The Weight of Dragons
"A dragon's roar may shake the realm, but it's the quiet ones who move the pieces." — Unknown court whisper
(Third POV)
The stone walls of Harrenhal did little to warm Rhaenys Targaryen. Even with the hearth roaring behind her, the chill clung to her skin like damp silk. She stood in the Tower of Dread, watching the endless procession of banners streaming through the gates below—dragons, seahorses, roses, lions, and more. All the great houses of Westeros had come to the cursed castle to decide the fate of the realm.
The Great Council of 101 AC would crown the next ruler of the Seven Kingdoms.
And Rhaenys knew—it would not be her.
"The lords arrive in greater numbers each day," Corlys said from behind her, his voice steady with the same confidence that had earned him the name Sea Snake, the greatest seafarer of their age.
"But I wonder how many truly come to deliberate… and how many have already chosen their king."
Rhaenys turned from the window, studying her husband's weathered face. At two-and-thirty, Lord Corlys Velaryon had sailed farther than most men dared dream. His silver-gold hair caught the dim light filtering through Harrenhal's ancient stones as he bent over his charts and tallies. His ambition burning as bright as dragonfire, though tempered by the shrewd mind that had built the greatest fleet since the Conquest.
"Tell me again what we can count upon," she said, settling into the chair across from him.
Corlys's finger traced the parchment. "House Velaryon and House Baratheon stand with us, as does House Celtigar for their closeness to Driftmark. The Riverlords are split, as they ever are. Some minor houses from the Crownlands who still remember Prince Aemon's valour have pledged themselves to your cause."
"And the Vale? The Reach? The Westerlands?" she asked, though she already knew the answer.
"The Vale supports Viserys—his wife is an Arryn. The Westerlands and the Reach won't back us, at least not openly." A heavy silence fell between them.
She turned back to the window. "Do you think… there's any way these lords will ever accept a queen?"
"The will, Rhaenys. 'Tis your birthright" came a familiar voice behind them. Boremund Baratheon, her uncle, stepped into the chamber. "Your father would've wanted naught else. When you were but a babe, it's all he ever spoke of."
"You're here, nuncle," she said, offering a tired smile. "I thought it would take you longer to arrive."
"What news do you bring us from the Stormlands, Lord Baratheon?" Corlys asked, offering a brief greeting.
"You have House Baratheon's support, naturally. House Dondarrion, House Swann, House Caron—they are old families who understand honour. House Bar Emmon will stand with you as well."
"And the others?" At this, Boremund fell quiet.
"That throne should have belonged to father," she said bitterly. "If not for that damned myrish bolt…"
Corlys looked up from his parchments, his sea-green eyes softening. "Prince Aemon was the finest knight of his generation. The realm loved him well."
"And now he's ash and bone, and his daughter is but an afterthought."
"You are Jaehaerys's eldest grandchild," Corlys said firmly. "You have the stronger claim by all rights."
"Claims are words. Power is what matters. And in this realm, power flows through men in this realm." She gestured towards the harbour visible through the window. "How many of those ships carry lords who'd kneel to a queen? How many would follow one into battle?"
"There is another house we might ask for support," Boremund said suddenly. "I made inquiries, and they are not yet arrived."
"Which house?" Corlys asked.
"The Starks."
"Starks? You think they'd support a queen over a king, nuncle?"
"I cannot say for certain. The North has ever stayed neutral in southern politics, but I heard curious things in Braavos during my last voyage. The North is making trade agreements with the Free Cities—what manner of trade, I know not, but it brings them considerable coin."
"What could they possibly possess that those merchant princes would want, that we cannot provide?" Corlys asked, half-scoffing.
"I wouldn't look down on the Starks if I were you, Lord Corlys. If you can win their support, Rhaenys' chances might just rise."
"And why are you so certain, nuncle?"
"Don't you know, niece? When the Starks move, the North follows. Gain their support, and every lord from the Wall to the Neck will march behind them."
The room fell silent until Rhaenys finally spoke.
"Then we should meet them. If what nuncle says hold true, we must secure their support, no matter the cost."
"But why would they even support us?" Corlys asked. "If Lord Baratheon speaks true, the Starks prosper well with their Free Cities trade and care naught for southern politicking. They may not even take part in this whole affair."
"That may not be so, Lord Corlys. The Starks may lack interest in politics because they have never been properly asked. You could promise them a seat on your council, niece. Promise them the respect their station requires."
Another silence fell. Corlys studied his map of the Seven Kingdoms, deep in thought. Rhaenys gazed out at the procession of lords below, while Boremund warmed himself by the hearth.
"Let us meet them first," Rhaenys said finally. "Let us see what manner of man Rickon Stark is before making any promises."
Both lords nodded their agreement.
(Alaric Stark POV)
It's been a week since we arrived at Harrenhal—the cursed fortress.
The largest and most infamous castle in the seven kingdoms. Even from a distance, you can see why they call it that. Every tower is melted and blackened like candle wax. I don't know how anyone lives here.
But that's not why I'm calling it cursed. I can feel it in my bones when I look at those twisted stones. There's a malice in the air here, something so dark I can practically taste it. It feels fundamentally wrong, like something that shouldn't exist but remains trapped within these walls. I wonder what Harren the Black did to leave such hatred soaked into stone.
"What are you spacing out for, Al? Come on they say there are some Tyroshi merchants setting up stalls. I want to see what they're selling," said Mara Umber, little sister to Hother. She's two years younger than him and will soon begin living with us as a ward of House Stark. She likes me far more than her own brother for some reason, much to Hother chagrin. It's honestly hilarious, watching him try to play the protective brother while Mara ignores him completely.
"Sure. Let me grab a few guards to come with us."
The merchants came from across the Seven Kingdoms—and even from the Free Cities—to sell their wares. It's such a different feeling, seeing this many people after so many years in the North. I love the North, but sometimes it gets too quiet. The only time we see this much life is during the harvest festival, which we started two years ago.
Back when we were last in King's Landing, Lord Lannister made some snide comment about how Starks never celebrated. I had to remedy that. So, the Harvest Festival was born—nothing too grand just yet. Lords and smallfolk feasting together, lighting bonfires, singing, dancing, and releasing lanterns for the departed. Father didn't care for it at first, but when he saw the difference it made for our people, he came around. The only real opposition came from my uncle Bennard, spouting off about "tradition" and "Northern valour" and how we don't need such frivolities. Fortunately, he's not the Warden of the North.
The marketplace was buzzing with activity. Jewellery, wool, spices, silks, perfumes—anything and everything. Wool was selling in bulk, unsurprisingly. Winter is nearly here. But the Free Cities' stalls were the real draw. Dyes, spices, bright silks—and the people! Every hair colour under the sun. The funniest one? Blue.
"What's so funny, Al? You've been smiling for a while now."
"Nothing Mara. Just remembered something amusing —don't worry about it. What do you think of all this? Anything catch your eye?".
She looked around more seriously now. "I don't know. Are you going to buy something?"
"Maybe some of those spices they're selling. Gods know we need them." And I'm not kidding—before dying, Noah had developed a passion for cooking, and I inherited that interest. But there's only so much you can do with Northern ingredients. You get sick of eating the same things over and over. These spices are exactly what I need to, well, spice things up.
"Really? But I love the stuff you already make. Especially that creamy thing… what did you call it? Risotto? With wild mushrooms and cheese? Ah I am getting hungry again just thinking about it"
Ah… what a glutton. We just ate, but now I'm hungry too.
Back when we first started the ice trade with Essos, with my work done with that project, I was bored out of my mind. There are only so many books one could read before you lose your sanity. With trade established, there wasn't much for me to do—I was barred from the training yard—so I did the only thing I could: I started painting. Got pretty good at it too, thanks to the precise muscle control I inherited from Yoriichi. Even painted a portrait of my mother. When I got bored with painting, I moved to music, then cooking. I'm like a certain high-functioning sociopath—prone to boredom easily. It's been less boring since the other houses' children began their wardships, but before that, it was almost unbearable. "Let's go back. We've been out nearly two hours—we'll look around again tomorrow."
She nodded and followed.
Just as we turned the corner, a guard hurried up.
"Milord, Lord Stark asks for you in the main tent. Everyone's waiting."
Great, I've barely been back a minute and I'm already being summoned.
"Aye. Let's go. Take Mara to her quarters," I told the guards. They bowed and led her off.
When I entered the tent, I saw every lord who had accompanied us to Harrenhal was present. Why does it look like they were all waiting specifically for me?
"I'm here, Father. Forgive the delay—I was walking the marketplace."
He gave a small nod. I took my seat.
"My lords, you all know why we've gathered," my father said. "We must decide which claimant we will support for the throne." Father said, addressing everyone in the tent.
Ah yes, the next ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. Personally, I don't like any of these people—every single candidate has serious issues. Saera Targaryen is out by default since the King himself won't allow it, same with her bastards or any other legitimized bastards. These people already have loose screws since no sane person would entertain such thoughts. Laenor Velaryon, Rhaenys's son, is also out—the King's health is already fragile, and there's no way he'll leave the realm to a boy who hasn't lived a decade.
That leaves only two people with any real chance of winning: Rhaenys and Viserys Targaryen. I don't particularly like either of them. Viserys is a grade-A people pleaser whose only real strength is his brother Daemon. As for Rhaenys, I like her character somewhat, but it's her husband I don't trust. Corlys has too much pride to be merely a consort to a ruling queen.
"What do you think, Al? Who should we support?" father asked.
In these past five years, Father's come to value my counsel. If it were not for me, I think he would've backed Rhaenys outright. She is heir by law. But my existence has already changed so much.
Why not let a Stark change too?
"Neither," I said.
That stunned the room.
"What do you mean, Alaric?" my father asked. "We have to choose someone"
"Father. My lords. I've spent this week in the markets, the taverns, the streets. It's almost certain: Viserys Targaryen will be the next king. The lords won't back a woman—some may but not openly. So, I say—since the outcome is already decided why not change the game a little bit."
"If that's the case," said Galbart Glover, "why not just back Viserys and ask for favourable terms?"
"Because Viserys cannot offer us anything substantial—only promises. He's not king, not yet. Rhaenys, on the other hand, has the support of House Velaryon. She can pay—now. And let's be honest—Viserys is only winning because of what's between his legs."
Several lords bristled, but Father raised a hand.
"Let's hear him out," he said. "Then we'll decide."
I smiled and leaned back at my chair. No matter the outcome of this Great Council, I am going to make sure I win. After all a golden haired cunt once said— 'When You play Game of Thrones, you either Win or you Die.'
And I ain't dying.
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This chapter was the hardest to write, i was having trouble writing Rhaenys. But at the end, I Did it.
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