The bells of the Red Keep rang across Aegon's High Hill long before noon, carrying news that spread through King's Landing faster than any herald could ride. By the time the ringing ceased, servants whispered it in kitchens, guards exchanged knowing smiles upon the walls, and noble guests spoke of little else in the castle's halls.
Queen Aemma Arryn was with child.
The announcement transformed the mood of the court. For months the realm had enjoyed peace and prosperity, yet questions of succession never truly vanished from the minds of lords. The king's brother, Prince Daemon, stood as heir, but the birth of a true-born son promised additional security for House Targaryen and the Iron Throne.
King Viserys himself seemed lighter than he had in years.
"You are staring again," Aemma remarked from her seat beside the window.
Sunlight streamed through the chamber, illuminating the embroidery resting in her lap. She had attempted to continue her work several times that morning, but each effort ended the same way—with Viserys looking at her rather than attending to his duties.
"I am merely appreciating my wife."
"You have appreciated me for the better part of an hour."
"And I shall continue for another."
Aemma laughed despite herself. "The child has scarcely been confirmed."
"Yet the gods have seen fit to bless us."
The warmth in his voice softened her expression. She knew how much this meant to him. Though Viserys rarely spoke openly of his fears, she understood them well enough. Every ruler worried about what came after them. Every king wished to leave behind stability rather than uncertainty.
The doors opened before she could answer.
Rhaenyra entered without ceremony, accompanied by only a single handmaid. The princess immediately noticed the unusually cheerful expressions upon her parents' faces.
"What has happened?"
Viserys rose so quickly that his chair nearly toppled.
"The gods have answered our prayers."
Recognition dawned upon her almost instantly.
"Truly?"
Aemma nodded.
Rhaenyra's smile appeared at once. She crossed the room and embraced her mother, careful of the queen's condition despite her excitement.
For a brief moment, the pressures of the realm vanished entirely. There was no king, no queen, and no shadow of a future heir. There was only a family sharing unexpected happiness.
The celebrations began before sunset.
Wine flowed freely through the castle. Musicians played in courtyards and great halls while cooks prepared elaborate meals for guests and household alike. Even members of the Small Council appeared more relaxed than usual. Lord Lyman Beesbury toasted the treasury's health, while Lord Corlys Velaryon watched the celebrations with a cool, guarded politeness. Ser Otto Hightower offered measured congratulations, his mind already calculating what a new child would mean for the line of succession. Grand Maester Runciter accepted praise from half the court for delivering the news, though he insisted he deserved none of the credit.
That evening, as torchlight illuminated the walls of the Red Keep, it seemed that fortune had finally smiled upon House Targaryen.
Three days later, that happiness shattered.
Rhaenyra had been breaking her fast with her septa when the pain struck. Witnesses later recalled that she had been laughing one moment and clutching the edge of the table the next. Her complexion turned pale almost immediately. When she attempted to stand, her legs failed beneath her.
The princess collapsed before anyone could react.
Panic swept through the chamber.
Servants ran for maesters while guards rushed to clear the corridors. The news reached the Small Council within minutes. Viserys abandoned a discussion regarding trade tariffs before Lord Beesbury had even finished speaking and hurried through the castle with several Kingsguard at his heels.
He found Grand Maester Runciter already attending to her.
The old maester stood beside the bed, his chain glinting in the candlelight as assistants prepared medicines and poultices nearby. One look at his face told Viserys that the situation was serious.
"What is wrong with her?"
Runciter glanced toward the princess before answering.
"A severe flux, Your Grace."
The king's expression darkened.
"Many suffer flux."
"They do."
"Then why do you look as though she is dying?"
The question silenced the room.
Runciter chose his words carefully.
"Because the fever has already begun."
Viserys turned toward his daughter.
Rhaenyra lay beneath blankets despite the warmth of the chamber. Sweat dampened her silver-gold hair. Her breathing had become shallow, and though her eyes remained open, they seemed unfocused.
Only three days earlier she had been racing through the castle with boundless energy.
Now she looked frighteningly small.
The first night passed without improvement.
By dawn, the fever had worsened.
The atmosphere within the Red Keep changed almost overnight. The musicians disappeared. Planned celebrations were quietly canceled. Courtiers lowered their voices whenever they spoke. Servants moved through corridors with solemn expressions, carrying water, linens, and medicines to the princess's chambers.
Viserys refused to leave her side.
Aemma remained as well, despite repeated objections from both Runciter and the other maesters.
"You should rest, Your Grace," one of them urged. "For your own health and the child's."
"My daughter is here."
"There is nothing you can do."
Aemma's gaze hardened.
"Then I shall do nothing beside her."
The maester wisely said no more.
As the hours passed, Rhaenyra drifted between lucidity and delirium. Sometimes she recognized her parents. At other moments she spoke to people who were not there.
She asked after Syrax despite the dragon being safely housed within the Dragonpit.
She questioned whether lessons had begun.
Once she began reciting the names of ancient Valyrian rulers before abruptly falling silent midway through the list.
Each episode left her parents increasingly shaken.
Viserys had faced few true crises since ascending the Iron Throne, inheriting a realm of peace and prosperity. Yet no political burden compared to watching his young daughter, Rhaenyra, struggle against an illness he could neither negotiate with nor fight.
By the second day, concern spread beyond the royal apartments.
Word reached the city below.
Prayers were offered at septs throughout King's Landing. Merchants discussed rumors in crowded markets. Sailors carried stories to every tavern along the harbor.
The princess remained ill.
The fever showed no sign of breaking.
Even the Small Council began to worry.
When Viserys finally attended a brief meeting late that afternoon, the discussion lasted less than fifteen minutes.
"You should remain with your daughter, Your Grace," Lord Beesbury said quietly.
No one disagreed.
The king left immediately.
The third day proved the worst.
Grand Maester Runciter no longer attempted to conceal his concern. The medicines had accomplished little. The fever remained stubbornly high. Rhaenyra had grown weaker with each passing hour.
Late that afternoon, Viserys found several maesters speaking in hushed tones outside the chamber.
They stopped when he approached.
The king's patience finally snapped.
"Speak plainly."
Runciter hesitated.
The hesitation alone was enough.
"Her condition is worsening," the old maester admitted. "We have exhausted most remedies available to us."
Aemma closed her eyes.
For the first time since the illness began, fear showed openly upon her face.
Silence settled over the corridor.
No one knew what to say.
Then fate intervened from an unexpected direction.
Near sunset, a merchant newly arrived from Dorne was brought before the castle stewards after claiming he carried a remedy of rare worth. The tale reached the maesters quickly, and from them, the king.
He presented a small crystal vial filled with a strange blue liquid, saying only that it had been bought from a healer somewhere in Dorne. When pressed for detail, his answers shifted—names and places blurring as if he himself were no longer certain.
He knew little of what he carried. Only that it had been sold as something miraculous, and that he had never dared use it.
Under any other circumstance, it would have been dismissed at once.
But the princess was dying.
These were not normal circumstances.
Viserys listened in silence.
When the merchant finally finished speaking, the king looked toward the princess's chamber.
"What are her chances?" he asked quietly.
No one answered immediately.
That answer was enough.
The merchant surrendered the vial.
Grand Maester Runciter examined it thoroughly. He inspected its color, scent, and consistency while consulting several assistants. In the end, however, certainty remained impossible.
"It could be worthless," one maester warned.
"It could," Runciter agreed.
"And if it is poison?"
The old man looked toward the chamber where Rhaenyra lay dying.
"Then it will accomplish little more than the illness already threatens to do."
No one argued after that.
The decision fell to Viserys.
For several moments he remained silent.
Then he nodded.
"Give it to her."
The potion was administered shortly after sunset.
Every member of the royal family remained present.
Maesters gathered around the bed while servants waited anxiously near the walls. Even the merchant had been retained within the castle until the outcome became known.
Minutes passed.
Nothing happened.
Aemma gripped her daughter's hand so tightly that her fingers ached.
Viserys paced the chamber.
No one spoke.
Then Rhaenyra's body suddenly trembled.
Several servants gasped.
One of the maesters moved forward, only for Runciter to stop him.
The shaking continued briefly before subsiding.
Afterward, the chamber fell silent once more.
Grand Maester Runciter approached the bed and carefully pressed a hand against the princess's forehead.
His eyes widened.
"The fever is falling."
For a moment, nobody moved.
Then another maester checked her pulse.
A third confirmed the result.
The impossible seemed to be happening.
The heat that had plagued her for three days was finally retreating.
Aemma wept openly.
Viserys simply stood beside the bed, staring at his daughter as though afraid the improvement might vanish if he blinked.
Yet it did. Hour by hour, her breathing steadied and color returned to her face as the fever broke.
By morning, Rhaenyra opened her eyes. She was weak, her voice a mere whisper, but she was awake.
Alive.
The relief that swept through the Red Keep was immediate.
News spread through the castle and into the city beyond. Bells rang once more, this time in thanksgiving rather than celebration. Septons offered prayers of gratitude while servants smiled for the first time in days.
Yet despite the joy, something had changed.
The court had witnessed how quickly happiness could become despair.
Only days earlier they had celebrated the queen's pregnancy.
Then they had come within a breath of losing the princess.
For three long days, the Iron Throne had stood on the edge of tragedy. Kings possessed dragons, armies, and crowns, yet none of those things had been able to help him when his daughter needed him most.
Tonight, however, fate had shown mercy.
Viserys found his thoughts returning to the mysterious healer responsible for the potion. Somewhere beyond the Red Mountains of Dorne, a stranger had crafted a remedy that had succeeded where the finest maesters of the realm had failed. Whether through skill, knowledge, or simple fortune, that unknown healer had saved the life of a princess of House Targaryen.
The king resolved then and there to find the healer.
Gold, lands, titles—whatever reward was deemed fitting would be given. A debt was owed, and Viserys Targaryen was not a man who forgot such things even should that healer dwell in Dorne.
For now, however, those concerns could wait.
His daughter lived.
His wife carried another child.
Peace seemed to have settled once more upon the realm.
Standing beneath the fading light of sunset, Viserys allowed himself a rare moment of contentment, unaware that events far to the south had already begun to move beyond his control.
He did not know that riders were already racing north from Dorne with word of his brother's defeat—of Prince Daemon's failed expedition, broken beneath foreign sands, and of news that would soon unsettle the Small Council.
For in Dorne, something had intervened that no maester would be able to explain.
TBC
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