Game of Thrones: Lord of the Flames

Looking at King's Landing, now transformed beyond recognition, Shireen Baratheon's eyes glimmered with emotion.

She remembered when she had left this city for Oldtown and the Citadel. Back then, King's Landing had been shrouded in snow and darkness.

Thirty years later, Westeros's greatest city had grown even larger, more prosperous than ever before.

And Shireen was no longer the helpless girl once tormented by greyscale.

The heavy chain around her neck, forged from metals of various colors, symbolized her extraordinary achievements in fields like medicine, mysticism, history, and more.

"Miss Shireen?" The gates of the city swung open as a knight rode out on horseback.

"It's me." Shireen stepped forward.

The knight dismounted, removed his helm, and revealed a youthful, energetic face.

On the breastplate of his armor was emblazoned a sigil of three golden sheaves of wheat—a hallmark of House Selmy of Harvest Hall.

"Welcome to King's Landing, Miss Shireen. I am Leonor of House Selmy."

"Hello, Leonor." Shireen returned the smile. "I heard that Lord Barristan recently passed away. My condolences—he was your great-grandfather, correct?"

"Yes." Leonor's expression softened. "But my great-grandfather lived over a century. It was his time to return to the gods. He served His Majesty, King Caesar, fought in the Long Night… He had no regrets left in this world."

With a wistful wave of his riding crop, the knight added, "If only I could have stood beside His Majesty, King Caesar and fought by his side. I wouldn't have minded dying to the White Walkers. Alas, I wasn't even born during the Long Night."

"Every young knight in the Seven Kingdoms feels the same way," Shireen said with a smile. "Come, let's enter the city. How is Grand Maester Qyburn's health these days?"

"He's holding up," Leonor replied, remounting his horse and leading the way. "But he's in his eighties now. His energy isn't what it used to be, which is why he wrote to the Citadel asking for an assistant."

Shireen nodded and fell silent.

When the Citadel chose to send her to King's Landing, the decision had sparked significant controversy—even outright skepticism.

While Qyburn had requested an assistant, everyone understood the truth: the aged Grand Maester would likely not be able to continue in his role much longer. The "assistant" was, in all but name, his successor.

And yet the Citadel had chosen to send a woman.

Shireen had faced resistance when she became the first female maester in the Citadel's history. The prospect of her becoming the first female Grand Maester only deepened that opposition.

Thirty years ago, such pressure would have left Shireen sleepless with anxiety.

Now, she faced it with equanimity.

Deep down, Shireen was even glad to return to King's Landing—a chance to see certain familiar faces…

The group entered the city, passing through the crowded, bustling streets before reaching the Red Keep.

As they stepped inside, a servant rushed forward, his face frantic.

"Is this Miss Shireen from the Citadel?"

"Yes, that's me."

"The queen is in labor! His Majesty requests your immediate assistance in the birthing chamber!"

"I'll go right away."

Shireen didn't complain. This was her job, after all.

She also understood why this birth carried such gravity. His Majesty's King Octavian's struggle to produce an heir was no secret, and the queen's delivery was a matter of immense concern to many.

After quickly preparing her tools, Shireen followed the guards to Maegor's Holdfast.

Outside the birthing chamber, she encountered the current King of the Seven Kingdoms.

He had steadfast brown eyes, shoulder-length curly hair, and a face strikingly similar to a certain someone from the past. Upon his head was not the famous ruby-studded Valyrian steel crown, but a golden circlet adorned with multicolored gemstones.

It was said that when Octavian came of age, he initially had no intention of claiming the throne.

After all, Caesar had not died—he merely slumbered. No one knew when he might awaken.

The consensus among the small council had been to appoint Octavian as Regent and Protector of the Realm, allowing him to govern the Seven Kingdoms in his father's stead.

But on the night of the meeting, the councilors reportedly shared the same dream: a vision of His Majesty King Caesar. The High Septon also claimed to have received divine guidance from Caesar.

The very next day, Octavian was crowned King.

"Miss Shireen, I entrust Janey to you," the King said, grasping her hand earnestly.

The Janey he referred to was Queen Janey of House Hightower.

Gentle in nature and beloved by the people, Queen Janey had always struggled with frail health. She had suffered three pregnancies before this one—two ending in miscarriage, and one in a stillbirth.

This time, her labor had everyone on edge.

"Don't worry, Your Majesty. I will do my best."

With that, Shireen entered the birthing chamber.

Octavian waited outside, pacing with growing agitation as time dragged on.

Two days and nights passed. The queen still hadn't delivered.

Frustrated, Octavian stormed into the room, berating everyone present as useless. It took his Queen Mother Margaery's scolding to drive him out.

From there, Octavian went straight to the Great Sept.

Within the sacred space, the statues of the Seven stood tall and solemn. At the center, where their gazes converged, was a white alabaster dais holding a crystal coffin.

Ascending the steps, Octavian approached the coffin.

Through its transparent cover, he could see his father lying peacefully within.

Thirty years had passed. Octavian himself had grown from a toddling child into a decisive ruler. Yet his father hadn't aged a day, his face untouched by time.

The Seven Kingdoms often whispered that King Samwell Caesar had become a new god after slaying the Night King and ending the Long Night.

The body in the coffin was merely a vessel left behind.

"Father… have you truly become a god?" Octavian murmured. "If so, please protect Janey."

He knelt before his father's coffin, not praying to the Seven, but to the man within.

Afterward, Octavian left the Great Sept and encountered the Red Priestess Melisandre at the door.

"Your Majesty," she greeted.

"Lady Melisandre." An idea struck Octavian. "Before I was born, you foretold to my father that my mother would bear a son. Tell me—will Janey give birth to a son or a daughter?"

Melisandre studied him for a moment, then shook her head.

"Your Majesty, you must know that prophecy is often fraught with error. Did I not once tell His Majesty King Caesar he would have thirteen children? Clearly, I was mistaken."

"In that, you certainly were," Octavian said. "My father has only five children."

Before the Long Night, Caesar had fathered Octavian with Queen Margaery and Rhaenys with Queen Daenerys.

Later, during the War of the Neck, Daenerys bore twins—Aegon and Aemon.

Caesar also had a daughter, Aliria, with Lady Nathalie Dayne of Dorne. However, because Caesar had not married Nathalie, Aliria was considered illegitimate.

Still, Caesar's relationship with Nathalie had been an open secret. Many believed he had intended to wed her after the war but never got the chance.

"I wasn't entirely wrong, Your Majesty," Melisandre said. "Perhaps those thirteen were never meant to be his children… but his descendants."

She began to list:

"Prince Aegon and Lady Diana Tarly have two children: Daeron and Elenora.

Prince Aemon and Lady Cyra Lannister have one son, Lucian.

Princess Rhaenys, now of Riverrun, has four children."

"Even including the grandchildren, my father only has twelve descendants," Octavian calculated. "If Janey gives birth, then it will be thirteen."

"Private offspring count too, Your Majesty," Melisandre added ominously.

Octavian's expression darkened.

He knew exactly what she meant—not his father's bastards, but his own.

"You know too much," he muttered.

"So according to your calculation, Jenny is doomed to fail to give birth to a child this time?"

"Your Majesty," Melisandre replied, "prophecy is a treacherous web. Sometimes, ignorance is a blessing."

Octavian pursed his lips and said stiffly:

"But you have already told me the answer."

Octavian clenched his fists, suppressing a storm of emotions as he turned and left.

He didn't get far before a servant rushed up, panic etched on her face.

"Your Majesty, the Queen… she…"

"What happened?" Fear gripped him.

"The Queen… she didn't make it…"

"Get out of here!" Octavian shoved past her and ran to the birthing chamber.

The room reeked of blood and despair.

"I'm sorry, Your Majesty," Shireen said, exhaustion lining her face. "We did all we could, but we couldn't save her."

Octavian froze, staring at the blood-soaked bed.

After a long silence, he croaked, "The child…?"

Shireen pointed to a cradle nearby.

Octavian staggered over and looked down.

Inside lay a lifeless infant, its body covered in scales and a thick, reptilian tail coiled around it.

It was dead.

....

The great sept was shrouded in smoke and flickering candlelight.

Queen Janey and her newborn's bodies lay silently before the Stranger's statue.

Hundreds of candles illuminated the room, their soft glow lighting the mother and child's path to the afterlife.

King Octavian stood before their coffins, head bowed, his unkempt beard framing a face marked with deep exhaustion.

With a creak, the great doors of the sept opened, and the sound of light, deliberate footsteps echoed through the space.

"Leave. I want to be alone," Octavian said without turning his head.

"How long do you plan to wallow in solitude?"

At the sound of that voice, Octavian spun around abruptly.

"Mother? Why are you here?"

Margaery Tyrell, Queen Mother of the Seven Kingdoms, walked in. Thirty years had passed since she was known as the Rose of Highgarden. Though age had taken her youth, it had gifted her a dignified elegance. She wore a flowing green gown edged in gold, exuding the poise and grace befitting a Queen mother.

"If I hadn't come, were you planning to lock yourself in here forever?"

"Of course not. I'm just… mourning."

Margaery stepped closer, lighting a candle and placing it gently before the coffins of Queen Janey and her stillborn child.

After a brief prayer, she turned to her son and said firmly, "Mourning has its limits."

"I don't understand!" Octavian burst out in frustration. "Why won't the gods grant me a son? And Father—didn't everyone say he's become a god himself? If so, why would he let this misfortune fall upon his own son?"

"You think gods are omnipotent?" Margaery asked sharply, her disappointment clear in her tone. "Your father spent his entire life proving one thing—that mankind need not bow to gods. He carried House Caesar's legacy on his shoulders with his own strength. And now you want to kneel and beg for divine intervention?"

"I… I didn't mean it that way," Octavian stammered, visibly flustered.

Margaery showed no intention of relenting. Her voice grew colder as she continued, "Your father is waging a war we mortals can neither understand nor imagine. As his firstborn and heir, you should be helping him, not burdening him with trivial matters—or worse, resenting him for your struggles!"

"I don't resent him, Mother," Octavian insisted, his voice trembling. "I'll pull myself together. Janey's death won't break me. I'm still young—I can remarry."

"Good," Margaery said, her tone softening slightly. She reached out, smoothing her son's disheveled hair. "There are still many suitable ladies among the Seven Kingdoms' great houses. I'll help you choose a new queen."

Octavian hesitated for a moment before replying, "Mother, I already have someone in mind."

"Oh? Which lady?"

"Aliria."

"Aliria?" Margaery froze. "Aliria Sand?"

"Aliria Caesar!" Octavian corrected firmly. "She carries Father's blood, just like me."

"But your father never formally married Lady Nathalie Dayne," Margaery said, frowning. "So—"

"But Aliria is Father's blood! And I am the King. I have the authority to legitimize her and restore the Caesar name to her!"

Margaery's expression grew stern. She asked in a low voice, "Have you already been involved with her? Is Helena…?"

"Yes," Octavian admitted without hesitation. "Helena is my daughter with Aliria, and I intend to give her a proper place in this family."

"This is outrageous!" Margaery snapped. "You're the King, yes, but that doesn't mean you can act recklessly!"

"I know Helena's situation is complicated," Octavian said, his tone resolute. "But she isn't my intended heir. Aliria has already proven she can bear me a child—a daughter. She can just as easily give me a son. A legitimate son.

A child whose parents are both pureblood Caesars.

Who would dare question his claim to the throne?"

Margaery still shook her head. "But you and Aliria are siblings. Half-siblings, but siblings nonetheless."

"It's the natural order for true dragonblood to intermarry!" Octavian declared. "Janey could never bear me a child. Perhaps her body was simply too weak to endure the dragon's bloodline."

"Rhaenys, Aegon, and Aemon all married non-dragonblooded spouses, yet they still have thriving families."

"Mother," Octavian interrupted, gripping her arm tightly. His voice was firm but laden with vulnerability. "Do you know how much pressure I've endured all these years? Do you know that some whisper behind my back that my dragon blood is impure?

If I face another 'Janey,' I will break.

Only Aliria can silence the doubters. She is a Caesar. She's already proven she can bear me children.

My next queen must be her."

Margaery gazed at her obstinate son for a long moment before finally sighing. "Very well. I'll write to Lady Nathalie."

"Thank you, Mother."

...

In the end, the King got his wish.

The marriage sparked some controversy, but no one could deny that Aliria was indeed Caesar's daughter. Though she had borne the surname Sand, she had always enjoyed the privileges of a princess.

Aliria had inherited her mother's beauty and charm, making her popular among the Seven Kingdoms' nobility.

While her status as an illegitimate child—and the fact that she was Octavian's half-sister—raised eyebrows, the relentless efforts of Queen Margaery ensured the wedding proceeded smoothly.

Even Queen Daenerys, who had resided on Dragonstone since Caesar's slumber, made a rare public appearance, flying her black dragon to King's Landing for the occasion.

Her daughter, Princess Rhaenys, and her sons, Princes Aegon and Aemon, attended with their families as well.

The event highlighted a stark contrast: while Margaery's branch of the family had produced only Octavian, Daenerys's branch had flourished.

Princess Rhaenys had four children. Prince Aegon had a son and a daughter. Prince Aemon had one son.

As House Caesar second and third generations gathered in the Red Keep, the difference was unmistakable.

Margaery's line seemed solitary. Daenerys's line brimmed with vitality.

The sight didn't escape the notice of the Seven Kingdoms' nobility.

If Queen Aliria failed to bear a son, the matter of succession might once again come to the forefront.

It's not just the issue of succession, there's also the issue of Queen Aliria's awkward identity, and the issue of the King forcibly marrying his own sister... Though these issues were suppressed for now, it was clear they would resurface at the right moment, with the right instigation.

At the wedding feast, Margaery wore a deep green gown embroidered with her family's golden roses, while Daenerys donned black robes adorned with the red three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.

The two women sat on the dais, smiling and chatting like old friends.

Below, Octavian and Aliria accepted blessings from nobles before stepping onto the Red Keep's battlements to greet the roaring crowds of King's Landing.

"Give me a son," Octavian whispered in his bride's ear.

He repeated it, firmly.

"I will," Aliria replied with a radiant smile.

(End of Chapter)