The stone tower of Maegor's Holdfast seemed frozen in time. Outside the high windows, the noise of the Red Keep was cut off by an invisible barrier, leaving only the suppressed breaths, low commands, and Aemma Arryn's occasional heart-wrenching cries of pain within the birthing chamber.
Every scream lashed at Viserys's heart like a whip. He paced back and forth in the narrow corridor, the hem of his indigo velvet robe stained with wall dust from his erratic movements, his fingernails digging deep into his palms.
Daemon Blackfyre leaned against the cold stone wall, the shadows nearly swallowing him.
He could clearly feel the tension permeating the tower—from King Jaehaerys's tight lips and hands clenched into fists on his knees; from Prince Baelon's muffled, agitated tapping of his knuckles against his sword hilt; and from Queen Alysanne's seemingly calm but rapidly moving fingers as the unfinished cloak trembled slightly on her lap.
The air was heavy, suffocating, mixed with the scent of blood, herbs, and sweat.
Time passed in agony, every moment stretching like a century.
Finally, just as the westering sun dyed the towers of the Red Keep a golden-red, a loud, vibrant cry pierced the silence!
"She's born!" The Grand Maester's voice came from inside, exhausted but relieved. "A healthy little princess!"
The door was pulled open abruptly, and a midwife walked out holding a swaddled bundle, wearing a professional smile. Everyone's eyes instantly focused on the small life wrapped in soft silk.
Queen Alysanne was the first to rise, her face blooming with genuine joy. She stepped forward quickly and carefully took the infant. "Oh, my little star," her voice was gentle enough to melt ice. "Look how beautiful you are."
Rhaenys followed close behind. She looked at the baby in her grandmother's arms. Sparse silver-gold hair shimmered in the sunset, and those newly opened, ignorant but clear eyes were the signature violet of House Targaryen. Rhaenys's eyes also filled with a warm smile. "She looks like Aemma, especially the nose." She gently touched the baby's small hand.
However, this pure joy was not evenly distributed across everyone's face.
King Jaehaerys stood up, his movements steady as ever. He walked to Alysanne's side and looked down at his great-granddaughter. His gaze was deep, scrutinizing this new life. There was affection in his eyes, but deeper down, an imperceptible, heavy disappointment quietly slid past. A girl. Not the great-grandson he had hoped for to continue the male line and secure the realm's future. He reached out a finger and touched the baby's cheek with extreme gentleness, his low voice carrying a trace of undetectable raspiness: "Rhaenyra Targaryen. Welcome, my child." The name had been decided long ago, regardless of gender.
Prince Baelon stood behind his father. The muscles in his face tensed almost imperceptibly for a moment, then relaxed into a somewhat forced smile. He patted his son Viserys on the shoulder. "Congratulations, Viserys. You are a father." His tone held little true excitement, sounding more like procedural etiquette. His inner sigh went unheard: A daughter. In the line of succession, she is ultimately... a variable.
Viserys's emotions were the most complex and turbulent. When he heard the word "Princess," a strong sense of loss instantly seized him—he had yearned for a strong son, a future dragonrider and heir, a boy he could proudly proclaim as his bloodline's continuation. The disappointment was so sharp it almost made him dizzy.
However, the next second, when his gaze met that wrinkled but vibrant little face, especially when Queen Alysanne carefully placed Rhaenyra into his stiff, trembling arms, an unprecedented, surging wave of tenderness instantly drowned him.
The infant's warmth transferred through the swaddle, her faint breath brushing his wrist. This was his blood, the miracle he and Aemma had created together! All disappointment about gender seemed so insignificant in the face of the pure miracle of life and the immense impact of first-time fatherhood. His eyes reddened instantly. He adjusted his hold clumsily, his mouth splitting into a huge, genuine, teary smile, murmuring, "My daughter... my Rhaenyra... isn't she beautiful?" He looked around, seeking validation, as if she were the most precious treasure in the world. Yes, he was young, Aemma was young, a son would come eventually—at this moment, he was completely swept away by the joy of birth, with no mind for future storms.
"Of course, my Viserys," Queen Alysanne answered immediately, her voice gentle but carrying unquestionable strength. Her gaze swept over Jaehaerys and Baelon, as if reminding them of something. "She is the Pearl of House Targaryen, the Realm's Delight. The blood of the dragon, male or female, flows with the power of the Conqueror."
Rhaenys nodded too, her tone firm. "The dragons of Valyria never broke their wings because of gender. Look at whose names are on the hills beneath our feet?"
The brief, subtle atmosphere caused by the gender was quickly dissipated by the women's clear rebuttals and Viserys's undisguised ecstasy, washed away by the huge wave of joy brought by the newborn. Nobles surged forward, offering congratulations.
"Congratulations, Prince Viserys!"
"Praise the Seven, mother and daughter are safe!"
"What a beautiful little princess!"
"Look at that silver-gold hair, standard True Dragon blood!"
However, beneath this wave of noisy blessings, the undercurrents never truly stopped moving. The eyes of those calculating noble lords exchanged silent messages.
Matthos Tyrell smiled broadly, but his mind raced: A Princess! Though currently low in the succession order, she is the King's great-granddaughter after all.
He glanced at his group of gorgeously dressed bastards trying hard to look well-behaved, especially the cleverest one, a flash of eagerness in his eyes. Perhaps... a future marriage alliance isn't out of reach?
Boremund Baratheon bellowed his blessings, but deep down, he felt a subtle satisfaction at another female heir in the Targaryen line. The ambition for a Stormlands-Targaryen marriage never died, and a princess is always easier to... approach than a prince?
His son Borros was somewhat blank, far less interested in the baby than in the upcoming feast food.
Lord Arryn breathed a sigh of relief; his sister was safe, that was all that mattered. As for his niece being a princess, it was temporarily irrelevant to him; the Eyrie had its own succession.
Grover Tully was genuinely happy for the new life, but as Lord Paramount of the Trident, he keenly smelled the scent of potential succession disputes in the future.
He quietly observed the reactions of Jaehaerys and Baelon.
In the corner, a Dornish squire whispered to his companion, "A Princess... the Sand Snakes of the desert might be more pliant than the Roses of Highgarden?"
Theomore Manderly was cheerfully ordering someone to fetch the finest whale oil candles from White Harbor for the celebration, already calculating how to cleverly link Northern specialties with the royal joy.
Just as this noise—mixed with sincere blessings, hypocritical pleasantries, and hidden agendas—reached its peak, a loud, ferocious, penetrating dragon roar tore through the twilight over the Red Keep!
"Caraxes!" Rhaenys was the first to react, looking up at the sky in surprise.
A massive scarlet shadow streaked past the spires of King's Landing like a meteor, diving down with a screech of tearing air, landing precisely on the plaza outside the Dragonpit, kicking up a cloud of dust.
The scarlet beast Caraxes folded his massive wings and snorted a breath smelling of sulfur.
An agile figure flipped neatly off the dragon's back. A dark red cloak snapped in the wind, and silver-gold long hair was tied in a signature dragon-braid, adorned with tiny silver bells that jingled with his long strides.
Daemon Targaryen had returned!
He came back dusty from Tyrosh, wearing his habitual expression of mixed arrogance and exhaustion. His eyes were sharp as knives, instantly sweeping over the crowd gathered before Maegor's Holdfast.
His return carried an intense, unignorable presence, instantly drawing everyone's attention, like a bucket of ice water poured on a bonfire, bringing the noisy chatter to an abrupt halt.
Ignoring most of the stares, his gaze went directly to Viserys holding the baby and the King and Queen surrounding him. He strode over, his boots making a clear echo on the flagstones.
"Seems I caught some excitement?" Daemon Targaryen's voice carried a hint of raspiness from the long flight. His mouth curled into a signature smirk as his gaze landed on the bundle in Viserys's arms. "Is this our new little trouble? Let me see." His tone carried his usual cynicism, but curiosity about the new bloodline seemed to flash deep in his eyes.
Viserys was still immersed in the excitement of new fatherhood, holding Rhaenyra like a rare treasure. He didn't mind his brother's teasing at all; instead, he proudly lifted his daughter slightly. "Daemon! Look, my daughter, Rhaenyra!"
Daemon Targaryen leaned in to look, clicking his tongue. "Wrinkled, like a hairless monkey. But," he shrugged, adding a rare compliment, "the cry is loud enough. Like a little dragon."
King Jaehaerys looked at his grandson who most resembled his own youth—and was also the biggest headache—returning, then at his eldest grandson Viserys immersed in joy, and the great-granddaughter Rhaenyra in the swaddle symbolizing the future. Finally, his gaze swept through the crowd, landing on Daemon Blackfyre standing in the shadow of the pillars—the one who also possessed dragon blood and brought enormous variables.
Complex emotions surged in the old King's chest. There was worry for the future, relief at the continuation of the bloodline, and the determination to control the big picture. He cleared his throat. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried the majesty of kingship, instantly suppressing all whispers and the aftershocks of the dragon's return:
"Today, the Seven bestow a double joy upon the Red Keep!" Jaehaerys's voice echoed in the twilight. "My great-granddaughter, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, descends into the world with the blessing of the True Dragon blood! Simultaneously, a bloodline lost for years, my grandson Daemon Blackfyre, has proven himself by taming The Cannibal with his courage. Today, he officially returns to House Targaryen!"
His sharp gaze swept over every lord present, finally resting on Daemon Blackfyre with a slight nod—a public, royal acknowledgment.
"To celebrate these two great joys," Jaehaerys's voice rose steeply, filled with the tone of an unquestionable proclamation, "I declare that a Grand Tourney will be held at the tourney grounds outside King's Landing! Let the warriors of the Seven Kingdoms gather here, with lance and courage, to congratulate the newborn Princess and to honor the returning Dragonrider! Let all of Westeros see the glory and power of House Targaryen!"
As his voice fell, a brief silence was followed by deafening cheers!
"Long live the King!"
"Long live Princess Rhaenyra!"
"Long live House Targaryen!"
A Tourney! Knightly glory! Feasts and revelry! The news instantly ignited the enthusiasm of all the nobles. Whether sincerely celebrating or harboring dark schemes, everyone was drawn to this upcoming grand competition.
Disappointment, calculations, undercurrents... were all temporarily washed away by this sudden, powerful announcement.
Daemon Targaryen raised an eyebrow, revealing a genuinely interested smile, his hand unconsciously resting on his sword hilt.
In the shadows, Daemon Blackfyre slowly raised his head. His violet eyes, in the deepening twilight, reflected the black flames of The Cannibal rising from the direction of the distant Dragonpit, deep and unreadable.
A new chapter, accompanied by the cry of a newborn, the roar of a returning dragon, and the horn of a tourney, blasted open against the backdrop of a prophecy interwoven with blood and fire.
And the wheel of fate for the little Princess Rhaenyra, lying in her father's arms unaware of the world, was quietly pushed forward at this very moment.
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