Chapter Text
The gates of Dragonstone creak open with dramatic strain as Queen Laena Velaryon and Prince Aemond Targaryen enter the castle. Both tense. Both dressed in pretension. Both convinced they are here to ‘restore order’ to Dragonstone.
In the great hall, Rhaenyra sits like a storm on the brink of breaking.
Alicent, beside her on the displaced chair — the one that very clearly does not belong to the queen, yet she occupies it as if it does — turns the ring on her finger with a smile that promises war.
Aemond steps forward.
Laena draws a slow breath.
The air grows heavy.
This is the beginning of the end.
— First the marriage, then the dragons, and now a daughter. What else do you intend to do to humiliate your father, Rhaenyra?
Rhaenyra lifts her chin, eyes half-lidded.
— You came to my home to insult me, Laena?
Before Laena can answer, Alicent leans forward slightly, resting her elbow on the arm of the chair. She is far too calm for someone who has just dropped the greatest bomb Westeros has seen.
The two exchange barbs with nothing but their gazes.
— It is Your Majesty to you, princess.
Rhaenyra does not blink.
— Laena, as quickly as I placed the crown upon your head, I can remove it. So remain in your place as second consort queen, a stopgap, and find something useful to do.
Laena goes pale. Then red. Then purple.
— You dare threaten the Queen?
— I dare threaten an idle woman who came to my home to harass me out of spite. And if any queen feels offended, inform her that I do not care in the slightest.
Laena chokes on her own pride.
— My patience with you two has ended. You are hereby summoned to appear before the King and answer for your crimes.
Rhaenyra rises slowly. Every movement carries the weight of a dragon unfurling its wings. She faces Laena with the calm certainty of someone who knows exactly when to strike.
— I will go. But when I arrive, and no crime is proven, heads will roll.
— Threatening the Queen, bearing a child outside of wedlock—
— A,h yes, those crimes. Of course. Go on, try to punish me for being free, and I will burn every last one of you! — She nearly snarls the final words.
Alicent, sweet as poison:
— We will see you in King’s Landing, Your Majesty. Until then, you may return the way you came, and do not forget to offer your son a ride. The prince without a dragon.
The chill in her voice renders Laena speechless.
Across the hall, Aemond struggles to maintain his posture.
But Ciri is already watching him, leaning against a column, arms crossed, wearing a lazy smile.
— Your existence was hidden from all of Westeros. That is… unacceptable.
— And are you the inspector of other people’s children?
— Prince Aemond Targaryen, my father…
— Is the King, yes. I understand how royal hierarchies work. — Ciri’s gaze returns to Alicent and Rhaenyra. — Tell me, little prince, is the eyepatch an attempt at relevance, or did the dragon that rejected you do that?
Aemond blinks.
For the first time, he hesitates.
Ciri steps forward.
— Did the dragon eat your tongue as well, little prince?
— Your insolence will not go unanswered. You are nothing but a bastard.
She smiles.
And it is dangerous.
— Bastard… I assume Your Lordship has proof to support such an accusation.
— Rhaenyra only ever had one marriage…
— Rhaenyra also had no children, yet here I am. — Ciri smiles, victorious. — You know nothing.
Laena is emotionally imploding.
Aemond is sweating.
Then, the doors open once more.
Rhaenys enters with the unmistakable look of someone who already knows something has gone terribly wrong — again.
She surveys the scene in silence:
Laena in tatters.
Aemond frozen.
Rhaenyra irritated.
Alicent triumphant.
Ciri is wearing the look of a predator after the hunt.
Rhaenys sighs deeply, the sound of someone profoundly disappointed by the lack of other people’s judgment.
— Your Majesty Laena. Aemond. We are going home.
Laena attempts to protest.
Rhaenys raises ONE eyebrow.
It is over.
She drags them out with the authority of someone who knows that if they remain one more minute, nothing will be left but dust and pride ground into the castle floor.
As they leave, Ciri tilts her head and murmurs softly, meant only for Aemond:
— See you soon, uncle.
His jaw locks.
He has no answer.
—--------
Dragonstone Library
— Come now, once more. — Alicent paces the library like a general strategizing before the final battle.
Ciri and Rhaenyra sit on the sofa… or as close to sitting as one can be after hours of crafting the greatest lie ever told.
Rhaenyra releases a long, dramatic huff.
Alicent spins on her heel at once.
— I am sorry, is closing loopholes boring you?
— No, closing loopholes is not the problem. — Rhaenyra grumbles. — The problem is saying I fell in love with a man. Can’t we blame the wine?
Alicent nearly loses her patience — nearly.
— Oh, of course! A secret marriage, a hidden child, a dead husband… all the fault of one poorly planned night!
She claps her hands, sharp and dry.
— Wake up, Rhaenyra. We must seal the timeline. No gaps can remain.
— My reputation is ruined… — the princess buries her face in her hands.
Alicent raises a finger, as though threatening to summon Syrax herself.
— I swear, if you complain about your reputation one more time — the one that exists only in your head because you slept with a man — I will personally send you to sleep with Syrax in the dragon pit.
— Gods! — Rhaenyra turns to Ciri. — Care to help me here?
Ciri simply laughs. Truly.
Not at the lie itself, but at the ease with which those two stepped into the most absurd plan in history as though it were merely another ordinary day.
They were constructing a narrative so cohesive, so carefully articulated, that not even Cintra’s army in its days of glory would appear as prepared as Alicent was in that moment.
— Ciri! — Alicent snaps her back from her thoughts.
The girl responds at once:
— Mother Ginger protected me, kept me as her ward, and brought me safely to my muña when it was safe.
Alicent lifts an eyebrow, satisfied.
— Perfect. With your supposed husband dead and the child’s protector gone as well, only our words remain.
She paces again, biting her nail — the only proof she is human.
— They will not have the time to contest anything. And when the King forgives her — because it is Rhaenyra and he will forgive her — everything becomes irrelevant.
Ciri and Rhaenyra exchange a smile: terror and pride intertwined.
Alicent is at her peak.
She is the Queen of Words — with or without a crown.
—-----------
Throne Room
The throne room is full.
The elite of Westeros packed like golden sardines, whispering:
— Princess Rhaenyra had a hidden daughter.
— The King will never forgive her.
— The throne is threatened.
Viserys, pale and sweating, attempts to look like a king in the midst of an earthquake.
The doors open.
And she enters first.
Rhaenyra.
Red and black gown.
A queen’s posture.
Immediate silence.
Behind her: Alicent.
Deep green gown, immaculate, wearing the expression of someone who smiles while sharpening knives.
At the center: Ciri.
Hair loose, garments black and red like the princess.
Walking with the insolent calm of someone who knows exactly who she is.
The court holds its breath.
Rhaenyra stops.
Alicent at her side.
Ciri between them — alive, radiant, undeniable.
Viserys struggles to preserve his dignity:
— Rhaenyra… you were summoned to answer accusations of treason, concealment of an heir, and… illegal motherhood.
The hall erupts into murmurs.
Rhaenyra arches a brow, infuriatingly sovereign.
Laena steps forward, far too eager:
— Your Grace, she ridiculed the Queen, defied the law and…
Alicent takes ONE step forward.
One.
Enough to make Laena pale.
— Your Majesty, — she begins, smooth as poison — I beg pardon for how the secret came to light. But I assure you, no crime was committed. — She turns her ring like a symbolic blade. — My wife has granted me the floor. Do I have your leave, my King?
Viserys, defeated, merely nods.
Aemond attempts to interject:
— This bastard cannot…
Ciri’s laugh slices through the air.
The hall turns toward her.
— Bastard again? For the second son of the second wife, you’re rather confident, uncle.
Rhaenyra nearly lets out a laugh.
Alicent shoots them both a not now glance.
Viserys exhales slowly.
— Lady Alicent, speak.
The red-haired becomes the very definition of lethal elegance.
— Thank you, my King. — She begins. — Before our marriage, in an act of youthful rebellion, Princess Rhaenyra flew Syrax to the Septones.
Truth.
— There she met a young soldier named Killian. Simple. Good. Honorable. Carried by impulse, she married him. In secret.
Lie.
The court explodes.
Cries.
Someone faints.
Viserys, aghast:
— Rhaenyra… is this true?
The princess steps forward.
— Yes.
Alicent continues:
— The marriage was consummated. Even before returning home, Rhaenyra was already with child. Killian died in battle, and she came to me — her friend — seeking help. I, young and foolish, advised her to keep the child and shield her from the vultures of the court.
The hall falls into horrified silence, as though the collective breath has been torn away.
Alicent does not falter; she glides seamlessly into the final blow of credibility:
— We sought the help of Mother Ginger, a woman of very ancient knowledge, whom many ladies here have surely consulted as well. She assisted in concealing the pregnancy, in the birth, and even in protecting Ciri for much of her life.
Viserys seems to wilt upon the throne.
Alicent concludes flawlessly:
— When we departed for Dragonstone, we were able to bring her with us. And she has lived safely ever since.
It is Ciri’s turn.
The girl steps forward, composed and respectful. Her voice changes. She speaks in flawless Valyrian:
— I am sorry to cause you trouble, grandfather. Muña always spoke of your kindness and of how deeply she loves you. I do not wish to bring dishonor, but… Sunfire called to me. It was stronger than anything I have ever felt. I am a dragonrider. I am Targaryen. That is enough.
The court recoils instinctively — like animals sensing a predator.
Viserys sinks into the throne, defeated by his own bloodline.
Alicent inclines her head.
— There is nothing to judge here, my King. There is no crime. There is no treason.
Rhaenyra wraps an arm around Alicent’s waist and rests her hand on Ciri’s shoulder.
— Shall we have dinner so you may know your granddaughter better, Kepa?
Soft mockery.
Delicate humiliation.
Total victory.
Viserys merely agrees.
There is no man or woman present capable of contesting a single word spoken by Alicent or Rhaenyra.
Not the Queen Consort.
And certainly not the weakened heir.