Father was dead. After a mere three years since Summerhall. Rhaegar, now officially a prince, was only three, and yet heir to the throne. The silver-haired child was on her hip, his tiny hands tugging at a similarly silver strand of her much longer hair, though much of it was styled in an elegant bun. She’d have to start wearing a crown soon… a queen could not be seen without one.

The Throne room of the Red Keep was packed with Lords and Ladies, including some Lord Paramounts, such as their cousin Steffon Baratheon, or Tywin Lannister, heir to the Westerlands, who would more than likely become hand of the king the moment that crown touched her brother’s head.

The titanic black skulls of her family’s dragons watched on. At the foot of the dais containing her family’s monolithic throne of swords, the High Septon, the representative of the seven, in his shimmering crown of crystal lifted a heavy-looking crown of more earthly make.

”In the light of the seven, I now crown you… King Aerys, second of his name, king of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Long May He Reign!”