Chapter 12: The Hand's Shadow
The Red Keep hummed with an unusual tension, a hushed anticipation that had settled over King's Landing since the abrupt, and conveniently wild, demise of Otto Hightower six years prior. In the vacuum left by the Hand, King Viserys had relied heavily on his small council, but increasingly, his gaze fell upon the quiet, steady presence of Prince Raegon. The King's health, though rarely spoken of, was visibly fading, a subtle tremor in his hands, a weariness in his eyes that no maester's potion could truly banish. The realm needed a strong Hand.
Raegon, meanwhile, continued his duties as Master of Laws, his reforms slowly but surely weaving a tighter web of order across the Seven Kingdoms. His days were long, but his nights often ended in the quiet solace of his apartments with Rhaenyra. One evening, as the city lights twinkled below, Rhaenyra turned to him, a soft smile gracing her lips, her eyes alight with a secret joy.
"My love," she murmured, taking his hand and placing it gently on her belly, "it seems the gods are blessing our house once more."
Raegon's brow furrowed for a moment, then softened as understanding bloomed. His heart swelled. "Twins?" he asked, a hopeful grin spreading across his face. Rhaenyra's laugh, clear and bright, was all the answer he needed. Another pair of children, more proof of their enduring bond, more strength for their burgeoning family. He already looked forward to their arrival, eager to meet the two new additions to their vibrant, growing brood.
The formal announcement came two moons later, just after the first whispers of Rhaenyra's pregnancy began to circulate. King Viserys, pale but resolute on the Iron Throne, faced a hushed court. "For years," his voice resonated, though with a slight tremble, "I have sought a Hand whose loyalty is absolute, whose wisdom is unmatched, and whose strength can guide this realm through any storm. Otto Hightower served me, and the realm, until his tragic passing. But the time has come for a new hand to guide my kingdom."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over the assembled lords and ladies, lingering briefly on Alicent, whose face was a mask of careful composure. Then, his eyes landed on Raegon.
"My eldest son, Prince Raegon Targaryen, has proven himself time and again. As Master of Laws, he has brought justice and order. As a warrior, he has faced down foes. As a man, he embodies the very essence of Targaryen strength and purpose. Therefore, it is with the fullest confidence that I name my son, Raegon, Hand of the King."
A collective gasp swept through the throne room, followed by a ripple of murmurs. For many, it was a moment of relief, a confirmation of the natural order after Jaehaerys's decree. For others, particularly those aligned with Alicent and her brood, it was a bitter pill. Alicent's carefully constructed mask wavered, a flash of undisguised fury in her eyes before she regained control. The heir was now the King's primary instrument, his authority undeniable.
The elevation to Hand meant Raegon's days were busier than ever, yet he found moments for all his children. It was during one such moment, as he was drilling with his Dragon's Teeth in the castle yard, that he felt a small tug on his tunic. He turned to find Aemond, Alicent's youngest son, then six years old, standing there, his singular violet eye fixed on Raegon with an intensity that belied his age.
Aemond, dragonless like his older brother Aegor, often observed the dragonriders with a quiet yearning. He had witnessed Raegon mount Alduin, the immense beast shaking the very foundations of the Dragonpit. Perhaps it was the shared Targaryen blood, or perhaps the child recognized a strength he yearned to emulate.
"Brother Raegon," Aemond began, his voice small but firm, "I… I want to learn. I want to be like you. Will you... will you take me as your squire?"
The request hung in the air. Aemond, the son of Alicent, the boy whose mother sought to undermine his claim, now sought to learn at his knee. Raegon looked at the small, determined face, remembering his own yearning for purpose, his own early days. This was not just a boy seeking a mentor; this was a strategic opportunity. If Aemond could be guided, if he could learn loyalty to the true line of Targaryen, it would be a powerful counter to Alicent's machinations.
Raegon knelt, placing a hand on Aemond's shoulder. "Aemond," he said, his voice firm but kind, "you are a prince of the blood, and you carry the spirit of the dragon within you. I would be honored to guide you. From this day forward, you are my squire."
Aemond's face lit up, a rare, bright smile transforming his often stern expression. He threw his small arms around Raegon's leg in an uncharacteristic embrace. Alicent, observing from a nearby balcony, saw the exchange. Her lips thinned, her composure finally breaking into a flicker of outrage. Her own son, Aemond, had just willingly pledged himself to Raegon, the very man she saw as her family's greatest obstacle. The move was calculated, undeniable, and publicly humiliating.
Raegon felt the weight of the Hand's pin on his chest, a heavier burden now that his duties extended to guiding not just the realm, but the very hearts of his family, both by blood and by circumstance. He looked up at the vast sky, where Alduin sometimes circled. The game had escalated, and Raegon was now at the heart of it, Hand and heir, his shadow lengthening over King's Landing.