закрыть
 |
|
|
 |
|
|
|
Otto did not flinch. He gave a single nod. Ser Criston Cole, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, moved with the speed of a viper. The old lord’s head struck the table. Once. Twice. Blood pooled on the carved dragon map of Westeros. No one else spoke.
Not in fire—but in . Meleys the Red Queen, the swiftest dragon in the realm, burst from the ground in a shower of rubble and dust. The crowd screamed. The kingsguard drew their swords. Aegon stumbled, his crown nearly falling from his head.
She believed it. Or she needed to.
Her father, Ser Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, saw only opportunity. “The king is dead,” he announced to the gathered lords. “Long live .” A Casa do Dragao- 1-9 1-- Temporada - Episodio 9...
Rhaenys saw it: not a queen, but a mother. The same look Rhaenyra would have. The same terror. The same love.
No answer came. Only the distant roar of a dragon flying east, toward the coming storm.
Alicent stepped forward, arms spread wide, shielding her son. Not with a sword. Not with a spell. But with her own body. Otto did not flinch
Princess Rhaenys, having escaped her guards not through violence but through the chaos of the city, did not flee. She descended into the darkness below the arena.
For one eternal moment, Rhaenys and Meleys stared down at the usurper and his mother. The dragon’s maw opened, a furnace of orange light building in her throat.
From that moment, the Green Council was forged in silence and steel. While the men plotted to find and crown the wayward Prince Aegon, Alicent fought a different war. She slipped through the secret passages of Maegor’s Holdfast, her lantern a single flame in the dark. She found Rhaenys Targaryen, the Queen Who Never Was, imprisoned in her chambers. The old lord’s head struck the table
Rhaenys looked at her with cold, weary eyes. “You have already lit the fire, Alicent. You are simply too close to feel the heat.”
King Viserys Targaryen, the First of His Name, had passed in the night, his rotting body finally releasing its hold on the Iron Throne. But before the sun could paint the towers of King’s Landing gold, the rats began to move.
The floor of the Dragonpit erupted.
“I don’t want it,” he sobbed as his mother knelt before him.
Meanwhile, the search for Aegon descended into farce. The young prince—a drunkard, a lecher, a boy who preferred the fighting pits to the throne—was found hiding in a crawlspace beneath the Dragonpit, reeking of wine and fear.