March, 101 AC – The Matter of the Heir
Two days had passed since Prince Baelon's funeral, and though mourning still lingered in the halls of the Red Keep, whispers had already begun. The question could no longer be ignored—who would now be heir to the Iron Throne?
Most expected Viserys would be named without contest. But Rhaenys and Lord Corlys Velaryon had not yet left the capital. That spoke volumes.
This time, things were different. The King had no ready excuse to pass over Rhaenys again. Not like he did when Baelon still lived. Now, Rhaenys had prepared—she had her claim, her supporters, and a great adult dragon behind her. Meleys, the Red Queen. And she was backed by the wealth and power of House Velaryon, the richest house in Westeros, not to mention its most formidable fleet.
And Rhaenys was older than Viserys. By the ancient traditions of Valyria, the elder descendant, regardless of gender, inherited the headship of the house. Dragons did not care for male primogeniture. But Westeros was not Valyria. The realm followed the customs of the Andals and the Seven: sons before daughters, always.
Still, the weight of Rhaenys's presence in the Keep felt like a threat of a storm. The court knew the King desired to avoid bloodshed after his passing. A war of succession would shatter the realm. And Rhaenys's dragon would be no idle decoration in that war.
The throne room that day was quiet—emptier than usual, but no less tense. Only the royal household, the King's council, and a few honored observers were present. I stood among them, finally granted a front-row view to history. A small reward for years of loyal service.
Prince Viserys and Princess Rhaenys stood before the Iron Throne.
Rhaenys wore black and red, her face cold and proud, her husband beside her in silent solidarity. She bowed her head to the King, but did not kneel.
"Your Grace," she said, her voice as sharp as a Valyrian blade. "You know my claim. I am the eldest living child of your father's eldest son. It is not ambition that brings me here—it is blood."
Viserys stood tall, though I could see the uncertainty in his eyes. He did not speak.
The King, tired and gaunt, looked between them. Then he stood.
"You both have Targaryen blood," Jaehaerys began. "You both have dragons. You both have served this realm well. But the realm... the realm must endure."
He looked to the Lords of the realm gathered around him, then back to his grandchildren.
"I will summon a Great Council," he said at last. "Let the Lords of Westeros decide who shall follow me. Let the realm choose its future."
The words were final.
I watched Rhaenys stiffen, just a heartbeat of fury behind her still expression. But she nodded, ever regal.
The stage was set. Westeros would choose its heir—not by dragonfire, but by vote. For now.