Prologue: The Weight of a Crown of Roses
POV Elia Martell
The carriage climbed Aegon's High Hill, each jolt a hammer beating in time with her scattered thoughts. At the top, the Red Keep rose against the sky, its towers imposing and threatening. Never, in her darkest reveries, had Elia Martell imagined she would come to this point. Not as a visiting princess, not as a royal consort, but as a supplicant, a piece on a board that had been flipped upside down by her own husband.
The air of King's Landing smelled of salt, soot, and a palpable tension. The recent and brutal end of the rebellion hung over the city like a ghost. She sat up straighter, pulling her fine Dornish silk shawl closer, as if it could protect her from what was to come. Rhaenys, her little princess, slept with her head in her lap, her ebony curls splayed over her mother's dress. Aegon, a quiet baby, watched the world with his serious lilac eyes, clutching a cloth doll. They were her anchor, the reason she had endured everything. Everything.
Upon arriving at the main courtyard, the carriage stopped. The door was opened by a royal guard in a white mail coat. Before Elia could get her bearings, a figure was already waiting, a silhouette of grace and authority.
Galadriel Targaryen.
The Heir to the Empire was even more striking in person than the stories suggested. Her silver and gold hair fell in a cascade over her shoulders, and her dragon-purple eyes, like her father's but with a more serene gleam, looked at Elia with quiet curiosity. She wore a robe of black velvet, simple yet perfectly cut, with no jewelry save for a single steel dragon brooch.
"Princess Elia," Galadriel's voice was melodious, a soft contrast to the harshness of the surroundings. She inclined her head slightly, a gesture of respect, not submission. "Welcome back to the Red Keep. And these must be the little jewels of Dorne." Her smile, when directed at Rhaenys, who now awoke and hid her face in her mother's skirt, and at Aegon, was genuine, the elegance and grace of which bards could truly write songs.
"Princess Galadriel," Elia replied, her voice slightly tremulous. "Thank you for receiving us." The young princess's composure was both calming and intimidating.
"Think nothing of it. Come, my father awaits you in the throne room. The children can stay with the handmaidens; they will be well cared for." Galadriel made a subtle gesture, and two women dressed in Targaryen colors approached, their faces kind.
Elia hesitated for a moment, a maternal instinct pulling her to keep her children close. But she knew it was not a request. With a quick kiss on Rhaenys's forehead and a caress on Aegon's cheek, she handed them over. Rhaenys whispered a "don't go, Mother?" that broke Elia's heart, but she forced a reassuring smile.
Galadriel led her through the cold stone corridors. The sound of their footsteps echoed, a lonely sound. The last time Elia had been here, Rhaegar was by her side, and the future seemed a tapestry of bright possibilities, though tainted by his growing obsession. Now, she walked alone to face the man who ruled not only the Seven Kingdoms, but their very destiny.
The great oak and iron door of the throne room was opened. The hall was empty, save for the guards stationed along the walls and the solitary figure seated on the monstrosity of twisted blades that was the Iron Throne.
Aenar Targaryen.
Elia had met the Dragon Emperor only a few times, mainly due to Rhaegar's caution and, she suspected now, the fear he nurtured for him. But each encounter was etched in her memory. His presence filled the hall, a silent, oppressive force that made the air feel heavier.
She advanced along the long red carpet, her heart pounding against her ribs. She knelt at the foot of the throne steps, bowing her head. The fringe of her dress touched the stone floor.
"Rise, Princess Elia."
The Emperor's voice was not loud, but it echoed with an authority that was almost physical. She rose, her knees trembling slightly. She lifted her gaze to face the throne's occupant.
His eyes. They were the most disconcerting thing about him. A deep, vibrant purple, like living amethysts, but with vertical, feline pupils that seemed to see far more than the surface. At that moment, under that penetrating gaze, Elia felt completely naked. All her defenses, all the justifications she had built for herself, seemed to dissolve, leaving only the raw and uncomfortable truth.
"Princess," the Emperor began, his hands resting on the arms of the throne, immobile. "Were you aware of Prince Rhaegar's plans? Of his... arrangements with Lady Lyanna Stark?"
The question was direct, without preamble. She swallowed dryly, her mouth dry as dust.
"He... he informed me of his intention to marry her, Your Grace," Elia replied, her voice a hoarse whisper.
"Marriage," Aenar repeated, the word coming out flat. "Are you aware that any polygamous union involving a member of the royal family, or any lineage under my direct protection, requires express authorization from the Iron Throne? An authorization that was not requested, much less granted."
Elia felt a wave of shame heat her neck. "Yes, Your Grace."
"So," he continued, leaning forward slightly, and the weight of his attention seemed to increase. "What exactly were Prince Rhaegar and you planning? A secret, illegal marriage? Or were you simply deceiving the poor girl with empty promises, using her naivety and foolish romanticism to serve an invented prophecy?"
The accusation was like a physical blow. She staggered, her hands clutching the front of her dress. That was exactly what they had done. They had woven a web of half-truths and impossible expectations around Lyanna Stark, a girl who had only seen a singing prince and knight, not the obsessed man he was.
"I... I had no choice, Your Grace," she whispered, the words coming out in a thread of voice. "It was Rhaegar's request. He was my husband. And I... I could not give him more children. The labors were... difficult. The maesters said another childbirth would kill me." She looked up, pleading for understanding. "He was convinced. The dragon has three heads, he always said. He needed three children. It was his destiny, his prophecy. Lyanna... she was strong, young. She could give him the third child."
The silence that followed was the most terrifying Elia had ever experienced. It seemed to last for ages. The Emperor's gaze did not change, but she could feel the cold fury in him, a fury not explosive like Robert Baratheon's, but a deep, calculating thing like the sea.
Finally, he spoke. "A man's obsession with ancient verses does not justify the deception and ruin of a young woman, nor the disregard for the law I myself decreed." He paused, his purple eyes seeming to weigh her very soul. "Rhaegar will face justice for his actions. But you, Princess Elia, bear some of this blame for your silence, for your passive complicity."
Elia bowed her head, the tears she had held back now threatening to fall. The shame was a bitter taste in her mouth.
"You are dismissed," the Emperor said, his voice returning to an impenetrable neutrality. "A room has been set aside for you in the garden apartments. Your children will be with you. But before you retire, you will find Lady Lyanna. And you yourself, as a woman and as a Princess of Dorne, will tell her the truth. The whole truth. About the 'marriages,' about the prophecy, about your own inability to bear the third child. She deserves to know she was an instrument, not a choice."
It was a sentence. A penance. More terrifying than any physical punishment.
Elia made a trembling bow and retreated, her legs nearly giving way. As she left the throne room, the vast emptiness of the corridor seemed to swallow her. Her thoughts spun in a whirlwind of regret and fear. How had things gone so wrong? All because of a prophecy. All because of one man's pride and another's weakness.
She walked like an automaton, following a guard's directions. She arrived at a door of dark wood, where a single Imperial Guard was posted. A familiar face, a relief amidst the chaos. Ser Lewyn Martell, her uncle, of the emperor's guard. His dark eyes, full of deep concern, met hers.
"Elia," he whispered, his voice rough. "My dear niece. Are you alright?"
She shook her head, unable to speak, her eyes filled with tears. He understood. He always understood.
"She is inside," Lewyn said softly. "Lady Stark. The Emperor ordered her to be treated with respect, but... she is confused and frightened."
Elia wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, straightening her shoulders. The courage she had mustered to face the Emperor had drained away, but a new kind of determination, born of guilt and a sense of feminine duty, began to take its place. She had to do this. For Lyanna. For herself. To cleanse a little of the stain Rhaegar had left on all of them.
"Announce me, uncle," she requested, her voice a little firmer.
Lewyn Martell looked at her with a mixture of pity and pride, then knocked on the door. "Princess Elia Martell to see you, Lady Lyanna."
There was a silence from the other side, then a soft, muffled "enter."
Elia took a deep breath, as if preparing to dive into deep, icy waters. Then, she opened the door and entered the room, closing it behind her, ready to face the mirror of her own complicity in the eyes of the young girl they had deceived.
Part 1: Waiting in the Stone Dragon
General POV
The atmosphere in King's Landing was heavy, laden with an uneasy silence that stretched from the city gates to the highest courtyards of the Red Keep. Even before the one-moon period granted by the Emperor had ended, the rebel lords had arrived. There was no pomp or ceremony to their arrival; it was a somber procession of men who had challenged a god and lived to tell the tale – for now, at least.
They were received not by the Emperor, but by Prince Viserys Targaryen, the Son of Rhaenyra, the Hand of the King. His perpetual youth, a gift (or a curse) granted by his emperor, made him a figure both impressive and unsettling. His face was serious, his lilac eyes reflecting a wisdom his youthful features shouldn't carry.
"My lords," he greeted them, his voice clear and devoid of warmth. "The Emperor is aware of your early arrival. Accommodations have been prepared for you and your retinues within the Keep. Your only order is that none of you are to leave these walls until the day of your judgment. The gardens and the library are at your disposal, but the gates are off-limits."
His speech was a command, not an invitation. There was no room for discussion. They were led by silent servants to a wing of comfortable apartments, effectively a gilded cage overlooking Blackwater Bay.
That evening, the five rebel lords gathered in Jon Arryn's chambers. The air was thick with a mixture of fear, resignation, and a latent tension. Hoster Tully, whose face still seemed pale from the experience at Harrenhal, was the first to break the silence, his voice an anxious whisper.
"Jon," he began, his fingers drumming nervously on the oak table. "What do you think? Will he... will he execute us? As an example?"
Jon Arryn looked at the river lord, his own tired eyes carrying the weight of thousands of dead. He took a deep breath, the sound loud in the quiet room.
"No, Hoster," Jon replied, his voice firm but laden with deep fatigue. "If he wanted our heads, he would have taken them right there, in the... the Circle of Fire." The name already given to the event at Harrenhal hung in the room like a ghost. The image of that perfect, charred line on the ground, the circle where an army of two hundred thousand men ceased to exist in seconds, was burned into all their minds. "No, that is not his way. Execution would be... simple. Too quick. He wants to make a statement."
"Then what does he want?" Tywin Lannister spoke for the first time. His voice was a low growl, his wounded pride still throbbing like a phantom limb. He, the smartest of them, had been deceived and humiliated, and the anger at that was almost palpable.
"Titles," Jon said simply, making all eyes turn to him. "He will not kill us. But I believe we must be prepared to lose our posts as Lord Paramounts. The hereditary right to rule our regions... that is what he can take. It's a political blow, not a personal one. He breaks our power, not our necks."
A heavy silence fell over the room. The idea was both a relief and a different death sentence. To lose the dominion over the lands their families had ruled for centuries? For men like Tywin and Jon, whose identities were intrinsically tied to the power they held, it was an agonizing prospect.
It was then that Robert Baratheon, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, staring into the fireplace as if he could see the flames of Harrenhal in it, spoke. His voice was hoarse, stripped of its usual fire.
"But not all," Robert said, not turning his gaze from the flames. "Ned. He won't punish Ned. The Emperor... he spared his army. He called his motive 'dignified.' Ned will not lose the North."
All eyes turned to Eddard Stark. The young lord flushed, a blush of discomfort rising up his neck. He felt like an outsider among them, his guilt over still having an intact army a burden almost as heavy as their treason.
Jon Arryn put a paternal hand on Ned's shoulder. "He is right, Ned. And you should not carry the weight of what will happen to us." He then looked at Robert, Tywin, and Hoster. "Ned was dragged into this by loyalty – to me, to Robert, to the memory of his father and brother. His motivation, though misguided, came from a place of honor. We..." Jon paused, and for the first time, his voice lost some of its composure. "We were driven by other things. Ambition. Fear. Greed, perhaps. We are merely about to pay the price for it."
Robert clenched his fists but did not argue. The truth of Jon's words was undeniable.
The following days were an exercise in agony. They were prisoners of luxury, wandering the gardens, pretending to read books they didn't register, avoiding the glances of courtiers and guards. The tension was a taut wire, ready to snap.
Then, the other Great Lords began to arrive, as requested by the Emperor. First, Lord Mace Tyrell, his portly body and satisfied face hiding a mind sharper than many credited. He was received with a formal and cold courtesy, his eyes assessing the rebels with undisguised interest.
Next, Lord Doran Martell, arriving in a litter, his face a mask of pain and serenity. His gaze, when it rested on the rebel lords, was inscrutable, but Elia and her children were under his protection now, and the judgment of Rhaegar was a matter that touched Dorne deeply.
Last, and most grim, came Lord Balon Greyjoy. He arrived with the smell of salt and defiance, his hard eyes scanning the Red Keep with disdain. The rebellion was not his affair, but the summons of the Emperor was not something to be ignored.
The Red Keep now held all the major players of Westeros, each with their own interests, fears, and loyalties. The air grew even heavier, the anticipation hanging like a mist.
On the eve of the judgment, Ser Barristan Selmy, came to them. His white armor seemed to shine with its own light in the dim corridor.
"My lords," he announced, his voice respectful, yet unyielding. "The Emperor summons you to the Great Hall at dawn tomorrow. The judgment will be held. All crimes will be heard – those of Prince Rhaegar and those of each Lord Paramount who took up arms against the Iron Crown. Be prepared."
With a nod, he turned and left, leaving them with the final weight of their situation. The judgment was not only about their rebellion; it was about Rhaegar's actions too. They would be there, not only to be judged, but to witness the fate of the man whose actions had, in part, triggered the whole conflict. The wait was over. Dawn would bring the Dragon's verdict.
Final part: The Dragon's Judgment
POV Aenar Targaryen
The throne room was steeped in a heavy silence, broken only by the crackling of torches and the distant sound of the sea coming through the open windows. The dawn light entered in dusty beams, illuminating the most powerful assembly of lords and knights Westeros had seen since the Conquest. And at the center of it all, I sat upon the Iron Throne, its sharp, twisted blades a constant reminder of the power I held.
One by one, they entered. The rebel lords - Jon Arryn, Robert Baratheon, Hoster Tully, and Tywin Lannister - with grim faces and heavy steps. Behind them, the other Great Lords: Mace Tyrell, watching with calculating interest; Doran Martell, serene and impenetrable in his litter; Balon Greyjoy, with his usual disdain. Eddard Stark was among them, his face a mask of contained pain but acceptance. My daughter Galadriel stood to my right, her posture impeccable, while Viserys, as my Hand, stood to the left, ready to execute my commands.
When all had knelt, I nodded to Viserys. He stepped forward, his clear voice echoing through the hall.
"This is a day of judgment," he announced. "The Emperor Aenar Targaryen, First of His Name, will sit in judgment over all crimes committed against the Imperial Peace."
My dragon-purple eyes scanned the crowd. "Bring forth the first: the guards who failed."
The doors opened and three figures were led inside. Ser Oswell Whent, Ser Gerold Hightower, and Ser Arthur Dayne. Even after their time in cells, they were clean and dressed in their white tunics, but the dignity they once carried was stained. They knelt before the steps of the throne.
I watched them for a long moment, letting the weight of silence speak for itself.
"Ser Gerold," I began, my voice low but cutting through the air like a blade. "Tell this hall, what is a member of the Imperial Guard?"
He raised his head, his age-marked face still proud. "We are the protectors of the Emperor, Your Grace. We swear to give our lives for yours."
"Exactly," I responded, leaning forward. "So, knight, where were you when your prince, your true charge, was kidnapping a maiden and unleashing war? Were you guarding your Emperor from this danger?"
The three remained silent, their eyes downcast. Arthur Dayne, especially, looked like a broken man, his honor crushed by misdirected loyalty.
"No," I answered for them, my voice growing in power. "You three, the most renowned of my guard, let yourselves be deceived by a prince's obsession or, worse, were complicit through omission. You watched over his love nest in Dorne, knowing that each passing day was a day closer to the abyss."
I rose from the throne, the sound of my boots on the stone floor echoing like a funeral drum. I descended the steps slowly, stopping before them.
"By the authority I hold as Emperor of Westeros," I declared, my voice filling every corner of the hall, "I expel you from the Imperial Guard. With dishonor." I snapped my fingers.
A collective gasp swept the hall as the white cloaks on their shoulders magically tore, as if invisible claws had cut them, falling to the floor like unclean rags.
"And more," I continued, looking at each of them. "Until the day dawns when each of you proves, through actions and not words, to be worthy of wielding a sword again, you are not knights. You are men without honor, fallen knights. Remove them from my sight."
They were led away, their once-majestic figures now shrunken by shame. The silence that followed was more eloquent than any speech.
"Bring the prince," I commanded, returning to my throne.
Rhaegar entered the hall. He was pale but walked with a stubborn dignity. He knelt, keeping his gaze down.
"Rhaegar Targaryen," I began, my voice now icy and clinical. "You deceived a young woman with promises of a marriage you knew to be illegal. Your actions, even if not directly, led to the death of a Lord Paramount and his heir. You provided the spark for a rebellion that cost the lives of two hundred thousand men. What do you say to these charges?"
Rhaegar slowly raised his head. Instead of remorse, a bitter, disdainful smile spread across his lips.
"What do I say?" his voice was a loaded whisper. "I say that if others saw what I see, they would have risen against you long ago. The true enemy is not in the North, not in the Others. The true enemy is you. The Dragon Emperor sitting on a throne of lies."
Some whispers of shock arose, but I simply gave a low laugh, a humorless sound.
"You see shadows, prince," I said. "You are a puppet, your mind twisted by the machinations of the Three-Eyed Raven and the gods who play with the fates of men. You danced in the palm of their hands and called it prophecy."
"I don't believe you!" Rhaegar shouted, his control cracking. "My son... Aegon... he is the Prince That Was Promised!"
"Your son is a child," I retorted, merciless. "And you are a fool. But your actions stained the honor of House Stark and House Baratheon. For that, you will face their champion in combat. Bring his armor."
While Rhaegar was taken to prepare, I turned to the Starks and Baratheons.
"Who will be your champion?"
Robert Baratheon stepped forward immediately, his eyes burning with a long-dormant fire. "ME!" he roared. "For Lyanna! For Rickard and Brandon!"
Ned Stark simply nodded, his pain and anger contained in a single gesture.
The duel that followed was a sad and predictable affair. Rhaegar, with his blade Truefyre II, fought with the desperate grace of a scholar. Robert, with his great enchanted warhammer, was a hurricane of brute fury. Each blow from his hammer sent shockwaves that made the air vibrate and bent Rhaegar's steel. The prophecy didn't save the prince. The obsession didn't stop the hammer. With a final, crushing blow, Robert struck Rhaegar in the chest, a horrible echo of the fate I knew awaited them in another timeline. The prince fell, and his last words were a whisper of a single name: "Aegon..."
Viserys announced Robert as the winner. Rhaegar's body was removed to be cremated, a Targaryen killed by a Baratheon, the deep irony lost on no one.
Then it was the rebel lords' turn. They knelt again, knowing their fate was about to be sealed.
"Throughout my reign," I began, my voice now reflective, "since I received the crown from my father, Jaehaerys the Conciliator, I have ruled with justice. I brought peace, prosperity, and a power Westeros has never known. And yet, there are always fools who, driven by greed or ambition, rise up. What more do you want that you do not already have?"
Silence was the only answer.
"Hoster Tully," I said, my gaze falling on the river lord. "My ancestors raised your house from minor lords to Lord Paramount of the Riverlands. And in return, without just cause, you took up arms against me. For this, effective today, House Tully is no longer a Great House. The Riverlands, in their entirety, will be annexed into the Crownlands, administered directly by the Iron Throne and supervised by the Lord of Summerhall."
Hoster Tully seemed to shrink, his face as pale as a ghost. He did not dare protest.
"Tywin Lannister," I continued, turning to the Lion of Lannister. "You always considered yourself the smartest man in the Seven Kingdoms. It seems you forgot that intelligence somewhere along the way. For treason, you lose your title of Lord Paramount and Lord of Casterly Rock."
Tywin raised his head, his pride still burning in his green eyes. "My heir is Jaime," he said, his voice hoarse.
"Jaime Lannister wears the white cloak of the Imperial Guard," I responded. "He cannot inherit lands or titles. Therefore, your heir is your second son, Tyrion Lannister. Your wife, Joanna, will serve as Regent until he comes of age."
The shock on Tywin's face was a victory in itself. The man who so despised his deformed son now saw his legacy pass to him. He lowered his head, defeated.
"Jon Arryn," I said, looking at the old lord of the Vale. "For taking up arms, you deserve death. But I recognize that your initial intentions, though misguided, were born from a desire for justice for your friend. Thus, your life will be spared. But you will lose the title of Lord Paramount of the Vale. Your house will be ruled by a regent from House Royce until you produce a legitimate heir and that heir comes of age."
Jon Arryn closed his eyes, a sigh of resignation escaping his lips. He knew it was more than he deserved.
Finally, my eyes rested on Robert Baratheon. "Robert Baratheon. Your crimes are rebellion and defamation against House Targaryen. You will also lose the post of Lord of Storm's End. The title will pass to your heir."
Robert, who was still breathing heavily from the duel, exploded. "MY HEIR?! You would give Storm's End to a boy?! I demand a trial by combat! By my right as a knight!"
A murmur of shock swept the hall. Challenging the Emperor was madness.
I looked at him, and a cold smile touched my lips. "Very well, Robert. I accept your challenge. I will be your opponent."
I jumped from the Iron Throne, landing on the hall floor from twenty feet, my boots making a silent thud on the stone. There was no armor on me. Just my simple clothes.
Robert, with a cry of fury, charged. His enchanted hammer swung with a force that could crush a castle gate, straight for my head. The impact was like thunder, and visible shockwaves spread out, causing the nearest lords to stagger back. Dust rose.
When the dust settled, I stood, unharmed. Not a hair out of place.
I reached out and grabbed the hammer's head. Under my touch, the enchanted steel began to glow red, then white, and then dissolved, dripping to the floor like liquid metal.
Robert, his eyes wide with terror, tried to defend with his shield. My hand went through the steel as if it were water, grabbing the shield and crushing it into splinters, along with the hand holding it. The sound of crushing bones echoed in the silent hall.
Robert fell to his knees, clutching what remained of his right hand, a muffled scream of agony escaping his lips.
I looked at him, then at the other lords, their faces pale with pure terror.
"The judgment is not yet concluded," I declared, my voice absolute. "There remains one final matter to—"
I was interrupted as the great doors of the throne room opened. My daughter Galadriel entered, her face serious. Behind her, supported by two guards, walked a pale and visibly pregnant Lyanna Stark.
All eyes turned to them as they approached the throne. The judgment, it seemed, would have one final act.