Rewriting Targaryen History

Chapter 38: Chapter 38: Before the Iron Throne

We waited outside the throne room beneath painted beams, dragon banners, and the sound of too many voices gathered beyond closed doors.

The walk through King’s Landing had already felt like a trial, but the silence before the next one was worse. In the street, whispers had been rough things, born from fishwives, beggars, merchants, guards, and men with more curiosity than consequence. Here, behind the doors of the Red Keep, whispers became tools. Every word spoken beyond that carved wood belonged to someone who knew how to wound without drawing steel.

Rhaenyra stood beside me with her hands folded before her. She had not changed since the harbour, though a servant had offered cloak, water, and rest the moment we entered the keep. She refused all three with the composed ease of a woman who knew that accepting comfort too quickly would be read as weakness. Her face was calm, but I knew enough of her now to see the tension held beneath it.

Vaeron stood at my right, quiet and watchful. He had counted the guards in the corridor within the first minute, studied the hinges, measured the distance to the nearest outer passage, and decided he disliked all of it without needing to say so.

The ten Dread Legion veterans waited behind us under royal supervision, their faces disciplined and their hands kept carefully away from sword hilts. They looked like men ordered to become statues while surrounded by people hoping stone might flinch.

"They have packed the room," Vaeron said quietly.

Rhaenyra did not turn. "You can tell through doors now?"

"I can hear too many feet for a private reprimand."

"They wanted witnesses," I said.

"Lord Hightower wanted witnesses," Vaeron corrected. "The King wanted family peace and was persuaded that a crowd would make it lawful."

Rhaenyra’s mouth tightened, but she did not deny it. That was the shape of the danger. Viserys disliked ugliness, but he often allowed other men to arrange it neatly enough that he could call it order. Otto did not need to seize the throne to use its shadow; he only needed to stand where the King left space.

The doors opened. Sound struck first. The throne room was full.

Nobles, knights, courtiers, septons, household officials, ladies in bright gowns, lords in embroidered doublets, and men whose only office seemed to be listening stood arranged on either side of the hall. They formed two long banks of colour and judgment beneath the high windows, leaving the central path open like the aisle of a sept or the killing lane of a battlefield. The whispering did not stop when we entered. It changed shape, becoming sharper, hungrier, and more careful all at once.

At the far end of the hall, King Viserys sat upon the Iron Throne.

He looked more powerful than he had during my first visit. Perhaps that was intention. He wore black and red worked with gold, a crown upon his head, and his hands rested on the arms of the throne as if the swords beneath him had been placed there to support rather than threaten him. Illness had not yet claimed the shape of him, not fully, and from a distance he looked every inch the king his ancestors had carved out of fire and conquest.

Alicent stood at the base of the throne in a gown of soft blue, her figure no longer marked by pregnancy but still carrying the quiet weight of recent motherhood. Her hands were folded neatly before her, and though her face held courtly composure, her eyes moved first to Rhaenyra and then to me with the guarded concern of a mother who had already begun measuring the world by threats to her children.

Beside her stood Otto Hightower, calm, composed, and placed so naturally near royal authority that a stranger might have mistaken his station for something higher than it was.

Near the King’s right stood a knight in white armour and a white cloak. Ser Criston Cole.

I knew the name before I knew the man, and that alone made him dangerous. During my last visit, he had been part of the room’s white and silver background, one more sworn sword among royal guards and polished steel. Now he was impossible to miss. His face remained still, but his eyes found Rhaenyra first, held for half a heartbeat too long, and then moved to me.

There it was.

Not open hatred. Not yet. But resentment had weight even when discipline kept it silent, and Criston Cole carried it like a sword he had not been given leave to draw. He looked at the space between Rhaenyra and me as if measuring what had been taken from him, though perhaps he would have denied the thought even to himself.

Rhaenyra’s step did not falter. But the air beside me changed.

She had seen him. The smallest tightening of her hand, the faintest lift of her chin, and the colder stillness that settled over her face told me enough. Whatever lay between them had not yet become the open ruin I knew it could become, but its shadow stood in the room wearing a white cloak.

We walked the length of the hall together.

Every step felt measured. Every eye became another hand pressing against us. Rhaenyra stood to my left, Vaeron to my right, and the ten veterans followed at a distance allowed by royal guards. We stopped before the throne, far enough below Viserys that the height of him mattered, close enough that the whole court could see our faces.

Rhaenyra curtsied first. "Father."

I bowed lower than I had to Daemon and lower than pride enjoyed. "Your Grace."

Vaeron bowed beside me, perfect enough to be insulting to anyone hoping for foreign clumsiness. "Your Grace."

Viserys looked down at us, and for a moment I saw the father beneath the crown. Hurt lived there. So did confusion, irritation, worry, and the tired desire to make all of it less public than it had already become. Then his hand tightened slightly on the arm of the throne, and the King returned.

"Rhaenyra," he said. "Captain Galeris. You have given this court much to discuss."

The room quieted. Not fully. Never fully.

Rhaenyra lifted her chin. "We came as commanded."

"So you did." Viserys’s eyes moved from her to me. "Though I confess I would have preferred hearing of this matter from my daughter before hearing of it from ravens, rumours, and half the Blackwater."

A murmur stirred along the sides of the hall. Rhaenyra accepted the blow without lowering her eyes. "Then I regret that the manner of your learning wounded you, Father. That was not my intent."

Otto stepped forward before Viserys could answer. "With respect, Your Grace, the matter before us concerns more than wounded feeling. The proposed marriage of the King’s named heir is no small domestic arrangement, particularly when the chosen man arrives with a foreign host now quartered upon Dragonstone."

Viserys glanced down. "I know what the matter concerns, Otto."

"Of course, Your Grace."

Otto bowed his head just enough to appear chastened and not enough to surrender an inch. Then he remained exactly where he was, occupying the space his King had not defended. Othorion Galeris had fought men with axes, spears, curved blades, and slave chains; Otto Hightower fought with permission granted by habit.

Viserys allowed it. That told me more than any royal command.

Otto turned his attention toward me. "Captain Galeris, by what right did you bring an army of such size to Dragonstone?"

Rhaenyra answered before I could. "By mine."

The court breathed in.

Otto’s eyes remained on me for another beat before shifting to her. "Princess, no one questions that Dragonstone is your seat."

"Then do not phrase your question as if Captain Galeris seized it."

"I phrase my question in concern for the realm."

"You often do."

Alicent’s expression tightened, though whether from Rhaenyra’s tone or the truth beneath it, I could not tell. Viserys leaned forward slightly, already wanting to soothe a fire before it became visible flame.

"Rhaenyra," he said.

She looked up at him. "The soldiers on Dragonstone are there with my knowledge and under agreed limits. They have not seized stores, displaced the garrison, or entered villages without permission. Their numbers are known, their camps are marked, and their conduct is recorded."

Otto inclined his head. "How reassuring that a foreign army occupying the heir’s island has records."

Vaeron’s jaw shifted. I did not look at him, because if I did, I might smile.

Rhaenyra’s eyes cooled. "They are not occupying Dragonstone."

"Then how long are they to remain?"

"As long as their service is required."

"To whom?"

"To me," she said.

That landed heavily.

Alicent’s hands tightened slightly together, a small motion that spoke of unease rather than the instinctive gesture of a woman still carrying a child. I noticed. Otto did not miss it either. The question had never merely been about soldiers, nor even about marriage. It was about whether Rhaenyra could gather strength around herself without asking permission from men who preferred her future dependent, delayed, and softened.

Viserys looked at me. "Captain Galeris, answer plainly. Is your army sworn to my daughter or to you?"

"To me by command structure, Your Grace," I said. "To Princess Rhaenyra by contract, station, and agreed purpose."

Otto’s brows rose. "A careful distinction."

"A necessary one."

"For whom?"

"For every man involved," I replied. "Soldiers obey clear command. Confused authority kills people quickly, whether in camp, field, or city. My officers command my men. I answer for their conduct. The terms of their service on Dragonstone are known to the Princess and can be presented for royal inspection."

Vaeron gave the smallest approving breath beside me.

Otto heard it anyway. "And your brother?" he asked. "Does he also answer for this host?"

Vaeron bowed again, expression calm. "I maintain accounts, supply, contractual terms, camp restrictions, and disciplinary records, Lord Hand."

"I asked the captain."

"And he would have given a less precise answer."

A ripple moved through the court. Viserys looked almost amused despite himself, but Otto did not. Alicent’s eyes flicked briefly toward Vaeron, reassessing him from troublesome boy to something more irritating. Rhaenyra’s expression did not change, though I felt approval beside me like warmth near banked coals.

Otto’s voice softened. "You speak boldly for a younger brother."

"I speak accurately for a quartermaster."

"And do all Essosi sellswords permit their quartermasters to address the Hand of the King so freely?"

"No," Vaeron said. "Only the well-run ones."

This time the ripple became harder to bury.

Viserys lifted a hand. "Enough. Lord Otto, the young man has answered."

Otto bowed. "As Your Grace commands."

But he had already made Vaeron visible to the court, and Vaeron had made himself inconvenient. That exchange would travel through the Red Keep before nightfall, growing sharper each time it was repeated.

I could almost hear the versions already: the foreign captain’s brother mocked the Hand, the boy had no manners, the boy had too many, the Galeris brothers were arrogant, clever, dangerous, amusing, or all four depending on the teller.

Alicent stepped forward then, not much, but enough for the room to feel it. "Princess, surely you understand why there is concern. No one wishes to deny you honour or companionship, but your position is not ordinary. You are heir to the Iron Throne, and any marriage you make must be weighed against the safety of the realm."

Rhaenyra turned to her. "And my brother?"

The room tightened.

Alicent’s face became very still. "Aegon is a child."

"Yes," Rhaenyra said. "And yet he stands in the centre of every concern no one wishes to name."

Viserys’s voice hardened. "Rhaenyra."

She looked up at him. "I speak only what everyone here already knows, Father."

Otto moved smoothly into the opening. "The existence of the King’s son is not an accusation, Princess. It is a reality the realm must consider."

"The realm considered me heir when it bent the knee."

"And the realm may question whether an heir advised by a foreign captain and supported by foreign soldiers still remembers the duties of that oath."

There it was. Spoken politely. Offered as concern. Poison in a silver cup.

My hands remained at my sides. World Breaker hung at my hip, sheathed and silent, and I felt every eye notice that I did not touch it. Criston Cole noticed most of all. His gaze flicked to the sword, then to my hand, and something bitter tightened around his mouth before discipline erased it.

Rhaenyra answered Otto before I could. "You mistake support for control."

"I fear influence."

"You fear any influence that is not yours."

Viserys shifted on the throne. "Rhaenyra, Lord Otto has served this crown faithfully."

"And I am grateful for faithful service," she said, turning back to her father. "But I will not be questioned as though choosing a husband has made me a prisoner of him."

Otto bowed his head again. "No one suggests imprisonment."

"You suggest worse," she replied. "You suggest weakness."

The words rang through the hall.

Viserys closed his eyes for the briefest moment. The court saw only a king gathering patience. I saw a father realising that peace would not come simply because he wished everyone to speak gently. He had allowed Otto to shape the room, and now Rhaenyra was refusing to stand inside that shape quietly.

Otto looked to the throne. "Your Grace, perhaps the question should be put plainly. Did Princess Rhaenyra choose this match freely, without coercion, pressure, promise of military support, or influence arising from matters concealed from this court?"

The phrasing was careful enough to sound reasonable and broad enough to accuse without naming the accusation. Concealed matters could mean private conversation, ambition, prophecy, lust, Daemon, or any other shadow Otto wished the court to imagine. It was not a question. It was a net.

Viserys looked at Rhaenyra. "Daughter?"

Rhaenyra stepped forward. Only one pace. It was enough.

"I chose him freely," she said. "Not because I was tricked, not because I was threatened, not because my uncle whispered it into my ear from the Stepstones, and not because Captain Galeris bought my favour with soldiers. I chose him because he will stand beside me rather than above me, because he has no Westerosi seat from which to swallow mine, because he understands the danger facing my claim, and because I wanted him."

The last words landed differently from the rest. Because I wanted him.

It was not the sort of thing court preferred to hear in daylight. Desire belonged in songs when useful, rumours when damaging, and marriages only when safely buried beneath alliances. Rhaenyra had placed it before the Iron Throne and dared them to decide whether honesty was more scandalous than arrangement.

Alicent looked down. Criston Cole did not.

His eyes fixed on Rhaenyra, and the jealousy there was no longer difficult to sense. It did not break his posture. It did not move his hand. It did not change his silence. But it lived in him, fierce and humiliated, because she had spoken of wanting another man in a room where his vows forced him to stand still and guard the King who judged it.

I felt no triumph. Only warning.

Otto recovered first. "Desire is not policy, Princess."

"No," Rhaenyra said. "But neither is fear."

Viserys leaned back slowly, and the swords of the throne framed him like a jagged halo. "You speak of want as though it is enough. You are my heir. Your marriage affects more than your own happiness."

"I know."

"Do you?"

His voice held pain now, not anger alone.

Rhaenyra looked up at him, and the room seemed to draw inward. Alicent stood at the base of the throne. Otto beside her. Criston near the King. The court to either side, hungry for fracture. I realised what she was going to say a heartbeat before she said it, and even knowing did not soften the blow.

"You chose the Queen because she brought you comfort when grief had hollowed you, Father," Rhaenyra said. "You chose her not because the realm demanded it, nor because the council forced your hand, but because your heart found peace with her. I do not condemn you for that. I only ask why the same grace is denied to me."

The throne room changed. No one gasped. That would have been too crude.

Instead, the silence deepened until every breath seemed guilty. Alicent’s face went pale, then flushed, her composure tightening as the words struck closer than any accusation. Otto’s eyes sharpened with anger because the argument had moved somewhere dangerous, somewhere he could not easily dismiss as girlish defiance or foreign manipulation. Rhaenyra had not insulted the King. She had done something worse.

She had placed a mirror before him.

Viserys’s hand tightened on the arm of the Iron Throne. Not enough for blood to show, but enough for those watching closely to see the words had found him. Aemma’s ghost stood in that hall suddenly, though no one named her.

Alicent stood there too, living proof of comfort turned into politics, and every person present understood that Rhaenyra had touched grief, love, guilt, and precedent with one careful strike.

Otto stepped in. "Princess, His Grace’s marriage is not on trial here."

Rhaenyra turned her eyes to him. "No, Lord Hand. Mine is."

The words were calm. That made them brutal.

Viserys rose. The room bowed in motion before he had fully straightened, as if the court remembered all at once that the man above them was still king. The Iron Throne made even standing dangerous, but Viserys held himself well. Power settled over him then, not the easy strength of a warrior, but the older force of a crowned man deciding he had allowed enough.

"Silence," he said. The hall obeyed. He looked first at Otto. "You will remember that questions asked in my hall are asked by my leave."

Otto bowed deeply. "Your Grace."

Then Viserys looked at Rhaenyra. "And you will remember that truth, however sharp, does not cease to wound because it is spoken with courtesy."

Rhaenyra lowered her head slightly. "I meant no cruelty."

"No," Viserys said. "You rarely do when you cut deepest."

The words hurt her. I saw it in the brief stillness around her mouth, and I hated him for the accuracy of it even as I understood his pain. This was the tragedy of family inside a throne room. Every sentence had two edges, one for politics and one for blood.

Viserys turned his gaze to me. "Captain Galeris."

"Your Grace."

"You have heard my daughter defend you. Now speak for yourself. What do you seek from this marriage?"

The room waited.

This was the question that mattered.