Your Grace, the dragonseed riders have not been compensated. Your Grace, somebody removed every coin in the treasury…somewhere we can’t find. Your Grace, the granaries are dry and your subjects, the people of King’s Landing, starve. Your Grace! (No tallow for Red Keep candles) Your Grace! (No designated Queensguard) Your Grace! (No end to claims against the royal tipple). A fidgety, frustrated Rhaenyra looks down at a rat burrowing beside the Iron Throne.