LAENYS VELARYON, Lady of the Tides, princess of Dragonstone, youngest daughter of Corlys Velaryon-Lord of the Tides-and Rhaenys Targaryen-the Queen Who Never Was.
No one in all the realms believed that Rhaenys was with child when she announced it pu...
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Time seemed to stop, and the world held its breath. News of Rhaenys Targaryen's death swept through Westeros as quickly as the wind.
Hours after the victory at Rook's Rest, the Greens claimed the lands. They rode to King's Landing, carrying a wooden box in a wagon, followed closely by the severed head of Rhaenys Targaryen's dragon, Meleys. Flies and insects swarmed around the decaying limb, and the stench choked the smallfolk who watched the grim procession through the streets.
Horror filled their eyes; for hundreds of years, they had been told that dragons were gods and that Targaryens were closer to gods than men. But now, they witnessed a god brought down by mortal hands. They did not know what to think or say.
Many were filled with anger and confusion. The smallfolk had named Laenys Velaryon "Laenys the Cruel." However, seeing her mother's dragon felled in the war cast doubt on the cruelty the Greens claimed she embodied. Their words seemed contradictory. Moreover, the people were starving. Since Lord Corlys had placed a blockade, travel, and trade had been cut off. Whatever food remained was either rotten or scarce.
"Behold! The traitor dragon, Meleys! Slain at Rook's Rest by your king! To Aegon!" A knight shouted from atop his horse. Yet the air was silent. Ser Criston Cole had expected to be greeted like a king after their victory, but no applause was heard.
Seeing the dragon being dragged through the streets, instead of a cart full of food, felt like mockery.
Ser Criston Cole and Ser Gwayne Hightower, brother of Alicent Hightower, rode in the carriage leading the two wagons. They watched as the smallfolk murmured with frowns on their faces.
"Mark my words, this is a black omen!" one man shouted, glaring at the head being dragged through the street.
"They killed her mother's dragon," another whispered.
"They are the ones that are cruel. The dragons are supposed to be gods," one muttered.
"Laenys shall answer for this! 'Tis an abomination!" a man spat with anger.
"Don't they realize we won the battle?" Cole asked, looking over at Ser Gwayne Hightower, who scoffed at his words.
"Strange victory... if it was one," Gwayne responded, signaling toward the wooden box attached to the carriage. In that very box lay the injured body of King Aegon, his skin fused to his armor from the fiery breath of Vhagar. Yet no one knew of Aemond's treachery except for Ser Criston Cole, who had watched closely from horseback.
Aemond Targaryen watched from the balcony of King's Landing as they hauled his victory through the streets, shouting about how it had been his brother's doing. Anger simmered within him, but he knew that his brother was now too unwell to sit on the Iron Throne.
The small council would have to choose a Regent, and he was an eager contender.
