Long May She Reign
Chapter 32- Long May She Reign
The council chamber was quiet, save for the crackling of the hearth and the faint scratching of quills as scribes recorded the momentous decisions being made. At the head of the table, Queen Rhaenyra sat tall and composed, the weight of her new reign resting upon her shoulders. At her right, Laenor Velaryon, her king consort, leaned forward slightly, fingers drumming against the polished wood in a steady rhythm. His presence was one of quiet authority—earned not just through birth but through the trials they had all endured.
Across from them stood Lord Lyonel Strong, his face lined with age and weariness but still sharp with intellect. Beside him, his eldest daughter, Alana, waited with an expression of quiet expectation.
Rhaenyra lifted a parchment, breaking the silence. “You have served my father and me with unwavering loyalty, Lord Lyonel. House Strong has proven itself time and again. For that, you have my gratitude.” She slid the sealed document toward him. “You are free to retire, as I promised you.”
Lyonel exhaled, his shoulders sagging just slightly. “I thank you, Your Grace. It has been an honor.”
Laenor leaned forward, offering a wry smile. “And yet, you do not leave House Strong without a legacy.” His gaze shifted to Lyonel’s daughter. “The realm has long needed more wisdom in the council—wisdom that does not age out of its usefulness.”
Alana inclined her head in silent acknowledgment.
Rhaenyra’s tone was firm but warm. “You will serve as Master of Laws, if you will accept it.”
A flicker of surprise passed over the woman’s face, but she recovered quickly, bowing her head. “I would be honored, Your Grace.”
Laenor sat back, satisfied. “Then that is settled.”
Rhaenyra turned to the second parchment in her hand, her expression darkening. “As for your son…”
Lyonel nodded, already knowing what was coming.
“Larys Strong is to take the black,” Rhaenyra declared. “He will serve his remaining days at the Wall.”
Lyonel let out a slow breath. “A fitting end. Kinslaying is a curse I will not bring upon my house.”
Rhaenyra regarded him for a long moment, then inclined her head. “Your house remains strong, Lord Lyonel. You have my word.”
Lyonel, relieved, bowed deeply before stepping back. His daughter, now a newly minted council member, followed suit.
As they left, Rhaenys stepped forward, her hands clasped before her. “And the position of Hand?”
Rhaenyra’s lips curled into a faint smile. “Who better than the Queen Who Never Was?”
Laenor chuckled, casting Rhaenys a knowing look. “Now that will keep the lords on their toes.”
Rhaenys merely arched a brow. “Someone must.”
The room settled into a satisfied hum of approval. The pieces were falling into place—stronger than before, bound together by loyalty, blood, and the lessons of war.
***********
The air in Oldtown had shifted. Gone were the green lights that once bathed the towering spire of the Hightower in an eerie glow, a symbol of Hightower defiance and ambition. Now, the tower stood dark, awaiting the rebirth of its purpose.
Daemon Targaryen strode through the halls of the once-proud fortress, his black and red cloak trailing behind him. He had always preferred the roar of battle to the intricacies of governance, but he would make this city a testament to House Targaryen, as it should have been from the start. The Citadel would no longer resist the will of the crown; it would embrace the ancient roots it had tried to bury.
A gathering awaited him in the grand hall—maesters, lords, and a select group of scholars and builders who would oversee the transformation of Oldtown. Among them stood the Celtigars, their crimson-cloaked heir, Adrian Celtigar, beside them, an eager glint in his eyes. The betrothal had been finalized. The Tyrells had lost their seat, their power clipped, and their heir would marry into the Celtigar line to ensure their loyalty.
Daemon smirked, taking his seat at the head of the hall. “I trust the arrangements are progressing?”
Lord Celtigar gave a firm nod. “The Citadel has been… resistant, but they understand that change is inevitable.”
“They always do when a dragon lands on their doorstep.” Daemon’s voice carried amusement, though his eyes held no warmth.
A maester—one of the few who had not fought against the crown’s reforms—cleared his throat. “The records of Valyria are being restored to prominence, as you commanded. The knowledge lost after the Doom will no longer be shrouded by Westerosi superstition.”
Daemon’s gaze flicked toward the model of Old Valyria, the very same one Viserys had spent years perfecting. It had been moved to the Hightower, now to be renamed and rebuilt.
“Three towers,” Daemon murmured, tracing his fingers along the design etched before him. “One for each of the Conquerors.”
Lucerys stepped into the room. “I will ensure runes are inlaid within the stone itself. The towers will glow red when the realm calls upon the might of House Targaryen.”
Daemon grinned. “No more green. Good.”
The meeting continued, but Daemon’s thoughts drifted for a moment. He would carve a place for himself here—not the legacy he had once envisioned, but one that would shape the future nonetheless.
The past had been buried, and from its ashes, Oldtown would rise anew—Targaryen in heart, history, and fire.
*********
The wind carried the scent of sea salt and earth as the ship docked in Lannisport, its sails adorned with the sigil of House Velaryon. On the deck, Prince Daeron Targaryen gazed at the city before him, its white walls gleaming in the morning light. Beside him stood Jacaerys Velaryon and Cregan Stark, the Northern lord looking as at ease on the deck of a ship as he would in the snow-laden forests of his homeland.
“This is the first,” Daeron murmured, eyes flicking toward the plot of land where the new temple would be built. “A place where the Fourteen Flames will burn once more.”
“And not the last,” Jace added, stepping beside him. “Between you and the Starks, the Seven Kingdoms will be filled with fire and trees both.”
Cregan smirked. “A balance. If this realm is to remain strong, it must honor the old and the new.”
Daeron turned to him, nodding. “The Targaryens brought fire to Westeros, but fire without root is wild, uncontrollable. If the Starks and their kin plant their weirwoods, and I raise temples in the name of the Fourteen, perhaps we can shape a land that does not tear itself apart over gods.”
Jace clapped a hand on Daeron’s shoulder. “Rhaenyra was wise to decree religious freedom. The people have fought too long over faith, and it has won them nothing but suffering.”
Daeron’s expression was calm but resolute. “The Faith of the Seven has ruled unchecked for too long. They wield their influence like a sword. But the world is vast, and Westeros is not without its own histories. I mean to remind them of that.”
Cregan chuckled, the deep sound rolling like distant thunder. “You sound like a king.”
Daeron arched a brow. “A priest, not a king. It would be an affront to the fourteen for me to sit upon a throne.”
Jace grinned. “Perhaps not, but you travel like one. And when the time comes, your voice may hold more sway than any lord’s.”
The city buzzed with movement as the three men disembarked. In one square, a group of Northern men prepared the ground for a weirwood sapling, the red leaves stark against the stone. In another, builders were laying the foundation for a temple, where the fires of Valyria would soon burn once more.
It was a new Westeros they were building—one not ruled by fear or singular faith, but by the many paths its people chose to walk. And as Daeron, Jace, and Cregan strode forward, they knew they were shaping a future that would outlive them all.