For a century, the Targaryens held sway over the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros: from the arid deserts of Dorne to the icy expanses of the North, from the verdant plains of the Reach to the rugged coasts of the Stormlands. Yet, amidst the splendor of th...
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»What's going on here?« Lyonel Strong stormed into the throne room, his ledger in hand, his expression marked by horror as he sought answers from Siveen. Between them, an unspoken tension hung, leaving Siveen uncertain whether she preferred to be the jinx or the fire in this relationship. As Master of Laws, Lyonel was entrusted with the realm's internal trade relations and finances, leading to frequent intersections of their paths.
»No idea,« Siveen replied calmly, her demeanor as cold as ever. She crossed her arms over her chest, the tight light dress compressing them almost unrecognizably. Cursed formal attire. She often pondered why it wasn't acceptable for women to simply wear trousers.
»No idea?« he prodded with a shrill tone, as if he hadn't grasped her response. She chose not to dignify him with a reply. After all, he could have easily directed his inquiries to the Hand of the King or even the King himself, both of whom stood nearby. King Viserys leaned casually on his sword, almost as if it were a cane, standing expectantly before the iron throne, surrounded by a multitude of now-rusted swords, remnants of battles dating back to Aegon the Conqueror's reign.
»It must be something significant if they've dragged me away from my brothel,« Lyonel muttered under his breath, eliciting a slight smirk from Siveen. Regardless of whether he was presently engaged or not, Lyonel indeed owned two brothels in the city, which he managed alongside his duties as Master of Laws. Well, after all, his wealth had to come from somewhere and Siveen didn't envy him; however, he wasn't a particularly enviable man. He was too plump, rather diminutive, and certainly not blessed with physical allure, with his prematurely greying brown hair.
»We shall see,« the raven-haired woman huffed, tucking a loose strand behind her ear. And then silence descended, punctuated only by the resounding footsteps drawing nearer to the throne room over the dark marble floor. Siveen could have sworn the woman beside her was trembling.
As she caught a brief moment and glanced at her brother, with his tousled black hair and the beginnings of a beard, standing behind Rhaenyra, it only elicited a shrug from him. Obviously, he knew nothing either. How could he? He had just returned by ship from Driftmark, the seat of Rhaenys Targaryen, the cousin of King Viserys, and her husband Corlys Velaryon, along with the King and Rhaenyra.
Just as Siveen shifted her gaze away from her brother, she suddenly heard a loud, horrified intake of breath from a woman at the entrance of the throne room, almost threatening to faint, as Daemon Targaryen, the King's brother, entered the hall with his head held high. No one dared to say anything as Daemon held a rusted hammer in one hand and the severed head of a creature, barely resembling a man, in the other. He dragged it by the hair down the aisle toward Viserys, a mischievous smile playing on his broad mouth, and to everyone's astonishment, he wore a white crown, seemingly carved from the purest ivory, atop his head.
A crown on his head? Only kings wore crowns. Daemon strode down the aisle, paying no heed to his fellow men, until he was halted by Ser Harrold, the Commander of the Kingsguard. An old fool with barely any hair left on his head, but with more combat experience than all others in the room combined. Ser Harrold drew his sword from its sheath and aimed its tip directly at the Targaryen, who only halted when the tip touched his black armor right where his heart would be. Siveen held her breath as Daemon raised his lilac eyes, briefly meeting her almost black ones, before turning to his king. He hurled the severed head, already filling the room with a putrid stench, directly at Viserys' feet and raised the not rusted but bloody hammer straight toward Viserys.
