The Passing
Chapter 30- The Passing
The throne room had not yet settled from the confrontation when the heavy doors groaned open again. Ser Harrold Westerling stepped through, his silvered hair catching the torchlight. His face—always a mask of duty—was drawn tight with something heavier. Something final. The clang of his boots against the stone rang through the chamber as he crossed the floor, every eye turning toward him.
He stopped at the foot of the Iron Throne. His gaze swept past Alicent, crumpled in shock, and Otto, whose face had gone ashen beneath his beard. It settled on Rhaenyra.
The old knight knelt. “Your Grace,” he said, bowing his head low. “Viserys Targaryen, first of his name, has passed.”
The words struck the room like a hammer. For all the fighting, the secrets, and the betrayals—Viserys had still been their king. And now, he was gone.
Ser Harrold lifted his head, his voice steady and clear. “I swear my sword to you, Rhaenyra Targaryen. Queen Rhaenyra, First of Her Name. Long may you reign.”
The title hung heavy in the air. For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then, one by one, the guards within the chamber bent the knee. The gold cloaks—Daemon’s men—moved first, their loyalty unquestioned. But even the red-cloaked guards and white cloaks of the Kingsguard followed, kneeling in solemn unity.
Rhaenyra stood tall before them, but her heart twisted painfully in her chest. Her father—her greatest protector—was dead. The man who had fought against tradition and the world itself to name her his heir. For all their years of distance and all his weaknesses, he had loved her. He secretly made plans to ensure her rule would be unquestioned. And now, the burden of his legacy rested on her shoulders alone.
Daemon stepped closer, his voice low and edged with something gentler than usual. “You did it, Rhaenyra,” he murmured. “The city is yours. The throne is yours.”
But there was no triumph in her heart. Only a hollow ache.
*******************
In the queen’s apartments, Alicent Hightower sat frozen. Her hands trembled in her lap, the soft green silk of her gown wrinkled beneath her grip. She barely registered the guards who stood watch outside her chamber, ensuring she remained confined. All she could hear was the echo of Ser Harrold’s words.
Viserys was dead.
Her husband—her king—was gone. And everything she had clung to, every hope she had nurtured for her children, had died with him. The will had shattered any illusions of their claim. Aegon—her golden, broken boy—was gone. Helaena was cold in her grave. Aemond, lost to the sea. Only Daeron remained, and even he had turned from her.
This was her reward for all her sacrifices. For her faith. For her duty.
“You fought to take something that was never within your grasp,” Rhaenyra had said. The words burned like poison in her heart.
A single tear slipped down her cheek.
***************
In the family solar of the Red Keep, the family gathered in a heavy silence. No banners hung in celebration. No cheers rang for their victory. There was only the quiet crackle of the hearth and the weight of loss hanging over them.
Luke sat near the fire, his hands curled into fists on his knees. His face was pale, his shoulders tense with a weight too heavy for a boy to bear.
“I could’ve saved him,” he said softly, breaking the silence. “If I had learned more—if I’d tried harder—”
“You did more than anyone else could,” Laenor said, sitting beside him. His hand was warm on Luke’s shoulder, grounding him. “The draughts you brewed saved our men. They secured your mother’s throne. No one could’ve saved the king—not even you.”
Daemon leaned against the wall, his voice quieter than usual. “Viserys lingered because of his love for your mother. That love gave us time—time to prepare, time to strike without blood soaking the streets.” He met Luke’s troubled gaze. “You gave him that time.”
Luke swallowed hard, blinking back tears. “It doesn’t feel like enough.”
“It never does,” Rhaenyra said softly. She stood nearby, her face pale but composed. “But you must remember this, my sweet boy—my claim comes through me. Not my husband. Not my sons. Me.” Her voice grew stronger. “I am my father’s heir. And because of all of you—Daemon, Laenor, Harwin, you—no one can take that from me.”
Her words hung in the air, a declaration not just for them—but for herself.
Laenor spoke then, his deep voice measured. “Viserys will be remembered as the last peaceful king of his line. His reign was fragile—but his choice in you was firm. He never wavered in that, Rhaenyra. And neither should you.”
The room settled into a deeper quiet as they all absorbed the truth of those words. Whatever storms lay ahead, Viserys’ death had marked the end of an era—and the beginning of hers.
“We’ll mourn him,” Rhaenyra said at last. “He deserves that much.” She turned to Daemon, her voice softer. “Prepare the funeral rites. He will be laid to rest in the tradition of House Targaryen.”
Daemon inclined his head, his expression unreadable. “It will be done.”
Rhaenyra exhaled slowly, the weight of the crown pressing against her soul. Her father was gone—but his dream lived on. Through her.
And she would not fail him.
******************
The sea winds whipped through the air as Moondancer and Morning descended upon Dragonstone, their wings casting long shadows over the castle courtyard. The smell of salt and smoke still clung to Baela and Rhaena as they dismounted, faces flushed from the thrill of battle. Behind them, the blackened ruins of the Ironborn fleet were nothing but a memory—and the loyalty of the West was now firmly secured for their mother’s cause.
Baela grinned as she stretched her arms overhead, muscles still buzzing with adrenaline. “I think that went well,” she said, flicking a glance at her sister.
Rhaena rolled her eyes but smiled all the same. “Burning an entire fleet is ‘well’ now?”
“When it’s the enemy’s fleet? Absolutely.”
Their laughter faded as the sound of rapid footsteps echoed across the stone. Both girls turned—only to find their mother waiting. Laena Velaryon stood at the edge of the courtyard, arms folded, and if her face was calm, the sharpness in her gaze betrayed her worry.
“You must think yourselves very clever,” Laena said, her voice cool as the breeze rolling off the sea.
Baela stiffened, but Rhaena was the first to speak. “We were only doing what needed to be done—”
“What needed to be done,” Laena interrupted, her tone soft but cutting, “was for you to stay here. Where it was safe.” She took a step forward, her silver braids glinting in the sun. “You rode into battle without a word, without a plan. What if something had happened to you?”
Baela shifted uncomfortably. “But nothing did.”
“And you’re very lucky for that,” Laena snapped. “Dragonriders are not invincible, Baela. You know that better than most.”
Rhaena lowered her head slightly. “We couldn’t let the Ironborn burn Lannisport,” she said quietly. “They would’ve destroyed everything if we hadn’t acted.”
For a moment, their mother was silent. Then she exhaled slowly, shaking her head. “Your father is a terrible influence.”
“Speaking of terrible influences,” another voice cut in. Rhaenys Targaryen emerged from the shadows of the castle, her ruby-colored cloak fluttering around her ankles. Her lips curved faintly as she surveyed her granddaughters. “I wonder where they get that from.”
Laena scoffed, but a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “I’m sure you had nothing to do with it,” she said dryly.
Rhaenys lifted an elegant brow. “I seem to recall a certain girl sneaking off at fourteen to chase down Vhagar.”
“I knew you’d bring that up.” Laena shook her head, though her eyes sparkled with reluctant amusement. “At least I left a note.”
“And I left nothing but scorch marks when I slipped into the Dragonpit to claim Meleys,” Rhaenys mused, her voice rich with memory. “Of course, arriving at my wedding on dragonback might’ve been a bit much.”
“A bit?” Laena laughed softly. “Father says he nearly choked on his wine.”
Rhaenys’ smile turned fond. “It doesn’t hurt to show your husband and the realm that you are formidable.”
The two women shared a rare, quiet laugh—one laced with nostalgia and more than a little exasperation.
“You know this is Daemon’s fault,” Laena added, shaking her head. “They inherited his reckless streak.”
“Of course,” Rhaenys agreed smoothly. “Though, if I recall, you married him knowing exactly what he was.”
Laena sighed, but there was no real heat behind it. “Unfortunately.”
Meanwhile, Baela tugged at Rhaena’s arm, inching away while their mother and grandmother remained distracted. “Before they remember they’re supposed to be furious—”
“I’m right behind you,” Rhaena whispered, and together they slipped back into the castle halls.
They hadn’t gotten far before a familiar voice rang out behind them.
“And where do you two think you’re going?”
Jacaerys stood leaning against a pillar, arms crossed over his chest. His face, as usual, was too serious for his years—but the corners of his mouth twitched with amusement.
Baela groaned. “Not you too.”
“You rode off to battle without telling anyone,” Jace said, raising an eyebrow. “What were you thinking?”
Rhaena gave an innocent shrug. “We were thinking that someone had to clean up the mess.”
“Or are you upset that you still polishing your sword while we handled the hard work?” Baela added sweetly.
Jace shook his head, laughing softly. “I start wars—”
“And we finish them,” Rhaena finished for him, flashing a triumphant grin.
Before he could respond, the girls darted past him, their laughter echoing through the stone corridors. Jace watched them go, shaking his head in mock disbelief.
“Trouble,” he muttered to himself. “Nothing but trouble.”