The Power Of Prophecy

The Queen's Quiet Fury

The early afternoon sun bathed the courtyard in a soft, golden light, casting long shadows from the high stone walls. Daena stood beside Helaena, who sat quietly, her eyes distant, as if lost in a world only she could see. Jaehaera’s soft giggles echoed as she played with a wooden dragon, her small fingers tracing the smooth surface with fascination. Alicent watched her granddaughter intently, her brow furrowed as if carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders.

They were gathered in one of the quieter courtyards of the Red Keep, the air thick with tension that seemed to hang over King's Landing like an ominous storm. Despite the beauty of the day, an unease lingered. From beyond the thick stone walls, faint sounds of shouting carried in the distance, the unmistakable noise of unrest.

Daena’s ears perked at a sudden clatter, followed by a dull thudding sound from the direction of the gates. It grew louder, rhythmic. The sound of fists pounding, desperate and angry.

“The gates…” Daena murmured, glancing toward Alicent, her heart skipping. “The people?”

Alicent’s face tightened, but she did not look away from Jaehaera. “Yes,” she said quietly, “they are hungry. The blockade is strangling the city. It was only a matter of time.”

Helaena shifted beside Daena, her voice distant. “I saw them in my dreams… banging on doors that will not open.” She blinked slowly, her expression vacant.

A chill ran down Daena’s spine, but she ignored it, focusing instead on Alicent, whose lips pressed into a thin line.

“It wasn’t this bad just days ago,” Daena said softly, watching the older woman.

Alicent finally turned to her, her gaze hard. “No, it was worse.” Her voice lowered. “Helaena and I were returning from the Sept when the crowd swarmed us. They threw fish… rotten fish at us. Insulted us, spat on us. We barely made it back inside the gates.”

“They dared to do that?” Daena’s shock was quickly followed by anger. “But it's not your fault — Rhaenyra has the city trapped in her blockade.”

Alicent’s gaze grew darker. “You’d think they would care about that, wouldn’t you? About the one responsible for starving them.” She paused, her voice growing colder. “But no. The people don’t care who sits on the Iron Throne. They only care about the hunger gnawing at their bellies, the empty plates. To them, we are all the same — rulers feasting while they wither.”

Jaehaera, oblivious to the gravity of the conversation, chased after her dragon, her laughter a sharp contrast to the heaviness that settled between them.

Alicent shook her head. “A crown comes with a burden far heavier than the gold it’s made of. And when the people are hungry, we all bear the blame. They don’t see Rhaenyra or Aemond. They see us, here, in our keep, behind our walls.”

Daena’s jaw tightened. The weight of those words settled on her, making the unease in her chest spread. A fleeting thought crossed her mind: perhaps the Iron Throne was more curse than prize. Her gaze shifted to the thick stone walls, as though the pounding fists of the people could break through at any moment.

“And Aemond? Where is he?” she asked, changing the subject before the tension could suffocate her.

Alicent’s eyes flicked briefly toward the sky. “He flew out early this morning with Vhagar. He’s been circling the blockade.”

Daena's brow furrowed. How could she possibly know that? Aemond hadn't spoken a word to her before he’d left — he never did. They’d been married for almost a week now, and their interactions had been brief and impersonal. They shared a handful of meals together, and she’d been summoned to the throne room a few times, but no real conversation passed between them. Aemond seemed constantly preoccupied, focused on his preparations for war. She’d overheard fragments of hushed conversations about the Hightower forces on the march, with his younger brother, Daeron, set to join with his dragon. Aemond had even sent Lord Jason Lannister, the Master of Coin, to negotiate with the Triarchy, aiming to break Rhaenyra’s blockade. And then there was the troubling question of Otto Hightower, his grandfather, whose whereabouts remained unknown, leaving a shadow over the entire court.