The Confontation
Chapter 29- The Confrontation
The doors to the throne room groaned open.
Rhaenyra Targaryen entered with the measured grace of a queen who knew the battle was already won. The sound of her boots against the cold stone echoed through the cavernous hall as she advanced. Flanking her, the banners of House Targaryen hung in quiet triumph—black and red unfurled in the place where green once dared to linger.
At the foot of the Iron Throne stood Alicent Hightower, her face pale but composed, and beside her, rigid with barely concealed fury, was Otto Hightower. Gone was the arrogance that once marked his presence; in its place was a cold calculation, the mind of a man who knew the walls were closing in.
Alicent lifted her chin, clinging to the last frayed edges of dignity. “You come here to gloat?” she said, her voice low and taut. “To parade your victory like a conqueror?”
Rhaenyra stopped a mere breath from the throne’s steps, her eyes locked on Alicent’s with a steady, unforgiving gaze. “I did not come to gloat,” she said, voice smooth as steel. “I came to claim what is mine.”
Otto scoffed under his breath. “Your claim died the day my grandson was declared heir.”
“Your grandson is ashes,” Daemon said, as he step through the doors with Laenor by his side. “And your line will end with him.”
Alicent flinched, grief flashing raw and unhidden across her face. But it was fleeting, swallowed by the sharp edge of her anger. “You speak of blood as though your hands are clean,” she snapped. “Everything I did—I did for my children.”
“And yet they are dead or lost to you,” Rhaenyra said quietly. “Because you could not stomach the thought of a woman ruling from the throne my father promised me.”
For a long moment, the only sound was the distant clang of armor outside the chamber as her forces tightened their hold on the Red Keep. The air between the two women was thick—years of rivalry, pain, and lost love hanging like a storm cloud ready to break.
“You claim righteousness,” Alicent said, stepping forward. “But you are no better than the men who came before you. You take with fire and blood. You sow chaos while pretending it is justice.”
Rhaenyra tilted her head, a slow, deliberate motion. “No,” she said. “I take back what is mine. I will rule, not for vengeance—but for the realm my father loved.”
The words hung in the air like a blade poised to strike. But before Alicent could respond, the doors groaned open again. A new figure entered, his steps slower, heavier—a man weathered by age and burden.
Lyonel Strong.
His absence from court had been long, but his return now—when the dust had barely settled—was no accident. He clutched a heavy leather satchel in one hand as he approached the throne, eyes sweeping the room with the calm of a man who held a secret no one else did.
“Princess,” he said, inclining his head toward Rhaenyra before his gaze shifted to Alicent and Otto. “I return with proof that will settle this matter once and for all.”
Otto stiffened. “What trick is this, Strong?”
Lyonel ignored the barb, producing a thick scroll from the satchel. The wax seal bore the Citadel’s mark—unbroken and unmistakable.
“This,” he said, lifting the scroll, “is the unaltered will of King Viserys Targaryen. Filed under my watch at the Citadel to prevent tampering. It names Rhaenyra as his uncontested heir.”
Lyonel Strong stepped forward, the weight of his presence cutting through the tension. With deliberate care, he unrolled the ancient parchment bearing the seal of the Citadel. The edges were worn, but the words—Viserys’ words—were clear and undeniable.
“As filed with the Archmaesters themselves,” Lyonel said, his voice smooth and unwavering, “this will not only names Rhaenyra Targaryen as the rightful heir to the Iron Throne—but it also explicitly excludes any other claimants born of Queen Alicent Hightower.”
A breathless silence fell over the chamber. Alicent’s lips parted as if the air had been stolen from her lungs.
“No…” she whispered, shaking her head in disbelief. “That cannot be.”
“It is,” Rhaenyra said coolly, her eyes gleaming with triumph. “My father’s intentions were never unclear—only obscured by your father’s ambition. Your children were never meant to sit the throne, Alicent. Not Aegon. Not Aemond. Not Daeron. No path exists for them now—or ever.”
Alicent staggered back a step, her composure crumbling. “Viserys—he wouldn’t—he loved his sons…”
“He loved his realm more,” Rhaenyra cut in sharply. “And he knew your father would tear it apart if given the chance. This will is his final word—sealed beyond your father’s reach.”
Lyonel extended the parchment toward her, as if daring her to refute what she could see with her own eyes. “You may read it for yourself, Your Grace—though it will offer you no comfort.”
Alicent’s hands trembled at her sides, fists curling tight with impotent fury. Everything she had fought for—everything she had sacrificed—was reduced to ash. Her sons had never stood a chance. All these years, all her prayers, all her grief… and it had been for nothing.
Alicent’s breath hitched—too loud in the heavy silence.
Otto’s face twisted with fury. “Lies. You would fabricate—”
“Enough,” Rhaenyra cut him off. “I have no need of forgeries. I already hold another copy of my father’s will. One delivered to me by someone you hoped loyal to you.”
A cruel smile touched her lips. “Your last child lives. But he no longer fights for you. Daeron has sworn his allegiance—to me.”
Alicent staggered back as if struck. Her hands trembled at her sides. “No,” she whispered, the last of her composure crumbling. “He wouldn’t—”
“He did,” Rhaenyra said, her voice cutting through Alicent’s denial like a blade. “Even he saw what you refuse to—this throne was never yours to take.”
Alicent’s face twisted with anguish. “I did everything to protect them,” she said, her voice cracking. “Everything. And still…”
“You did everything to hold power,” Rhaenyra countered, stepping closer. “And you lost them because of it.”
For a long, excruciating moment, Alicent stood frozen—her carefully constructed world collapsing around her.
Alicent’s face twisted with rage as the truth of her defeat settled into her bones. The final blow—Daeron’s betrayal—was too much to bear. No prayers to the Seven could save her now, and there was no longer reason to hide the venom that had simmered beneath the surface for so many years.
“You speak of righteousness?” Alicent spat, her voice sharp enough to cut through the air. “You, who spread your legs for any man willing to warm your bed? Don’t dare preach to me about justice, Rhaenyra. You are no queen—you are a whore who has crawled to the throne over the corpses of better men.”
A low murmur rippled through the chamber at her words, but Rhaenyra did not flinch. She merely tilted her head, studying Alicent as if she were nothing more than a petulant child throwing a tantrum.
“Say what you mean, Alicent,” Rhaenyra said softly. “Spare us the pretense. You call my sons bastards. Say it plainly.”
Alicent’s lips curled into a cruel smile, bitterness dripping from every word. “They are bastards. Born of Harwin Strong and your wicked lies. You think a crown changes the truth? It does not. You think I didn’t know?” She laughed, a brittle, broken sound. “I knew the moment I laid eyes on Jacaerys—his black hair was proof enough. No Velaryon blood runs through his veins, or Lucerys’, or Joffrey’s. You dishonored yourself, your father, and the realm. And now you dare sit there and say you should be queen?”
Daemon shifted at her side, a flicker of fury in his violet eyes, but Rhaenyra placed a calming hand on his arm. This was her battle. She would finish it herself.
“I see,” Rhaenyra mused, voice calm and cutting. “You think yourself pure, Alicent. Righteous. But your righteousness is nothing more than envy dressed in a holy cloak. You call my sons bastards not because you care for the laws of succession—but because it burns you that I was loved. That I was free.”
Alicent’s face went pale with fury. “You mistake me if you think I ever envied your depravity.”
“No,” Rhaenyra countered, a dangerous smile curling her lips. “I think I understand you perfectly. You slimmed into my father’s bed with my mother’s and brother’s ashes barely cold. You married into the blood of Old Valyria, but you never tried to understand us. Targaryens are not like other houses. We love fiercely and without shame. My husband understood this—so did Harwin. You clutch your faith like a shield because you cannot fathom a world where love does not come in a single, tidy box.”
“Love?” Alicent snapped. “Is that what you call it? Bedding your sworn shield while your lawful husband turned a blind eye? Seducing your uncle, too, when it suited your ambitions? Don’t speak to me of love. You have no idea what it means to be faithful—to carry a burden that was not of your choosing.”
“And yet,” Rhaenyra said, voice steel-edged, “I loved them all, in ways you will never understand. My marriage was stronger for it. My sons—my trueborn sons—are mine because they came from my body. It is through me that their claim to the throne is secured. Not their father, not their hair or their eyes. Me. I carried them in my body and my blood runs through their bodies”
Alicent shook her head, trembling with rage. “They are illegitimate. And you know it.”
“You forget yourself,” Rhaenyra said coldly, her patience wearing thin. “Your Seven did not place me here—my blood did. My father’s will, unbroken and unaltered, names me his heir. No slander from you can undo that.”
Alicent’s breath quickened, her composure cracking further. “If Viserys had seen the truth—if he had known what you had done—he would never have allowed it.”
“He knew,” Rhaenyra snapped, her mask of calm slipping for the first time. “My father knew and he chose me still. You think your whispers could ever undo that? You think your piety made you better? No. All your faith, all your plotting—and where has it left you? Your children are lost to you—dead, captured or safe beyond your grasping reach. Your house crumbles around you. And still, I remain.”
The words struck like a hammer blow. Alicent swayed on her feet, her hands clenched at her sides. For so long, she had lived in the belief that her cause was just—that her faith and duty would be rewarded. But there was no reward. There was no justice. Only loss.
“You fought to take something that was never within your grasp,” Rhaenyra said, her voice softer now, but no less powerful. “And now that you’ve lost, what do you have left, Alicent? Empty prayers? A dead son? The echoes of a dying house?”
Tears welled in Alicent’s eyes, but she refused to let them fall. Her pride would not allow it—not before Rhaenyra.
Alicent’s voice trembled one final time. “You have your victory, Rhaenyra,” she said bitterly. “But it will not bring you peace. The crown poisons all who wear it.”
Rhaenyra gazed at the woman who had once been her friend—who had become her greatest enemy.
“I did not ask for peace,” she said quietly. “I asked for what was mine. And now, it is.”