The bells of King's Landing rang from dawn until dusk.
Their mournful thunder rolled across the city like distant storms, echoing through crowded alleyways, across the rushing, black waters of the Blackwater Rush, and beneath the towering, pale-red shadow of the Red Keep. Every sept bell in the capital answered in solemn, broken rhythm, mourning the passing of the Old King.
King Jaehaerys Targaryen, the First of His Name, the Conciliator, was dead.
He had passed away peacefully in his bed, listening to his granddaughter Alicent read to him from Maester Anselm's history. For days, the city simply drowned in grief.
The banners of the crown hung draped in heavy black silk from towers and battlements. The three-headed golden dragons, once symbols of unrivaled majesty embroidered upon crimson cloth, fluttered weakly beneath the cold, biting winds blowing from the bay. The great markets of the city—the Fishmarket, the Cobbler's Square—remained open only out of stark necessity. Even the roughest Flea Bottom merchants spoke in lowered, hushed voices, as though loud words themselves might disturb the eternal rest of the king who had given them fifty years of peace.
Thousands gathered outside the plazas of the city each morning to pray. Noble ladies dressed in dark Myrish velvets walked beside illiterate fishermen and soot-stained blacksmiths alike, united beneath the democratic weight of loss. Candles burned endlessly until the very air of King's Landing smelled of melting tallow, heavy incense, and woodsmoke.
The reign of Jaehaerys had lasted longer than most men could remember. To the old, he had been the young, vibrant king of their youth who had healed the wounds left by Maegor the Cruel. To the young, he had simply always existed—a fixture of the world as permanent as the sun or the Wall. He was a ruler so constant that many common folk truly believed the Iron Throne itself could never belong to another.
Yet death spared no man. Not even the blood of Old Valyria. Not even dragons.
The funeral procession began beneath grey skies thick with sea mist drifting inland. Knights of the Kingsguard marched at the front in gleaming, enameled white armor, the bright steel dimmed beneath long black mourning cloaks. Behind them came silent septons carrying seven crystal lanterns, each representing one holy aspect of the Seven Who Are One, their light fracturing through the fog.
The dragonlords followed.
Prince Viserys rode at their head upon a pale, heavy stallion draped in crimson cloth. His face remained composed for the watching crowds, though exhaustion and the immense weight of what was to come lingered beneath his eyes. He was a man of comfortable build, warm-hearted and well-liked, but today the joviality was entirely. At his left side walked Queen Aemma, her pale Arryn features tight with shared grief, her silver-gold hair bound tightly beneath a black veil.
Next to her walked their only living child, the six-year-old Princess Rhaenyra. Small and delicate, the young princess wore a gown of heavy Myrish velvet, dyed the deepest black, with a tiny three-headed dragon stitched in rubies across her heart. She clutched her mother's hand tightly, her large violet eyes wide with a mixture of awe and fear as she looked out at the sea of weeping smallfolk who would one day call her sovereign.
A few paces behind them strode Prince Daemon. Dressed in dark, supple riding leathers rather than ceremonial silks, Daemon bestrode a lean, black courser. Even in mourning, the younger prince looked dangerous, restless, and coiled like a spring. His lean, sharp-featured Valyrian face was unreadable, his pale-gold hair whipping in the wind, his long fingers tapping a restless, rhythmic beat against the pommel of Dark Sister, the Valyrian steel sword of Queen Visenya that hung at his hip.
The stark contrast between the two grandsons of the Old King did not go unnoticed by the watching smallfolk.
"Prince Daemon looks as though he'd rather fight a war than attend a funeral," a watchman in a faded wool cloak muttered quietly to the man standing shoulder-to-shoulder beside him.
"Hush," the older guard whispered back, his eyes darting toward the prince. "Half the city can hear you, and the Rogue Prince has ears like a bat. Keep your eyes on the road."
Behind the royal family came the great lords of Westeros, an immense column of pride and power. The Baratheons of Storm's End, proud and dark-haired; the Arryns of the Vale, representing the lineage of Viserys's late mother, Daella; the Tyrells of the Reach; and the Lannisters of Casterly Rock, glittering in subtle gold filigree despite their mourning blacks. Even Dorne, though still an independent principality, had sent cautious envoys northward to honor the passing of the king who had chosen peace over fire.
Thousands lined the muddy streets as the ashes of the Old King—burned in the traditional Valyrian custom by the golden flames of the young dragon Syrax—were prepared to be laid to eternal rest beside his beloved Queen Alysanne. No laughter could be heard. No shouting. Only the tolling bells, murmuring prayers, and the steady, rhythmic rumble of thousands of boots against stone roads.
The city understood what was ending. An era. The Golden Age of the Dragon.
Inside the Red Keep, the Small Council chamber was thick with tension. While grief consumed the lower city, the grand game of politics had already begun moving beneath the surface like deadly currents beneath dark water. The Great Council of 101 AC at Harrenhal had already chosen Viserys over his cousin Rhaenys, the Queen Who Never Was, but the transition of power was a fragile glass that could shatter at any moment.
Viserys remained within the castle for much of the mourning period, meeting with counselors, envoys, and noble delegations arriving daily from across the Seven Kingdoms. Ravens flew endlessly from the rookery, carrying summons, royal declarations, and confirmations of loyalty to the four corners of the realm.
One evening, as a torrential downpour battered the leaded glass windows of the council chamber, Viserys stood overlooking the misty expanse of the city below. Behind him, the men who would help him rule argued over parchment and seal-wax.
"The coronation cannot be delayed excessively," said Grand Maester Runciter, adjusting his heavy chain of office. He had served Jaehaerys in his final years and knew the vital importance of continuity. "The realm requires stability, Your Grace. A kingdom without a crowned head invites ambition from across the Narrow Sea."
"The realm requires caution, Grand Maester," Lord Lyman Beesbury countered, his old voice sharp as he looked over the treasury ledgers. "Half the lords in Westeros are already maneuvering for influence, seeking tax exemptions and royal favors before the ink on the Old King's death certificate is even dry."
Daemon laughed from where he leaned carelessly against a carved stone pillar, a goblet of Arbor gold in his hand. "They were maneuvering before the old man even breathed his last, Lyman. Let's not pretend otherwise."
Ser Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, shot Daemon a cold, calculating glance from the council table. "Some men maneuver far more aggressively than others, Prince Daemon. And with far less reverence."
Daemon's violet eyes narrowed into slits as he smirked over the rim of his goblet. "Careful, Ser Otto. Your ambition is showing. One might think you're eager to see how your own house fares under a new crown."
"Enough," Viserys said quietly.
The room fell instantly silent. The brothers and the counselors turned to the prince. For several moments, Viserys remained staring out across King's Landing, watching the torchlight of the City Watch flicker through the rain-soaked streets below.
"When my grandfather wore the crown," Viserys said at last, his voice heavy with a profound sense of inadequacy, "men feared disappointing him more than they feared the headsman's axe. That is what made his peace strong. He was a giant."
"You are not Jaehaerys," Daemon replied from the shadows. The words sounded harsh, but for once, there was no mockery in the younger brother's tone. It was a simple, stark truth.
Viserys turned slowly toward his brother, looking at the Valyrian steel sword at Daemon's hip, then down at his own soft hands. "No," he admitted softly. "I am not."
For a single, fleeting moment, something almost sympathetic, an ancient tribal loyalty, passed across Daemon's face before it vanished behind his familiar mask of arrogant indifference. "Then do not try to be. Be better in your own way. Or at least, be more generous."
Preparations for the ascension began in earnest as the official fortnight of mourning concluded. Watchmen in their drab leather and wool garments patrolled the gates to maintain order as the population of the capital swelled to bursting. Inns overflowed with hedge knights, sworn swords, wealthy merchants, and lesser lords hoping to witness history.
Even the harbor became an impenetrable forest of masts. Ships arrived daily bearing the banners of Oldtown, Gulltown, and Lannisport. The royal kitchens burned day and night, preparing a massive feast for the ascension. Entire wagon trains arrived from the Reach carrying wine, grain, fruit, and livestock.
The crowning of a Targaryen king required the highest spiritual sanction. Word spread that the High Septon himself was journeying all the way from the Starry Sept of Oldtown to perform the sacred anointing.
His arrival along the Roseroad became an immense spectacle. Thousands of smallfolk gathered outside the King's Gate to catch a glimpse of the Living Avatar of the Gods. Holy Guards, the Warriors of the Sons of the Dragon now long disbanded but represented by devout knights, escorted the grand, ornate wheelhouse of carved ivory and polished silver.
The crowds fell silent as the High Septon passed, his robes of spun silver catching the pale sunlight. Some knelt in the mud; others crossed themselves with the sign of the seven-pointed star.
The capital had transformed. The city still wore the invisible scars of mourning, yet anticipation now mingled with the grief. The Iron Throne would soon seat a new king. And with every new reign came the shifting of the world.
On the morning of the coronation, the skies above King's Landing cleared completely, as if the gods themselves wished to wash away the gloom of the Old King's passing. Sunlight spilled across the Red Keep like molten gold.
The great hall of the castle overflowed long before dawn. Prince Viserys emerged from his chambers dressed in magnificent black and crimson silks, heavily embroidered with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.
Behind him, upon a velvet cushion, was carried the crown of King Jaehaerys—a brilliant band of yellow gold, heavily wrought, set with seven gemstones of different colors to honor the Faith that bound the realm together.
There was a distinct nervousness in Viserys's face as he walked toward the Great Hall where the lords of the realm awaited him. He felt the phantom weight of the crown before it even touched his brow. For crowns were heavier than any blacksmith could measure.
As Viserys paused at the heavy oak doors, Daemon stepped out from the shadows beside him, his dark cloak swirling.
"You still have time to mount Balerion and fly away, brother," Daemon murmured with a wicked glint in his eye. Then, remembering himself, he corrected, "Ah, forgive me. Balerion is dead. You'd have to walk."
Viserys gave a tired, genuine smile at the dark humor. "And leave you to rule in my stead?"
"A terrifying thought, isn't it?" Daemon grinned.
"You'd enjoy it entirely too much."
"For at least a moon," Daemon conceded, tapping the pommel of his sword. "Until the paperwork bored me to tears. Go on, then. Keep me from the throne."
The doors flew open.
The ceremony within the great hall lasted for hours. There were solemn prayers to the Father for justice, to the Mother for mercy, and to the Warrior for strength. Before thousands of witnesses, the High Septon anointed Viserys's brow with sacred oils from Oldtown, chanting blessings that echoed off the high stone rafters.
Then came the moment of the crown.
The High Septon lifted the heavy gold band of the Conciliator, holding it high as the sunlight streamed through the windows. Slowly, reverently, he lowered it onto Viserys's silver-gold hair.
The moment the circlet settled upon his head, the Great Hall erupted into a deafening roar.
"Long live the king!"
The cry thundered through the castle walls, taken up by the guards outside.
"Long live King Viserys! First of His Name!"
The sound spread like wildfire beyond the gates of the Red Keep, down the Hook, through the squares, and into the poorest hovels of Flea Bottom. The bells of King's Landing, which had so recently tolled for the dead, now rang out in a wild, chaotic frenzy of celebration.
A new reign had begun. King Viserys I Targaryen sat upon the Iron Throne, inheriting a realm at the absolute zenith of its peace, wealth, and power. Yet as the new king looked out over the cheering lords, his eyes caught those of his brother Daemon, and the Hand, Otto Hightower.
The peace of the Old King survived him, but beneath the golden crown, the seeds of the future already waited in the soil.
Later that night, long after the feasting had begun below and the halls of the Red Keep echoed with drunken songs celebrating the new reign, Prince Daemon Targaryen sat alone within his chambers.
The fire burned low in the hearth, casting restless shadows across the stone walls. Beyond the windows, King's Landing roared with renewed life. Bells rang through the streets. Wine flowed freely through taverns and feast halls alike. Lords toasted the dawn of Viserys's reign as though peace itself had become eternal.
Daemon drank alone.
A knock came softly at the door.
"My prince," a servant said carefully as he entered, carrying a silver tray, "a raven arrived for you."
Daemon extended a hand without looking away from the flames.
The parchment bore no royal seal, only dark green wax impressed with the image of a rose.
That drew his attention.
He broke the seal and unfolded the letter slowly. As his pale eyes moved across the words, the corner of his mouth curled upward into a dangerous smile.
An alliance.
Promises of gold, ships, and swords. Quiet assurances that certain powerful lords of the Reach would gladly support a campaign to finally force proud Dorne beneath the heel of the Iron Throne.
And woven carefully between lines of politics and ambition was something far more curious.
Daemon let out a low, amused laugh.
"A wizard-noble?" he murmured, leaning back in his chair. "Will my dragon fire burn hotter than his little silver dragon flames, I wonder?"
Amusement glimmered in his violet eyes.
His gaze drifted toward the darkened windows overlooking Blackwater Bay, where somewhere beyond the sleeping city rested Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm.
Below him, the capital celebrated the beginning of a peaceful reign.
But peace was ever a fragile thing.
And somewhere beyond the bright lights of King's Landing, the first ember of the coming storm had already begun to glow.
TBC
Want to stay 14+ chapters ahead? Join me on Patr*on.
Patr*on.com/Rabbinwriter.
Be a Chapter Seeker!
Bea Chronicle Reader!
Be a Lore Archivist!
Or buy me a coffee ~~~
NEXT CHAPTER 90 PS!