Chapter 21: Reigning Supreme, Drinking, and Speaking of the Realm
Night had fallen fully over King's Landing.
Within the Red Keep, torches burned low and steady, casting wavering shadows along the stone walls. Outside, the city murmured with distant life—drunken laughter, the clatter of hooves on cobbles, the faint cry of the river. Inside, however, power spoke softly.
King Jaehaerys II Targaryen sat at ease, a simple cup of boiled water held in his thin hands. Across from him sat Ser Ormund Baratheon, Hand of the King, nursing a goblet of dark Arbor red.
The fires of war had all but died out.
The War of the Ninepenny Kings had broken the last great strength of the Blackfyre pretenders. Aside from lingering instability in the Westerlands, the Seven Kingdoms—and even the Iron Islands—were enjoying a rare, fragile calm. For the first time in years, the weight upon the Iron Throne had eased, if only slightly.
The conversation drifted freely at first.
They spoke of wine and hunting, of the quality of this year's harvest, of memories from the Stepstones campaign. Two men who had stood shoulder to shoulder in war now allowed themselves a moment of ordinary humanity.
Yet as always, their words returned to the realm.
Power, after all, was an intoxicant no wine could rival.
Even a taste of it sharpened the senses and quickened the mind.
Prince Rhaegar Targaryen sat nearby, silent and observant. He watched the two men carefully—his grandfather, composed but frail, and the Hand, broad-shouldered and vigorous. One was fire tempered into embers, the other flame barely restrained.
Water and fire, Rhaegar thought. And between them, the realm.
In truth, King Jaehaerys II was not old—barely in his mid-thirties—but years of ill health and unrelenting pressure had carved deep lines into his face. By Westerosi custom, he was already a grandfather. Ser Ormund Baratheon, younger still, bore the same weathered look common to men who lived in armor as often as silk.
Rhaegar regarded them thoughtfully.
They should guard their health more carefully, he reflected. In this world, even kings and Hands die too easily.
Great lords lived perilous lives. War, duels, conspiracies, passion—any could end a life without warning. Men like Grand Maester Pycelle, who stood close to power yet wielded little of it himself, often survived the longest.
"The greatest hidden danger to the realm," King Jaehaerys II said at last, breaking the silence, "is how few of us remain."
He exhaled softly.
"House Targaryen is thin of blood. Too thin. We lack even the numbers to forge proper marriage alliances."
Rhaegar felt the truth of it keenly.
The tragedy of Summerhall, the wars, the early deaths—his great-grandfather King Aegon V, his sons Prince Duncan and Prince Daeron—all were gone. The dragon line had been reduced to a handful.
For a ruling king, the pressure to produce heirs was relentless. In Westeros, a crown without sons invited ambition from every corner. Lords with many children and ancient bloodlines would begin to weigh their chances.
"You are my good-brother and my Hand," Jaehaerys II continued, turning to Ser Ormund. "You will speak plainly. Conceal nothing from me about the realm. To do so would be betrayal."
Ser Ormund inclined his head gravely.
"Then I will speak the truth, Your Grace," he said. "The realm's deepest wound remains broken betrothals."
His voice was steady, unembellished.
"Your late father sought to strengthen the throne through marriage alliances. Instead, promises were made and broken. Each broken betrothal offended a great house. Offices may be lost and forgiven—but a slighted marriage breeds lasting hatred."
Rhaegar felt a chill run through him.
Ser Ormund understood the danger of dragon blood too well. Love, unrestrained, had nearly torn the realm apart once before.
"Indeed," Jaehaerys II said quietly.
Bitterness flickered in his eyes.
"My elder brother Prince Duncan set aside his crown for Jenny of Oldstones, offending House Baratheon and shaking the realm. I myself wed my sister Shaera, breaking my betrothal to House Tully and hers to House Tyrell. And my brother Prince Daeron… his inclinations ended his own betrothal to House Redwyne."
Each name spoken carried old scars.
One broken promise followed another, until resentment festered into rebellion. The echoes of those choices still haunted the realm, leading inexorably to Summerhall's flames.
Rhaegar listened in silence, absorbing every word.
His forebears had loved fiercely—and ruled poorly because of it.
Had those betrothals held, House Tully, House Tyrell, and House Redwyne might now stand firmly with the crown. Instead, the Iron Throne leaned heavily upon House Baratheon alone.
"Remember this, Rhaegar," King Jaehaerys II said, turning to his grandson. "When you wear the crown one day, treat marriage as carefully as you would war. Marriages and titles are the chief tools of kings. Through them, we balance the great houses."
Rhaegar bowed his head slightly, offering no reply. He understood his place.
Such was Westeros.
Even dragon kings ruled by restraint as much as fire.
After a pause, Ser Ormund spoke again, his tone more cautious.
"One more matter, Your Grace. The crown's closeness to Dorne has caused unease. Dorne's strength is limited, and its alliance costly. Each Dornish marriage denies another great house."
He hesitated only briefly.
"For the good of the realm, Prince Rhaegar must not wed a Dornishwoman."
The words hung heavy in the air.
Rhaegar felt an inexplicable stirring at them—as though fate itself had whispered a warning.
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