The Unicorn Prince sat on the edge of the dais, just before the Iron Throne. He held his sword upright between his boots, and was spinning it absentmindedly. The metal made a swirling sound against the stone as he did so. Behind him, the Iron Throne was cold, isolated, and without a sitter. There was a good reason Rhaekar had not sat upon it: only the king himself and the king’s Hand were permitted to ever sit upon the throne. Not eve a Lord Protector, acting as a temporary king, could place his bottom upon its metal seat.
A resounding belch echoed across the hall. Rhaekar lifted his violet eyes, and saw Lord Alliser standing against the wall. He smacked his lips a few times, then scratched at his groin. “I think the ale at that tavern went sour,” the lord remarked in a gruff voice. “And the bread too!” At those words, he made a grimacing face. A low, gaseous noise escaped his buttocks, which also echoed off the walls. “Ah, better air than solid food – that is what my father used to say!”
A curl came over Rhaekar’s lips. Crude as the good lord could be, he at least made the time waiting for the Great Council to begin interesting. Ever since Alliser had arrived a few days ago, he had insisted on being beside Rhaekar’s side for most of the day. Even though Rhaekar assured Alliser that Larys Strong and the gold cloaks had done a top notch job of maintaining security in the great city as the many lords and ladies assembled, Alliser maintained he didn’t trust the “hob-footed hobgoblin” and wanted to make sure his old friend was taken care of.
“You are too good a man for this world, Unicorn,” Alliser had said.
“Good men rarely keep good lifespans!”
The doors of the throne room opened, the metal of the hinges clanking. Alliser jumped up with a sword, his hand flying to the sword, but immediately relaxed when only the small council entered. There was Lord Dale Bywater, the Castellan. There was Lord Bronn Chelsted, the justiciar. There was faithful Lord Addam Velaryon, the master-at-arms. There was Lord Gwayne Stokeworth, the lord treasurer. There was Grand Maester Orwyle. There was Septon Ronnet Rambton of Sharp Point, and the High Septon’s representative. Coming behind them all, his thick boot heard echoing off the halls with each step, was, of course, Lord Larys Strong, the master of whisperers.
Rhaekar stood and sheathed his sword. “Well met, my friends. Are we ready to prepare for the festivities today?”
“The sooner the better,” Lord Bronn answered. “Already we have had a fight break out between some lords from the North and the Vale. Nothing too serious – just a little more ale than normal. However, I do not wish to push things too far, my Lord Protector.”
“It was between Northron and Sisterlanders,” Gwayne remarked. “Bloody stupid of them fighting over matters no longer relevant. This is precisely what the kingdom does
not need.”
“Scourge them all, that is what I suggest,” said Lord Dale. “Let them be reminded about who fell from power as of late, and why we are all here to begin with.”
“If Lord Bronn says it is because they have been too deep in their drinks, then it is none of our concern,” Rhaekar said, stepping down from the dais. “Let them sober up, and all matters will be resolved. Now then, are all our candidates here?”
“Yes, my lord protector,” Larys replied. “Your wife, as I am certain you are well aware, is present. As our dear Lord Addam probably knows as well, Ser Daeron’s ship arrived just yesterday. Lord Cregan was seen outside of the city, and has been asked to come to the Red Keep at his best convenience.”
Gwayne Stokeworth snorted. “We should be amazed he came here at all. The North is an immense tract of land nearly as big as the entire kingdom itself. Why he chose to come at foot rather than sea is beyond me.”
Rhaekar ignored Lord Stokeworth’s complaints and shifted his eyes to the ground in thought. Three candidates selected by the initial suggestions of the small council, to be brought forward for the Great Council’s consideration. Three candidates, all of whom could be potentially the next king to sit on the Iron Throne. They were an eclectic group to be sure: his wife, Rhaena Targaryen, the surviving member of House Targaryen; Ser Daeron Velaryon, a knight in the service of the free city of Volantis, famed for his courage and bravery; and Cregon Stark, the Lord Paramount of the North, and seen by many to have the best, and most balanced, skills among all the candidates.
And, of course, there was a possibility that Rhaekar himself could be elected, if enough of the lords decided he was suitable enough. That did not escape the Lord Protector’s notice.
“Everything is all set for the council, then?” Rhaekar asked. “Guards are in place, the cellars are well stocked, the gold cloaks good and ready?”
“The men are ready,” Lord Addam said, lifting his chin up. “If anyone wishes to make trouble, within or without, they shall be met with swift justice.”
“And the prisons are ready,” Bronn said. “Though I hope we will not have to use them.”
Rhaekar nodded. “Then you may relax gentlemen, and let us hope that wisdom is found here, on this day.”
At those words, the various council members departed to either take a seat or to chat among themselves. Lord Larys, his leg limping and his enlarged boot thumping against the ground, made his way for Rhaekar. The Lord Protector noted Alliser squinting his eyes at the master of whisperers as the latter drew close. When he was finally at Rhaekar’s side, Larys bowed and said, “My dear lord protector, I was wondering if I may have a private word with you? Behind the throne?”
“Of course, Lord Strong,” Rhaekar said. No sooner had he turned, however, that he heard a loud snort from behind.
“Just one moment!” It was Lord Alliser. “I think I need to be in on this conversation.”
Larys tilted his head, his eyes turning harsh as they met the approaching knight. “I would not intrude in conversations that do not concern you, Lord Langward. After all, hob-footed hobgoblins know how to smash insolent bugs with their boot.”
Alliser’s face went deathly pale. Even Rhaekar felt a chill go up his spine, and for a very good reason: Alliser had never called Lord Larys “hob-footed hobgoblin” to his face. In fact, Rhaekar was only aware of Alliser using that terminology around him, and in private company. After a moment of silence, Alliser bowed and went his way back to his self-appointed guard position.
As soon as Alliser was gone, Larys turned his face back to Rhaekar, and was all smiles again. “Now, shall we continue, Unicorn?”
“Yes, let’s.”
The two men continued on, now by themselves, as they made their way around the Iron Throne. They had gone some distance behind it, and Larys’s steps were getting harder and harder against the stone as they walked. The harder he stepped, the more it echoed off the walls.
“I presume you have information relevant to the Great Council?” Rhaekar asked.
Larys nodded. He spoke in a low voice, barely heard over his footsteps. “Indeed, I have. I have gathered information regarding the sentiments and opinions of the of lords and ladies who have gathered here. It is nearly a hundred, did you know that? Quite a gathering. Their opinions are a most interesting collection, as well. There are definitely some factions forming.”
“What factions are these?”
“You might be interested to know that a scattering group of lords – perhaps just a dozen – would like to see you crowned.”
Rhaekar tilted his mouth in displeasure. Why anyone wanted him crowned was beyond him. It was most likely Lord Alliser and a few other knightly lords Rhaekar had served with during the war. Otherwise, he had angered many by deciding to delay the Great Council to end the war quickly. He knew that even Larys bore him some ill will, although both men tolerated one another for the sake of the throne. “Good for them, I suppose.”
“Two dozen are in support of Lord Cregan. Mostly Northron nobles, although some Riverlanders are among them. Another two dozen support your wife – mainly Crownlanders who consider themselves loyal to the memory of House Targaryen. Another two dozen support Ser Daeron. Yet another two dozen...” Larys held up his hands. “...undecided. However, they appear interested in the opinion of the Lord Protector and his council.”
Rhaekar nodded. “What else do you know?”
“Some information which may be relevant for you, when you decide to commence the council.” Larys shifted his eyes to look at Rhaekar as he walked. “Dear Unicorn Prince, you may desire to support your wife for the throne. On this matter, I must speak with a frank tone. Of course, you know that I have never intended ill will for your wife, and would have served her household even if Rhaenyra had maintained the throne and defeated the Hammer. However, her candidacy… complicates matters.”
Rhaekar frowned. He had thought of supporting Rhaena for the throne, as he knew that was in her heart. It would make a fitting story for the history books, any way: the unlucky member of House Targaryen, now the only surviving member, and now hoisted by fate to the Iron Throne itself. Besides, it would mean he would in essence be one of the strongest voices in government. Lord of Duskendale to husband of the queen – it would be quite a promotion. “How does it complicate matters?”
“For one, she is a female – as you know full well, I am certain. Do not forget it was the issue of a female heir which started the Dance of Dragons to begin with. Many lords – and ladies – believe that only men can inherit the throne. This was why many turned against Rhaenyra, and why, in the end, she had to take the throne by force. Thrust her by your influence upon the throne, and you will have as much grumbling among the nobility as Rhaenyra did attempting to take her claim. Anyone who desires to rebel against her will have quite the following without much convincing.” Larys lifted a finger. “That is just one complication. There is another complication, and that is this: the cruelty of Rhaenyra, and many of her supporters, has left a bad taste in Westeros. Many would be wary of Rhaena taking the throne, for fear that she would repeat the cruelty of her mother. Furthermore, many are simply tired of the insanity and insecurity which seems to have plagued the Targaryen house. There is, in fact, a saying being spread among those who oppose your wife’s nomination. It is a simple saying, really a rhyme, and in application something of a mummer’s tune, and that saying is:
Any Valyrian, but a Targaryen.”
This news caused Rhaekar to frown. It might have been easy to dismiss these words as a verbal concoction of Larys, but much of it (such as Rhaenyra’s cruelty) Rhaekar was very well aware of, and much of it (such as the dilemma of a female heir) was perfectly true. If Rhaena was elected, there would be much dissatisfaction in the land. There would be those who saw her as an illegitimate ruler. There would be some who would welcome another usurper in the vein of Aegon or Hugh. There would be a few who would probably seek to be such a usurper. If Rhaena took the throne, she may very well be able to retain it, but even so, the kingdoms would see much more bloodshed. Already too much blood had been shed – both among the nobility and the smallfolk – and much terror had been unleashed. Rhaekar struggled internally with whether or not he desired to see such bloodshed unleashed. He likewise struggled with whether or not he could make a decision, as Lord Protector, which he knew would send Westeros into greater war. Already he was tired of war. He had a daughter now – he wanted to return to Duskendale and rule as he had before.
The throne is not ruled by reason, the Hammer had told him,
but by iron, blood, and fire. Did he want the unicorn banner to be flying amid so much blood and flame? Did he want his daughter growing up in such a world?
“Does anyone of any sort of significance support my wife?” Rhaekar asked.
“The only one is Jaime Serrett,” Larys replied. He was referring to the new Lord Paramount of the Westerlands, who had been given the position shortly after Jason Lannister had been overthrown and the title revoked by Rhaenyra. Why the Serretts supported Rhaena, Rhaekar wasn’t certain; but having a Lord Paramount on one’s side definitely gave yourself great influence. “In all honesty, there are very little. The Stark lord most likely has more influence than she does. Between you and me, my dear Unicorn Prince, I do not trust that man. There have been whisperings of grandeur around him, and it is believed he may be planning greater things. If he does not obtain the Iron Throne, he will most likely find it other ways.”
Rhaekar nodded. “Thank you for this information. Is there anything else I am required to know?”
“No, my Lord Protector.”
The doors were opened, and the dozens upon dozens upon dozens of nobility poured inside. It was hardly an overstatement to say that all of Westeros was there. Save for the Dornish and the Wildlings, all different kinds of men stood before Rhaekar. The Northron were there, in furs and metal. The Westerlanders were there, with their shining armor. The Reachmen were present, with all their laurels and proud glances. The Stormlanders, the Crownlanders, the Valemen - all were accounted for. As they gathered about, an invisible border could be seen from the differences each grouping held among their own people. It was as if a map of Westeros had formed itself inside the throne room, made up entirely of people from each region. Rhaekar’s violet eyes took notice of the higher ranking nobles present, some of whom had been there since the start of the war. Jeyne the Maid, the Vale Lord Paramount who had backed Rhaenyra, was present, and still seemed as she always had.
The High Sept was the first to speak. After calling attention to himself, and waiting for silence, he said a blessing for the entire assembly. After he was finished, the castellan spoke next. He explained that the voting would be done by pebbles, placed into a jar corresponding to one’s candidate. The pebble would be provided by the castellan’s men, and the voting would be done inside a large tent erected on one side of the Iron Throne.
Finally, Rhaekar stood up. At his presence, the room fell silent. The Unicorn Prince’s hand rested on his sword, his spine straight, his boots rested firmly on the dais. He swept his eyes across the wide room one more time, then finally spoke:
“We stand at a pinnacle of the kingdom’s history. The Iron Throne, from which all our peoples are ruled, has been empty for quite a few months now. This cannot continue on any longer. I do not have to remind anyone what a turbulent period the Iron Throne went through, with the House Targaryen split asunder betwixt two opposing parties, and then nearly destroyed by the House of Hammer, and its tyrant Hugh. As the Lord Protector of the realm, I have done my best to see to it that the conflict in our region came to an end, and our situation stabilized. However, it is now time for the kingdom to continue as it always has been, and this is something which I cannot do. It is not my mission, nor was it ever, to sit upon the throne myself. I know many of you in this room would like to see me do just that, but I cannot.”
He cleared his throat, then paused to review his audience. They still seemed attentive. In the far back, he caught sight of his wife. She stood there, smiling at him, her eyes half-opened in a relaxed state. Her dragon was curled around her throat, half of its body dangling over her chest with its head resting on her shoulder, sound asleep. Rhaekar turned his gaze back to the throne room.
“This is an important matter we cannot take lightly. Our land has seen too much war and too much bloodshed. This must come to a stop. We must seek to ground ourselves in peace, now that we have established ourselves in war. Therefore, I must suggest before the council that we choose a candidate who will rule wisely, and without causing division or further bloodshed. It must be a candidate who will be respected by all, and loved by all, but most of all admired even by enemies.”
He paused for a beat. He inhaled.
“Therefore, as Lord Protector, I myself will be casting my vote for Ser Daeron Velaryon.”
A murmur erupted from many parts of the throne room. Several were casting their glances at Ser Daeron. The knight was looking at Rhaekar, his eyes wide, and his lips hidden under the hair of his beard. Rhaekar exchanged the glance, then turned around. He walked towards the small tent and was handed a pebble by one of the castellan’s men. He walked in and, true to his word, dropped the pebble into the jug marged for Daeron. As soon as he had left, he saw that those in the throne room were already shifting towards the tent to cast their own votes. He turned his gaze away at once and headed to the back of the Iron Throne. There he remained as the voting proceeded. He had not glanced at his wife yet - and that was intentional.
It took perhaps half an hour for the voting to be done. Then came the counting, recounting, and thrice time through, to make absolutely certain the talley was correct. The lords had gone back to their position before the throne, waiting patiently. At long last, one of the castellan’s men stepped forward with a slip of paper. The room fell silent within moments as he approached the dais of the Iron Throne. Everyone was staring at him, waiting to hear him speak. He held up a small scroll, then unrolled it halfway down.
“The counting has been completed,” he began. “Rhaekar Valzyrian – 11 pebbles. Cregar Stark – 23 pebbles. Rhaena Targaryen – 24 pebbles.”
The High Sept cleared his throat. He unrolled the rest of the scroll, to the very bottom, and then continued:
“For Daeron Velaryon –
67 pebbles.”
At once, there was mumbling and murmuring across the throne room. Many had turned their eyes towards Ser Daeron, noticeable in his dark armor in the middle of the floor. The Valyrian’s eyes were wide, and his face had turned as pale as the beard on his face.
In a matter of minutes, Daeron Velaryon had knelt down. The High Sept raised the crown and gently placed it upon the knight’s head. As the crown nestled on the knight’s head, he stood and turned around. The High Sept declared him as King Daeron I, of House Velaryon. At that, the room began to chant his name. Many cheered.
As the cheering died down, Daeron turned towards Rhaekar. He gripped the fellow Valyrian by the hand. It was a good, firm, tight handshake. “I shall never forget what you did for me today,” Daeron whispered. “Nor shall I forget your house.”
Rhaekar grinned and nodded. The two men broke from each other, and for the first time since the voting, Rhaekar looked to his wife.
She was still there, in the back of the throne room. Her brow was furrowed so tight the lines between her lines pinched her flesh. Her eyes were fully open. Her lips were pressed tightly together, curling upward. One hand was raised, balled into a fist and shaking erratically. Her dragon lifted up its head and stuck out its forked tongue, licking her cheek. In an instant, Rhaena spun and stormed out of the throne room.
Rhaekar sighed.
I brought peace to the kingdom… but did I bring peace to the marriage bed?
