The council chamber felt hollow and heavy as each member of the Small Council entered and took his place. Heads were bowed; tongues were held. None seemed eager to be the first to give voice to what all already knew. With the Queen's passing came not only grief—but opportunity, coiled and watchful, like a serpent in the grass.
Otto Hightower, never one to shrink from duty, stood firm at the table's head, an anchor amidst the unease.
"I trust you all understand why this council has been convened," he began, his voice measured and grave. "This matter has been set aside for too long. We have come to a point where we may no longer avert our eyes from it."
Lord Lyonel Strong drew a slow breath and inclined his head. "Who shall be heir to the Iron Throne?" he said—not as a question, but as a truth laid bare.
"That is precisely the matter before us," Otto replied. "It is our duty to the realm to see this uncertainty ended."
"Then, Ser Otto," Lord Corlys Velaryon interjected, his tone cutting through the silence, "pray tell—what answer do you propose?" His gaze lingered, sharp with suspicion.
"That," Otto said evenly, "is not for me to decide."
Creak.
The great doors opened, and King Viserys entered, Ser Ryam Redwyne of the Kingsguard at his side. At once, the council rose and bowed their heads. The King took his seat at the far end of the table, his eyes passing over each man before settling briefly upon Otto.
He noted the silence. The absence.
"Where is Rhaenyra?" he asked.
"Your Grace," Otto said carefully, "this is not a matter we would burden your daughters with, not in their present grief. Yet it is one of grave importance."
Viserys frowned. "What matter could not wait?"
Otto paused, weighing his words. The King's temper, frayed by loss, was not to be tested lightly.
"Your succession, Your Grace. The tragedies that have befallen us have left the realm without a clear heir."
"I think you forget yourself, Hand," Corlys said, his voice firm. "The King already has an heir."
Otto did not so much as flinch. "We all know the difficulties of this hour. Yet the question must be settled."
"The succession is settled," Corlys pressed, rising as he circled the table. "Shall we speak his name?"
All eyes followed him. They knew the name he would give—and many dreaded it.
He took his seat once more, composed, as though the matter were already decided.
"Daemon Targaryen."
A flicker of distaste crossed Otto's face before it vanished behind a mask of calm.
"Preposterous," he said. "If the Prince were to ascend the Iron Throne, the realm would suffer for it. His temper is ill-suited to rule."
Several councillors murmured their agreement. Grand Maester Mellos inclined his head. "I must concur, Your Grace. Such a choice would risk destabilizing the realm."
Voices rose, one over another, the chamber filling with argument. Some spoke in favor of Daemon—citing his blood, his strength, and his loyalty to the King. Others, led by Otto, stood firmly against him.
At length, Mellos raised a hand.
"Your Grace, if I may."
Viserys gestured wearily. "Speak."
"In times such as these, it is not without precedent for a king to name his successor."
His words settled over the chamber like a pall.
"Name whom?" Lyonel asked. "Who holds a claim strong enough?"
A silence followed.
Then Otto spoke, each word deliberate.
"The King's daughters."
Murmurs broke out at once.
"You would name Rhaenyra—or Vhaehra—heir?" Lyonel said, incredulous. "No queen has ever sat the Iron Throne. Such a choice could plunge the realm into chaos."
"There is no clear precedent," Otto replied. "We must consider all options before us."
"And break a century of tradition?" another councillor scoffed. "If stability is our aim, this is folly."
"If the alternative is Daemon," Otto said, turning toward the King, "then it must be weighed. Forgive me, Your Grace, but I fear what your brother might become with such power. Another Maegor… or worse. It is our duty to protect the realm—and you—from that danger."
Viserys leaned back in his chair, his expression darkening.
"Am I to choose, then," he said slowly, "between my brother and my daughters?"
Silence answered him.
His gaze hardened. "Vultures," he muttered under his breath. "All of you."
"Your Grace," a councillor began, "there are others who might—"
BAM.
The doors flew open as a soldier rushed in, dropping to one knee.
"Your Grace!"
Otto rose at once, displeasure plain. "Can this not wait? You intrude upon a council—"
Viserys raised a hand, silencing him. "Speak."
The soldier hesitated, eyes lowered. "Your Grace… the Princess Vhaehra—she cannot be found. She is nowhere within the Red Keep."
The King surged to his feet. "What? Why was I not told at once? Send riders—search the city!"
"At once, Your Grace." The soldier fled.
Viserys turned toward the window, his gaze drawn to the looming bulk of the Dragonpit upon Rhaenys's Hill, barely visible through rain and distant thunder.
A chill crept through him.
"Seal the Dragonpit," he ordered sharply to the Kingsguard.
He stood there a moment longer, staring into the storm.
Be safe, he thought. I have lost enough.