dragons raining fire and destruction, until the city is a smoldering wasteland beneath you.
The charred remains of Oldtown smolder under the midday sun, the acrid stench of smoke and ash hanging thick in the air. The city is unrecognizable, its proud structures reduced to rubble, flames still licking at the ruins. Amidst the devastation, the once proud blue and silver form of Tessarion lies torn and broken, her wings shredded, her body twisted and lifeless. Caraxes circles above, his roar echoing across the desolate landscape, a triumphant call that vibrates through the air. But of Daeron, there is no sign—he has vanished like a shadow, slipping through the chaos like a phantom.
You stand in the midst of the destruction, Silverwing looming behind you, her scales glowing in the harsh light, reflecting the inferno around you. The heat is intense, almost suffocating, but it’s nothing compared to the fire that burns within your chest. Before you, a small cluster of Septons and Septas stand trembling, their robes stained with ash and blood, their eyes wide with terror.
One of the Septons, his face twisted with fear but his voice defiant, steps forward. “You are a monster,” he spits, his words ringing out over the desolation. “An abomination, cursed by the gods. You and your dragon are the doom of us all.”
You feel a cold smile curve your lips as you draw Blackfyre, the legendary blade gleaming darkly in your hand. The weight of it is familiar, comforting. It’s as if the sword itself thirsts for blood, hungers for vengeance. You take a step forward, your gaze locking onto the Septon’s.
“You speak of gods and curses,” you say, your voice low and filled with barely restrained fury. “But where were your gods when my daughter was killed? Where were they when the Faith crowned a usurper in my place?”
The Septon falters, his courage wavering, but he does not step back. “You defy the Seven, Targaryen. The gods will strike you down for this blasphemy.”
You raise Blackfyre, the blade catching the light as you point it at him. “The Faith of the Seven is an enemy of the throne,” you declare, your voice ringing out over the ruins. “An enemy that has aided in the theft of my birthright, that has betrayed the true blood of the dragon. I will root you out from every corner of Westeros. You will find no sanctuary, no mercy.”
The Septon’s face pales, but he lifts his chin defiantly. “The gods will judge you,” he says, his voice shaking but resolute. “You will burn in the Seven Hells for this.”
You step closer, the tip of Blackfyre inches from his chest. “Then let them strike me down,” you hiss, and with a swift, brutal motion, you drive the blade through his robes, piercing flesh and bone. The Septon screams, a high, wailing sound that cuts through the smoke and ash like a blade.
“Scream louder,” you command, twisting Blackfyre as his blood pours over your hands, hot and slick. “Call out to your gods. Let them hear you.”
The Septon’s cries turn to desperate, choking sobs, his hands clawing at the blade, his eyes wide with agony. The others around him watch, horror-stricken, but none dare to move, frozen in the grip of terror. You twist the sword again, feeling the resistance of flesh and bone give way under your hands.
“Is this not what your gods wish?” you ask, your voice mocking, filled with contempt. “Where is their wrath now? Where is their power?”
The Septon collapses to his knees, the life draining from his eyes as his strength fails him. With a final, savage pull, you yank Blackfyre free, the blade glistening with his blood. He crumples at your feet, his breaths ragged and shallow, his face a mask of pain and despair.
You look up at the sky, the smoke swirling above, and raise Blackfyre high, the blood dripping from the blade onto the scorched ground. “Are you watching?” you shout, your voice filled with a bitter fury that echoes across the ruins. “Are you listening, gods of the Seven?”
The sky is silent, the only answer the distant roar of Caraxes, the crackle of flames, the weeping of the dying city around you. There is no thunder, no divine retribution, no sign of any power greater than the one you wield in your hand.
You lower the sword, your gaze sweeping over the Septons and Septas, their faces pale, their bodies trembling. “Your gods are silent,” you say, your voice cold, emotionless. “If they exist at all, they do not care.”
Turning your back on the crumpled, dying Septon, you nod to Silverwing. “Dracarys.”
With a mighty roar, Silverwing unleashes a torrent of fire, her flames sweeping over the huddled figures. Their screams rise up, a cacophony of terror and pain, as they are consumed by the inferno. You do not look back as you walk away, the heat of the flames at your back, your heart a cold, burning core of rage and loss.
Let the world see this and tremble. Let them know that the dragon has returned, and that you will not rest until all who have wronged you, who have betrayed your family, have been reduced to ash. This is the price of treason. This is the price of faith in false gods.
And you will be the one to collect it, blade by blade, fire by fire, until the debt is paid in full.
The atmosphere in the Red Keep’s council chamber is heavy scent of smoke and incense. Aegon, the newly crowned king, lounges in his chair, his fingers drumming restlessly against the polished wood of the table. Aemond sits beside him, his face twisted into cold determination, his single eye fixed on nothing, lost in thought. Alicent is nearby, her gaze flicking between her sons and the door, her expression tight with anxiety.
Around the table, the other members of the small council wait in uneasy silence—Grand Maester Orwyle, his face pale and strained; Lord Tyland Lannister, his lips pressed into a thin line; Ser Criston Cole, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword, as if prepared for any sudden threat. Lord Jasper Wylde and Larys Strong complete the assembly, both watching the door with nervous anticipation.
The door bursts open, and Otto Hightower strides in, his face ashen, his movements almost unsteady. Alicent’s eyes widen, alarm flashing across her features as she quickly rises, moving to support him.
“Father, what’s happened?” she asks, her voice laced with worry as she takes his arm, guiding him to the nearest chair.
Otto collapses into the seat, his hand clutching at his chest as if trying to steady his breathing. “Oldtown…” he gasps, his voice barely above a whisper. “Oldtown is gone. Burned to the ground.”
A shocked silence falls over the room, every face turning toward Otto in disbelief. Aegon sits up straighter, his eyes widening. “What?” he breathes, his voice tinged with disbelief. “What do you mean, ‘gone’?”
Otto takes a deep breath, his face lined with exhaustion and grief. “Your half-brother and Daemon… they attacked Oldtown. Burned the city, the Hightower, the Citadel… everything.”
Alicent’s hand flies to her mouth, her eyes filling with horror. She sways, and Ser Criston steps forward, his face dark with concern. “My lady…”
She shakes her head, trying to gather herself. “And Daeron?” she asks, her voice trembling. “What of my son?”
Otto’s gaze drops, his face tightening. “There is no word of him. Tessarion is dead. I fear the worst.”
The room erupts into chaos. Orwyle’s face turns even paler, if that were possible. “The Citadel… gone?” he mutters, his voice filled with disbelief. “The records, the histories… centuries of knowledge…”
Tyland Lannister leans forward, his voice sharp and urgent. “And what do we do now? What if they come here next?”
Aegon’s face twists with fear, his eyes darting around the room as if seeking some escape. “He’s mad. Worse then Maegor,” he says, his voice rising with panic. “He’ll kill us all.”
Otto lifts his head, forcing his voice to be calm and steady. “No, he won’t. King’s Landing is armed, fortified. We have dragons, too. He won’t attack us here.”
“But we need to prepare,” Alicent insists, her voice shaking. “We need to protect what’s left of our family.”
Larys Strong, his eyes dark and calculating, is the first to find his voice. “We need allies,” he says softly, his gaze shifting around the table. “If we are to survive this, we must gather support, quickly.”
Aemond rises, his movements sharp and determined. “I will go to Storm’s End,” he declares, his voice cold and unyielding. “The Baratheons will stand with us.”
Tyland nods, his eyes gleaming with a fierce light. “I will send word to my brother in the West. House Lannister has not forgotten the insult dealt by the Targaryen prince. He will rally to our side.”
Aegon looks between them, his face pale and drawn, his hands gripping the arms of his chair. “And what if that’s not enough?” he demands, his voice a harsh whisper. “What if he brings his dragons here?”
Otto forces himself to stand, his hand resting on the back of Alicent’s chair for support. “Then we will fight,” he says firmly, though his eyes betray the fear that gnaws at him. “We will defend the throne, and we will not let him tear this realm apart.”
The room is tense, the fear and uncertainty thick in the air. Aegon looks around at his council, his eyes wide with desperation. “Do something,” he demands, his voice breaking. “Anything. We cannot let him win.”
Aemond places a hand on his brother’s shoulder, his gaze fierce and determined. “We won’t let him take this city,” he promises, his voice low and deadly. “Let him come. I will meet him with fire and blood.”
The words hang in the air, a grim vow that sends a shiver through everyone present. They have seen what your wrath can do, the destruction you are capable of. And they know that the fight that is coming will be like nothing they have faced before.
Otto sinks back into his chair, his face drawn with exhaustion. He glances at Alicent, his eyes filled with unspoken sorrow. “We must be united,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible. “For our family.”
Alicent nods, though her face is pale, her hands trembling. She turns to Aegon, her voice soft but filled with resolve. “You are the king,” she says, her eyes locked on his. “You must be strong. For all of us.”
Aegon swallows hard, his gaze shifting from his mother to his uncle, then to the rest of his council. “I will try,” he says, his voice a thin, fragile thread. “I will try.”
The room falls silent, the weight of the coming storm pressing down on them all. They are the rulers of a kingdom on the brink of war, a family divided by blood and betrayal. And somewhere beyond the walls of the Red Keep, you and Daemon are coming, your vengeance burning as bright and deadly as dragonfire.
The sun is sinking low over Dragonstone, casting the cliffs and towers in hues of gold and crimson. The air is charged with anticipation, a collective breath held as you and Daemon descend from the sky, your dragons’ massive forms casting shadows across the courtyard below. Silverwing and Caraxes land with a thunderous crash, their wings sending gusts of wind that stir the banners overhead, emblazoned with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.
Rhaenyra stands at the forefront, her face pale but resolute, surrounded by your children and family. Jace and Luke stand tall beside her, their young faces set with a determination beyond their years. Joffrey is next to his eldest brothers, his wide eyes fixed on you with a mixture of awe and fear. Beside them, Aegon and Viserys, still too young to fully understand the gravity of the moment, huddle together, their small hands gripping each other for reassurance.
Daemon’s twin daughters, Baela and Rhaena, stand slightly apart, their faces calm but watchful. Rhaenys is there too, her gaze proud and unyielding, Laenor at her side, his expression one of quiet strength.
Beyond them, your bannermen and retainers have gathered, a sea of loyal faces turned toward you. And beside them, Ser Erryk stands, his armor gleaming in the dying light. In his hands, he cradles the crown of King Viserys, the metal dark and heavy with the weight of your father’s legacy.
You dismount from Silverwing, your boots hitting the ground with a solid thud. The silence is profound, the only sound the rustle of banners and the distant cry of seabirds. Daemon joins you, his gaze sweeping over the gathered crowd, his expression inscrutable.
Rhaenyra steps forward, her eyes locked on yours, and you feel the unspoken question in her gaze, the worry and the fear she tries so hard to hide. You walk to her, your heart a maelstrom of emotions—rage, sorrow, resolve. She reaches out, her hand trembling slightly as she touches your arm.
“You’re back,” she whispers, her voice filled with relief and something more, something fragile.
You nod, your voice low. “I am.”
Her gaze flickers over you, searching for something—reassurance, perhaps, or maybe a confirmation of the man she knows, the man she loves. You see the moment she finds it, the tension in her shoulders easing just a fraction. She glances back at your children, then at Ser Erryk.
Erryk steps forward, his expression solemn as he raises the crown. “Your Grace,” he says, his voice carrying over the courtyard. “The crown of your father, King Viserys. It belongs to you.”
The air is electric, a palpable sense of history turning in this moment. You reach out, your hand steady as you take the crown from Erryk’s hands. It’s heavier than you remember, the metal cold against your skin, the weight of it pressing down on you with a finality that is almost suffocating.
You lift the crown, holding it for a moment, the eyes of everyone present fixed on you. Then, with a deep breath, you place it on your head, the cold metal settling against your brow like a seal, like a promise.
A murmur ripples through the crowd, a soft, reverent sound that grows into a cheer, the voices of your bannermen and retainers rising in unison.
“Long live the King!” they shout, their voices echoing off the stone walls, filling the air with a fierce, defiant energy. “Long live King Y/N Targaryen!”
You turn to face them, your gaze sweeping over the sea of faces, taking in their loyalty, their hope. This is your moment, the beginning of something new, something that will reshape the future of the realm.
But even as the cheers rise around you, your eyes find Rhaenyra’s again, and you see the shadows in her gaze, the unspoken fear that lingers there.
Daemon steps forward, his hand resting lightly on your shoulder. “Nephew,” he says, his voice low but carrying a note of fierce pride. “The realm will tremble.”
You nod, your gaze steady on his. “It will.”
Rhaenys moves to stand beside Rhaenyra, her eyes sharp and assessing as she looks at you. “The Hightowers will not take this lightly,” she warns, her voice calm but edged with steel. “They will come for you.”
“I welcome it,” you say, your voice carrying a cold, unyielding resolve. “Let them try. They will find a dragon waiting.”
The crowd quiets, the weight of your words sinking in, the reality of what lies ahead settling over them like a shadow. This is not just a crowning; it is a declaration, a promise of fire and blood to come.
You turn back to Rhaenyra, your hand reaching for hers, your fingers intertwining. “This is our fight,” you murmur, your voice for her alone. “For our children, for our family, for Visenya.”
She nods, her grip tightening around yours. “For Visenya,” she echoes, her voice steady, her gaze fierce.
And as you stand there, your family gathered around you, the crown of your father on your head, you know that this is only the beginning. The war has already begun, and you will see it through to the end. You will reclaim what is yours, no matter the cost, no matter the bloodshed.
The dragons have returned, and all of Westeros will feel their fury.
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