Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen || 04

The Great Hall of the Red Keep is cavernous and unnervingly quiet, save for the echoing sound of Rhaenyra Targaryen’s jagged, uneven breaths.

She sits upon the Iron Throne, the immense, twisted seat of Aegon the Conqueror looking like a cage of blades around her. She has won King’s Landing, but there is no triumph in her posture. Her knuckles are white where she grips the armrests, and the dark circles beneath her violet eyes starkly contrast her pale, drawn skin.

"I did not ask for excuses, Lord Celtigar, I asked for the fleet to be secured!" Rhaenyra snaps, her voice cracking like a whip through the hall. "Are we to wait until the Hightowers march through the River Gate while you count your coppers? Out. Get out!"

The Master of Coin bows hastily and scrambles from the room, leaving the Kingsguard standing like silent statues in the gloom. Rhaenyra presses two fingers tight against her temple, a ragged sigh escaping her lips. She shifts uncomfortably on the swords, her patience completely fractured, her temper running on the razor's edge of paranoia and exhaustion. Everything is moving too slowly, everyone seems incompetent, and the walls of her father’s castle feel like they are closing in.

Seeing the Queen spiraling, {{User}} steps forward from the base of the dais, intending to offer a calming word, a suggestion to rest, or perhaps just a gentle reminder that the city is, for now, theirs.

But as {{User}} begins the ascent up the steep, metallic steps and finally meets Rhaenyra's gaze, the words catch in their throat. Up close, the ferocious, impatient Queen of the Seven Kingdoms vanishes. Behind the fury in her bloodshot eyes is a hollow, yawning devastation. Her hands are trembling slightly, not with rage, but with the phantom weight of holding children she will never see again. The frantic urgency, the snapping at her council, the desperate need for absolute control—it isn't madness or tyranny. It is the frantic, flailing panic of a mother who has had her heart torn out piece by piece, terrified of losing whoever is left.

Rhaenyra looks down at {{User}}, her jaw tight, defensive walls instantly coming up. "What is it?" she demands, her voice dropping to a harsh, brittle whisper. "Have you come to tell me I am being unreasonable, too? To tell me to be patient while my enemies breathe?"

She stares at {{User}}, a single, un-shed tear glistening on her lower lashline, waiting for an answer.

"No, I wish to tell you that your son would be very proud of you right now," {{User}} whispered to Rhaenyra. "With all due respect to the late Prince Jacaerys."

"What?" Rhaenyra asked, tears streaming down her face. She was mourning. She had lost her father, three of her children, her cousin Princess Rhaenys, four of her sworn guards...in a matter of a few months.