After a forbidden night with Ser Criston Cole, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen is forced by her father, King Viserys, to drink the moon tea and protect her honor. To shield her image further, she weds Ser Laenor Velaryon, and together they move to Drift...
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Present Time
Red Keep, King's Landing
The chamber still smelled faintly of smoke and steel, a lingering echo of the morning's training. Candles flickered across the wide oak table, their soft light glinting over scattered parchments, goblets, and crumbs of bread — the unspoken evidence of a meeting too long delayed by exhaustion and curiosity.
Dahlia sat at the head of the table, a shadow of the fierce fighter she'd been that morning. Now, dressed in a dark blouse and soft trousers, her braid loosened, she looked more like the queen her people trusted — steady, sharp-eyed, and quietly dangerous beneath the calm.
"Well," she began, swirling the wine in her cup, "what have we gathered so far from our new... neighbors?"
Snape, standing beside the table with arms crossed, was the first to respond. "Aside from the daily parade of superstition and scandal?" he began dryly. "Half the castle believes you were forged in dragonfire. The other half thinks you'll bring ruin to their gods simply by existing."
Sirius snorted. "At least they're consistent."
"I've also learned," Snape continued, ignoring him, "that the King's health is not failing naturally. He has been sustained in a state of frailty. The so-called 'Milk of the Poppy' he takes daily has been laced — subtly, but deliberately — with an opiate mixture meant to dull the senses and prolong decay rather than healing."
McGonagall's brow furrowed. "Are you certain?"
"Entirely," Snape said, his tone as smooth as glass. "It's an old technique — effective enough to keep him lucid only in fragments. He is, in essence, a puppet on a crumbling throne."
"By whose hand?" Dahlia asked quietly, her voice calm, but her fingers tightening around her cup.
Snape's lips thinned. "I would wager on several. The Queen Consort, certainly. Her father, the Hand, without doubt. But most of all, the so-called loyalists on the King's Council — Ser Tyland Lannister, Lord Jasper Wylde, Grand Maester Orwyle. All have ties that lead back to Oldtown... and to Hightower gold."
Sirius let out a low whistle. "So the vultures are circling already."
"They've been circling for years," Narcissa remarked coolly. "The only thing keeping them from tearing the throne apart is that old man's stubborn grip on life."
Rita Skeeter leaned forward, her quill already scratching the parchment beside her. "So the rumors are true — that there's a Green conspiracy to crown Aegon instead of Rhaenyra."
Draco scoffed softly. "Hardly subtle, are they? You can smell the tension between their factions from the moment you step into the Great Hall."
Hermione nodded. "The animosity is palpable — the Greens and the Blacks. It's like walking through a field of wildfire, waiting for one careless spark."
