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Chapter Text

Prologue

Rhaenyra Targaryen’s childhood ended in blood.

In the year 105 AC, her mother, Queen Aemma Arryn, labored long and hard only to die in childbed, leaving behind a squalling infant daughter — Visenya.

The cries of the newborn rang through chambers still thick with grief. For many, it was a cruel reminder that the price of life was death. But to Rhaenyra, fifteen and motherless, the babe was a lifeline. She gathered Visenya into her arms as though the girl were hers to guard. She soothed her, sang to her, carried her through the halls with a devotion fierce enough to silence her own sorrow.

Yet Visenya was not her daughter. She was her sister. And in quiet moments Rhaenyra felt that truth keenly: they shared not only a father, but the same mother who had been taken from them both. Sometimes Visenya called her mother in the lisping way of the very young, and Rhaenyra corrected her softly — “Aemma was your mother. She was mine too.” And in those words lay both comfort and ache: two sisters, bound more tightly for what they had lost together.

Their father grieved in his own way. Viserys Targaryen was never the same after Aemma’s death. Once quick to laughter, his joy dulled, his shoulders bent beneath the weight of absence. He clung to Visenya with a desperate tenderness, as though the babe might mend the hollow Aemma had left. He looked to Rhaenyra too — sometimes with pride, sometimes with a sorrow she could not name — but always with a distance she felt like a wound. She loved him, longed for him, but already that love was cut with resentment.

And then, only six moons later, the bells tolled for his remarriage.

Alicent Hightower was no girl. At twenty, she was a woman grown, soft-spoken and careful, her eyes lowered, her hands folded in the manner of the pious. She had not been Rhaenyra’s companion, nor her friend. To Rhaenyra, she was a stranger — and yet she stepped with practiced grace into her mother’s place.

From the gallery, Rhaenyra watched the vows, her fists clenched in her lap. Her father smiled at Alicent in ways he no longer smiled at her. Courtiers bowed as though the woman had been born a queen. Soon her belly swelled, and Rhaenyra’s bitterness swelled with it.

And yet, in the shadow of that marriage, Viserys crowned his daughter.

The lords of the realm gathered to bear witness as Rhaenyra was declared Princess of Dragonstone, heir to the Iron Throne. A crown of thin gold was placed upon her head, and for a moment, pride blazed so fiercely in her father’s eyes that it scorched her resentment to ash. She was the Realm’s Delight, his chosen successor, and in that hour she felt taller than any queen.

But pride did not erase bitterness. The crown did not ease the ache of loss, nor soften the sight of Alicent seated in her mother’s place, heavy with child.

With her new title came duty. Courtiers whispered of suitors, names paraded before her like prizes at tourney. Rhaenyra listened, her chin high, her expression cool. She heard the murmurs about Laenor Velaryon — rich blood, strong fleet, but fraught with rumors she could not ignore. She smiled politely when pressed, but in her heart she doubted him.

It was Harwin Strong who stood differently in her thoughts. He was no grand prize, no glittering alliance, but solid as stone, warm in his laughter, and unflinching in his loyalty. Beside him she felt secure, not weighed or measured.

In time, when the choosing was forced upon her, Rhaenyra would know where her choice lay.

Chapter Text

Chapter One

The Red Keep had changed in eleven years. Its halls, once echoing with silence and grief, now rang with the clamor of children. Rhaenyra’s children.

She had chosen Harwin Strong as her husband in the years after her coronation, and never once had she regretted it. With him, life was simple, steady, and full. He had given her what she most needed: sons, strong and plentiful, each one loud with life.

Viserys the Younger came first, bold and bright-eyed, his laugh ringing as freely as his father’s. Maegor followed, quieter but sturdier, a boy who thought long before he spoke. Then came Jaehaerys — golden-haired like his grandsire, serious beyond his years, already a favorite of the septons. Aegon, three and unruly, was a storm of mischief. And the twins, still small in their cradle, shone fair as summer with their pale Targaryen locks.

Her father had once called her the Realm’s Delight, but here, amid her children and Harwin’s steady warmth, Rhaenyra felt something truer than delight. She felt whole.

She had chosen Harwin because he was secure — strong in limb, steady in spirit. There were no whispers of frailty, no uncertain rumors, unlike with Laenor Velaryon, who had once been pressed upon her as a match. She would not risk uncertainty. She would not repeat Aemma’s sorrow. With Harwin, her line was secure, her heart steadied. And there was joy too — his teasing when her temper flared, her laughter spilling until her ribs ached. With him, she was not Princess or heir. She was simply Rhaenyra.

And yet, Laenor had not been left behind. Despite the whispers that had hounded him since youth, he had taken a wife and sired two sons. Alyn, dark-haired and sharp-eyed, had been born the year after Rhaenyra’s Viserys. Addam, fairer in general but no less fiery, came in the same year Laena bore Baela. The court whispered still, as courts always do, but fatherhood had steadied Laenor. He walked the halls with his boys at either hand, proud, even defiant, daring any man to doubt them.

Rhaenyra had come to regard him with a strange fondness. Their paths had diverged, but there was no bitterness in it — only the quiet acknowledgment of choices made, and lives carved from them.

It was Laena’s arrival that stirred Dragonstone most. She came with Daemon beside her, her belly round with child, her daughters Baela and Rhaena running wild through the halls, and little Aelinor clutching close to her skirts. Beauty clung to her still, but there was weariness in her step — the heaviness of late pregnancy, the quiet shadows of grief waiting at the edges.

When Laena’s eyes found Rhaenyra’s across the great hall, her face softened, her lips curving in a smile meant only for her. Rhaenyra, who had laughed with Harwin not an hour before, felt something in her chest tighten.

Their hands brushed when they drew close, a fleeting touch, but enough to stir all the memories of girlhood spent together — the secrets shared, the glances that lingered too long, the wishes neither had dared to speak aloud. Rhaenyra guided Laena to a seat near the fire, her palm resting lightly at her cousin’s back, as though she might anchor her there.

Before the day had ended, Rhaenyra gathered her children, and Laena insisted on joining them, insisting that rhaenyra’s newborn twins deserved a proper start. The Red Keep’s dragon pit lay beneath the shadowed walls, a cavernous place of stone and fire, filled with the scent of brimstone and wings.

Above, the older dragons — Viserys with his black scales and silver membrane dragon, Maegor’s red with a light orange sheen, Jaehaerys in dark teal blue with golden highlights, and Visenya in green with pale blue membranes — circled gracefully, their riders guiding them with gentle skill. Only these dragons, all older than six years, were strong and patient enough to bear their masters safely. The younger dragons, still too small and fiery, watched from their ledges, restless and unclaimed.

Rhaenyra knelt beside the clutch of eggs, brushing her hand over the smooth shells. Baelon’s dark green egg gleamed faintly with gold veins, while Aemon’s deep red shell shimmered with silver in the torchlight. Her sons, wide-eyed, hovered near, their excitement mirrored in their young dragons’ restless movements as they watched their mother choose an egg for their young brothers.

Baela lingered near Maegor, eyes darting between the fire-scorched scales and her future betrothed. There was a subtle warmth in the air, a shared understanding. Even here, amid dragon eggs and sibling laughter, she and Maegor felt the first threads of connection that would one day bind them together. Rhaenyra’s heart tightened at the sight, recognizing that love and duty were already entwined, even in her children’s lives.

At night, when the halls quieted and only the sea’s sighs pressed against kings landings stones, they found themselves walking together around the gardens. Laena spoke of her daughters, of her fears for the child yet unborn. Rhaenyra listened, her hand brushing against Laena’s sleeve, lingering too long to be an accident. The air between them was full of all that was unsaid — affection, desire, longing caught between duty and silence.

So the keep brimmed with life: Rhaenyra’s brood, Laena’s daughters, Laenor’s sons, Alicent’s golden-haired children. They played, they quarreled, they were watched with wary eyes by their mothers. Lines, though unspoken, had been drawn between them.

And above them all loomed King Viserys. Time had softened him, dulled his step, thinned his hair, but his love for his line still shone, complicated as it was. He looked upon Rhaenyra with pride, but sorrow lingered in his gaze when her temper cut too sharp. Between them stretched the same gulf that had grown with Aemma’s death: love bound to resentment, resentment twined with love.

It was near summer’s end when tragedy struck.

Laenor, ever restless, had taken to the sea once more with his lover, joffery. Driftmark’s ships carried word back: their vessel had been dashed against rocks, shattered in a sudden storm. No bodies were recovered. Only wreckage drifted ashore, tangled with seaweed, the salt air heavy with grief.

The loss spread through the family like wildfire. Corlys and Rhaenys stood stricken, grief sharpening into silence. Rhaenyra felt it too — not the sharp pain of widowhood, but the ache of losing a boy she had grown up beside, a cousin she had once been bound to by duty if not by choice. She thought of Alyn and Addam, robbed of their father before they could truly know him. She thought of Laena, heavy with child, mourning a brother even as she braced for birth.

It was only days after Laenor’s death that Laena’s labor began.

The birthing chamber filled with the sounds of pain and prayer, Daemon pacing outside like a caged dragon. Hours passed in waves, broken only by Laena’s cries and the low voices of the midwives. Rhaenyra stayed close, her hand clasping Laena’s when strength flagged, her thumb stroking the soft skin of her cousin’s palm in comfort that was almost tenderness, almost more.

At last, the cry of a newborn split the air.

Laemond targaryen came into the world strong and vital, his voice carrying with fierce promise through the chamber. Laena, pale and trembling, gathered him against her breast, pressing her lips to his white hair. Her tears were a mixture of grief and joy — mourning her brother, welcoming her son.

Rhaenyra lingered by the bedside, unable to look away from Laena’s tired smile. The sight stirred something sharp within her, a longing that burned as hot as dragonfire, tempered only by the weight of duty that bound them both.

The gods had taken Laenor, and they had given Laemond.

Life and death, grief and love, woven inseparably together.

In the days that followed, Dragonstone was quieter. The chambers that had rung with laughter now held a more subdued warmth, heavy with remembrance. Rhaenyra visited Laena often, finding her cousin with the babe at her breast, her daughters clustered close. Sometimes they spoke of nothing — of the sea, of the children, of little things that mattered only in the moment. Sometimes they said nothing at all, sitting side by side in silence, their hands close enough to touch.

Some time had passed before Rhaenyra gathered her children once more to visit the dragonpit, this time to choose an egg for Laemond. Baela and Maegor lingered close, the energy between them now tender and inevitable—their engagement settled quietly, the first promise of a bond that would bind them for life.

Laena had been reluctant to come, her body still recovering and her spirit weighed down by a quiet melancholy since Laemond’s birth. It was Rhaenyra who coaxed her out gently, speaking of the importance of this day, how her son’s future as a dragonrider would begin with this very moment. Though hesitant, Laena agreed, and so she walked at her cousin’s side, her presence an effort of will, her eyes softening only when they fell upon her newborn son. Laena cradled Laemond in one arm while the older children hovered near their dragons, the wings of Viserys, Maegor, and Visenya’s dragons stirring the air above. The pit smelled of fire and stone, alive with movement and heat.

Among the eggs, Laena’s attention settled on a singular white shell streaked with red — the colors of her two greatest loves: her lost brothers dragon, and the Targaryens. With careful hands, they placed Laemond’s future companion there, feeling the warmth and pulse of life beneath the shell.

It was a quiet moment, steeped in promise and longing, as Rhaenyra watched her cousin smile down at her son. Even in the midst of the clamor of children and dragons, there was a sense of hope in the pit — a reminder that life, dragons, and love would endure.

A few weeks later rhaenerya awoke feeling unease. she rushed about the castle before making her way to the docks. Daemon had readied his ship, his daughters and as they held onto him she looked past to see Laena carrying Laemond, swaddled tight against the salt wind, They were leaving.

On the dock, Rhaenyra stood apart from the bustle of workers. She smiled when Laena’s eyes caught hers and she approached, but it was a smile that faltered at the edges.

“You’ll return soon,” Rhaenyra said softly, though it sounded more like a plea than a statement.

Laena reached for her hand, their fingers twining with quiet desperation. “Soon,” she promised, her dark eyes holding Rhaenyra’s as though to bind the word. For a moment it seemed as if she might say more, as if all the unsaid longing might at last break free. But the moment passed. Duty, always duty, pulled them apart.

Daemon called to her and with one last squeeze of Rhaenyra’s hand, Laena turned away.

Rhaenyra watched as the ship slipped from the harbor, sails catching the wind, carrying Laena and her children back across the sea. She stood there long after it vanished from sight, the salt air stinging her eyes, her heart heavy with absence.

And in the red keeps halls, beneath the watchful eyes of king and kin, the game of thrones shifted once more — but in Rhaenyra’s heart, it was the leaving that burned most.

In the moons that followed, Rhaenyra herself prepared to depart the Red Keep. King’s Landing had grown stifling, its halls heavy with Alicent’s presence, its air thick with courtly whispers. Dragonstone, her seat and her birthright called to her like the sea calls to shore.

Harwin did not question her choice. He gathered their sons, the twins swaddled close, and made ready. The children, wide-eyed, clutched toys and trinkets, chattering of dragons and the sea. But it was Visenya who marked the true fracture.

The girl, now eleven, had been raised in Rhaenyra’s shadow, bound to her sister as child to mother. When word spread she would leave with Rhaenyra, court fell silent. For Viserys, it was another daughter slipping from his grasp; he clutched her tightly that last evening, his voice breaking as he told her she would always be his little star.

Alicent’s face was colder. She watched as Visenya kissed her father’s hand and clung to Rhaenyra’s side, her silence sharper than words. Her own children lingered nearby, uncertain, the distance between cousins already widening.

When at last the household boarded their ships, Dragonstone rising dark upon the horizon, Rhaenyra stood at the prow with Visenya beside her. The girl’s hair whipped in the sea wind, her eyes shining with both fear and excitement. Rhaenyra rested a hand upon her shoulder, steadying her.

“Dragonstone is ours now,” she whispered, more to herself than to her sister. “There, we will be free.”

Behind them, the Red Keep dwindled, a smear of orange-red stone against the shoreline — a place of grief, love, and betrayal. Ahead, the black cliffs of Dragonstone loomed, ancient and waiting, its dragons restless in their lairs.

Rhaenyra’s heart swelled with fierce resolve. She had her children, her sister, her husband, her dragons. Whatever storms the realm might bring, she would weather them from the seat of her forebears.

And so she turned her face to the wind, eyes fixed on Dragonstone, while behind her the realm shifted, already preparing to test her claim.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2

It had been eight years since Rhaenerya Targaryen moved to Dragonstone to establish her role as heir and raise her children away from the prying eyes of the Red Keep. The island had grown familiar under her feet—the scent of salt and seaweed in the air, the low roar of waves against black cliffs, the constant presence of dragons overhead—but even here, news from King’s Landing reached her relentlessly.

Over the past months, letters had arrived with unsettling frequency. Her father’s health had started failing and Alicent Hightower had effectively seized control of the king’s council, making most of the realm’s decisions. The thought prickled at Rhaenerya, a reminder of her duty and her father’s favoritism. She allowed Alicent her little games, knowing full well that her influence would be short-lived; once Rhaenerya’s coronation was complete, the woman would return to Oldtown, far from the throne that was rhaenyra’s by right.

Rhaenerya’s mind churned with strategy and worry when a sudden shout pulled her from her thoughts. A midwife came running through the hall, her skirts whipping behind her. “The princess is ready to push now!” she called.

A thrill of joy coursed through Rhaenerya, scattering all thoughts of politics. She raced through the corridors of Dragonstone, her boots echoing against the stone floors, heart pounding as she flung open the heavy double doors of the birthing chamber.

There, in the warmth and dim torchlight, lay her beautiful sister, exhausted but radiant, pressed against the pillows, her hair damp with sweat and her face flushed from effort. Rhaenerya’s chest tightened with a mixture of awe and love. She moved to her side, kneeling beside the bed. taking her sister’s hand in both of hers wrapping her fingers making them entwined like lifelines.

For an hour, she remained at her sister’s side, whispering encouragements, offering strength when the contractions came, the room filled with the rhythmic rise and fall of effort and breath. Then, piercing and insistent, came the cries of a newborn—a girl, tiny and perfect. her lungs filled with life.her white locks covering her head. The sound broke Rhaenerya’s heart open with joy and relief.

Viserys the Younger burst into the room moments later, his face flushed and tears glinting in his eyes. He rushed to his wife’s side, kneeling to take her hand in his, proud and trembling. “She is perfect… both of you,” he breathed, his voice thick with emotion.

Rhaenerya, tears streaming freely down her cheeks, lifted her sister’s newborn daughter and handed her carefully to Visenya. Outside, Onixa circled the skies, green scales glinting in the sunlight, pale blue membranes flashing with each beat of her wings, almost as if celebrating the child. Visenya cradled the baby in her arms, a gentle smile breaking across her face, and whispered the name she had chosen for her: “Aemma.”

Rhaenerya watched, heart swelling, as her sister held her daughter with the quiet strength and love that matched her own. Onixa let out a joyful roar, wings beating in a steady rhythm above the cliffs, carrying the celebration across Dragonstone. The sight felt like a blessing—a new life, cherished, named, and welcomed by both sister and dragon.

Rhaenyra took notice all of this and smiled softly, a warmth blooming in her chest despite the lingering glassiness in her eyes. She sat up carefully, brushing the sweat and traces of labor from the babes skin then rhaenyra reached for Visenya, helping her sister clean herself as well. When both were settled, Rhaenyra leaned forward, pressing a tender kiss to Viserys’s temple, her hand ruffling the dark hair of her own son.

“I’m so proud of you,” she murmured, her voice thick with emotion.

She pressed her hands together briefly, taking a deep breath as she steadied herself. “Let me go inform everyone,” she said, a gentle smile tugging at her lips. Leaving the room, she passed the midwives and maesters, who had already begun the quiet work of notifying the household of the birth. Rhaenyra herself set about composing a letter to her father, recounting the safe arrival of Visenya’s child and outlining her plans to return to King’s Landing within the week. Though the thought of returning weighed heavily on her, she reminded herself that she would not interfere with her sister and father’s bond, no matter the resentment she still carried for him choosing Alicent over them both.

The past eight years had done little to soften the tension between her and Alicent. Their relationship had grown colder still after Rhaenyra informed her that Viserys and Visenya had chosen to marry each other, defying Alicent’s persistent push to unite Aegon and Visenya. Rhaenyra had resolved to focus instead on securing her own family — marrying off her two oldest children and rejoicing quietly when her sister Helaena gave birth to twins the previous year. She bore no ill will toward the innocent children, understanding that they had no part in the Hightowers’ schemes.

Finishing her letter, Rhaenyra returned to the chambers, where her own children were gathered in quiet excitement. Viserys hovered protectively near Visenya, holding the newborn carefully in his arms, pride and wonder shining on his face. Maegor stood close by, his hand brushing Baela’s as they both bent over to marvel at the tiny child, their eyes gleaming with the thrill of new responsibilities and the first threads of their own future together.

Jaehaerys remained calm as ever, but his mind was busy, peppering the midwives with questions and checking that all had been done correctly. In the past months, he had studied birth and the signs of complications, and though he hid his concern beneath a composed exterior, the worry for Visenya and the newborn weighed on him quietly.

Nearby, little Aegon crouched on a cushion, attempting to distract the older children and get their attention but Baelon and Aemon, who were eager to investigate the commotion could see that aegon was being irritating. Baelon cleverly employed his favorite toys to hold Aegon’s attention, while Aemon mostly observed, clearly brimming with anticipation to meet the new baby himself.

In the corner, held snugly by a wet nurse, was Rhaenyra’s only daughter, young Laenys. Her eyes, a mesmerizing mix of hazel with hints of blue and purple flecks, mirrored her mother’s gaze — a quiet spark of intelligence and curiosity already evident, even in the smallest movements of her tiny hands.

The room buzzed with life and tenderness, each child absorbed in their own way, yet all bound together by the joy of a new life and the unspoken love that flowed quietly through their family.

Rhaenyra looked around at her children, the little kingdom she had built on Dragonstone, and felt a flicker of both pride and apprehension. There was so much life here—so much love—but also so many small sparks of future conflict waiting to flare. Already, she could see the personalities beginning to assert themselves: Viserys with his protective pride, Maegor and Baela’s eager determination to match each other’s energy, Jaehaerys’s calm intelligence, and little Aegon’s restless need for attention. Each child, a thread in the tapestry of her legacy, carried both promise and danger.

She rose from her chair, brushing invisible dust from her skirts, and cast her gaze out the window. Onixa— visenya’s dragon, circled high above the keep her dark scales gleaming in the sun,rejoicing the new life below with unrestrained joy. Beside her, Viserys’s black dragon, Draxtar, soared gracefully, its silver membrane catching the light as it looped and wheeled around the tower. In the distance, Rhaenyra spotted a few other dragons circling the horizon, glinting scales catching the sunlight, weaving through the clouds as if in quiet celebration. The sight brought a small, private smile to Rhaenyra’s lips. Dragons were not mere beasts; they were reflections of their riders, of the hearts and wills of those they were bound to. And soon enough, her youngest would have his own companion, his own tether to power and fire.

The midwives and wet nurses began their quiet retreat, leaving Rhaenyra’s family to their own moment of wonder and exhaustion. She called each child closer, one by one, letting them marvel at the tiny fingers and toes of their new cousin. The older ones, already familiar with the weight of responsibility that came with a dragon, listened carefully to the nurses’ explanations, eager to learn how to care for both child and future dragon.

Then, softly, Rhaenyra’s thoughts turned toward King’s Landing. Her father’s health, the ever-watchful Alicent, the council’s whispered machinations—all would need tending, even if her heart remained here on Dragonstone. A voyage to the capital would be necessary soon, for duty, for appearances, and for the careful threading of alliances she could not yet trust to her sister or children alone.

But for now, she lingered in the warmth of the room. feeling the chaos and joy, the bright pulse of life, and the fire of dragons beyond the walls. The storm of politics and war would come soon enough. Today, she let herself simply be grandmother, sister, mother, and guardian. And in that fleeting peace, she drew strength.

The morning air over Dragonstone was crisp, carrying the scent of salt and fire from the island’s cliffs. Rhaenerya stood atop the high walls, her long hair whipping around her face as she scanned the horizon. At her side, Visenya’s green eyes—soft and patient—followed the same distant line, while Onixa, her dragon, coiled high above the cliffs, letting out a low, jubilant roar. Not far behind, Draxtar, Viserys’ sleek black-and-silver dragon, circled in tandem, wings catching the sun like molten steel. A few other dragons from the household clutched in the sky—winged shapes large and small—added their shadowed arcs to the dance, their roars and calls echoing across the cliffs.

Above the cliffs, a flurry of movement appeared: Daemon astride Caraxes, his fiery red dragon cutting through the morning light with Rhaena perched on his back. Nearby, Laena rode the enormous Vhagar, her grip steady, Aelinor clinging close, while Laemond, now eight years old, sat astride his own dragon Moonstream, riding alongside his mother with fierce confidence. The sight made Rhaenerya’s chest tighten—her cousin and her children had arrived in the most spectacular, Targaryen way possible.

Rhaenerya’s gaze swept across every child, taking them in: Viserys, standing tall and confident, Draxtar’s sleek movements mirroring his own; Maegor and Baela, recently married, fingers entwined, pride and excitement glowing in their eyes; Jaehaerys, calm and measured, quietly analyzing the landing; Aegon the Younger, restless, fidgeting beside Baelon and Aemon, who whispered and nudged each other, eager with excitement; young Laenys clinging to Harwin’s sleeve, her hazel-and-blue eyes wide with wonder; and little Aemma, swaddled in Visenya’s arms, cooing softly.

And then there was Laena. Rhaenerya’s chest tightened further as her eyes found her cousin descending from Vhagar, Laemond astride Moonstream at her side. Every detail—the steady grace, the protective hold of Aelinor, the subtle but unmistakable warmth in her expression—drew Rhaenerya’s attention. All the children could wait a moment; her focus rested on Laena, on the years lost and the joy of reunion that made her heart ache with longing.

The dragons swooped lower, landing with earth-shaking thuds on the cliffs. Caraxes’ claws gouged the stone lightly, Vhagar’s massive wings stirred the wind, and Moonstream circled protectively until Laemond could dismount gracefully, landing beside his mother. Rhaena bounded from Caraxes, her energy brimming as she met Baela and Maegor, while Aelinor followed close behind, eyes wide with wonder at the dragons wheeling above and the children assembled to greet them.

“Maegor!” Baela called, setting Rhaena down gently. “Look who’s here!”

Maegor’s voice joined hers, teasing and proud, “And who is this little firebrand?” He nodded toward Laemond, his own expression softening at the boy’s confident stance.

Rhaenerya stepped forward, arms open. Laena moved closer, and the two women met in a long, wordless embrace, hands lingering, eyes locked. The weight of years, of loss and longing, pressed between them, but the moment was warm, tender, and real.

“You’ve grown,” Laena said softly, her voice catching as she looked over Rhaenerya’s children—her own children—and the gathering family.

Rhaenerya smiled, scanning every face—Viserys, Maegor, Baela, Jaehaerys, Aegon the Younger, Baelon, Aemon, Laenys, Laemond, and Aemma—but her eyes kept returning to Laena, to the bond between them that transcended time and distance. “And so have you,” she replied, her voice steady but full of quiet emotion.

Outside, Onixa and Draxtar performed a slow, spiraling dance in the sky, their roars echoing across the cliffs, heralding the arrival of the Velaryon contingent. Other dragons joined, weaving in arcs and loops, shadows and sunlight flickering across the black stone. Vhagar and Caraxes flared brilliantly, wings beating rhythmically, while Moonstream circled protectively above dragon stones shores

Rhaenerya’s heart swelled at the sight. Dragons circling above, children laughing and chattering, new life in their arms, and family reunited—it was a rare, perfect moment of peace in a world always poised on the edge of fire and blood.

The sun climbed higher over Dragonstone, casting the black cliffs in sharp relief against the sea. The family gathered on the cliffs, dragons circling overhead, laughter and cries mingling with the cries of newborns. For now, at least, there was no war, no courtly scheming—only life, love, and fire.

The great hall of Dragonstone blazed with firelight that evening, its vaulted shadows dancing across carved stone and high banners. A feast had been laid in honor of Visenya’s safe delivery, long tables heavy with roasted boar, honeyed fowl, and steaming bread. Goblets of dark wine caught the light as family and retainers raised them high, the voices of Velaryon and Targaryen mingling in cheer.

The children clustered at their own table, laughter bright as they snuck bites of sugared fruit and whispered to each other. Viserys the Younger kept a hand always near his wife’s arm, proud even in his joy; Maegor and Baela stole glances that were as bold as they were tender; and Jaehaerys, true to his nature, sat listening to the older lords with a quiet, almost scholarly focus. Beyond them, Aegon the Younger pouted at being outshone, while Baelon and Aemon schemed to distract him, their quick jests carrying across the room.

At the high seat, Rhaenyra let herself laugh, though she kept her eyes moving, drinking in every face. For one evening, it felt as though nothing existed beyond these walls. Family reunited, dragons outside roaring to one another in a chorus of celebration, her children happy and unburdened—it was a moment she wished she could freeze in amber.

But even as music swelled, the maesters worked quietly in the shadows. Quills scratched against parchment, sealing wax hissed, and one by one, black-winged ravens took flight from the rookery. They vanished into the night sky, bound for Driftmark, Oldtown, and King’s Landing—but also Storm’s End, the Eyrie, Sunspear, Harrenhal, and White Harbor. The messages carried tidings of birth, but each lord who broke the seal would read them differently: some with joy, some with caution, others with ambition sharpening in their hearts.

Rhaenyra’s gaze followed them through the high windows until the last wings disappeared into the dark. A smile still touched her lips, but it no longer reached her eyes. She felt it then—the inevitability pressing in, the fragile peace slipping like sand through her fingers.

She raised her goblet once more, voice warm and steady as she toasted to family, to new life, to dragons soaring free above Dragonstone. Yet when she drank, her thoughts were already with the letters speeding through the night, and the storm they would call home.

The days that followed were a blur of preparation and farewells. When at last the time came, only Rhaenyra and her eldest children mounted their dragons for the flight to King’s Landing, leaving the younger ones behind under watchful care at Dragonstone. The sky was alive with fire and wind as wings unfurled, their shadows rippling across the sea below.

The flight was swift, faster than any ship could sail. Hours blurred into moments, the coast racing by beneath them, until the walls and towers of King’s Landing rose against the horizon, pale and familiar, yet heavy with the weight of all that waited within its gates.

The Red Keep bustled at their arrival. Courtiers and servants spilled into the yard, whispers rising as dragons descended upon the cliffs above the city, their roars shaking stone and soul alike. The banners of red and black snapped high in the harbor winds as Rhaenyra dismounted, her children close at her side, each one casting watchful glances toward the keep.

And there, in the great hall, upon the Iron Throne itself, sat King Viserys. His crown rested upon silvered hair, his robes of black and red flowing across the cold steel beneath him. He carried himself with dignity, though those nearest could sense the subtle signs: a hesitation before a word, a fleeting shadow of confusion that passed across his gaze. Yet even so, he was a king still—commanding, present, and proud.

When his eyes found his daughter and her children approaching, his expression softened. The fog seemed to lift, clarity returning as he leaned forward, strength sparking anew in his gaze.

Visenya stepped forward, cradling her swaddled daughter in trembling arms. The babe stirred softly, pale locks catching the torchlight. With reverence, she placed the child into her grandsire’s waiting hands.

Viserys’s fingers brushed the girl’s cheek, steady and warm. His voice rang clear, echoing off the vaults of the chamber. “What a great namesake,” he said, lifting his eyes to Visenya. “You look just like her.”

Visenya’s lips trembled, and tears welled in her eyes. She reached forward, her hand resting lightly on her father’s arm as though to steady them both. “Thank you, Father,” she whispered, her voice breaking with both grief and pride. “It means more than you can know.”

Viserys’s gaze lingered on her, a flicker of recognition and memory glinting through the haze, and for a heartbeat he saw not only his granddaughter and the babe she bore, but the daughter he had once loved and lost.

Silence rippled through the gathered court. No one dared intrude as the king of Westeros—still sovereign, still resolute though touched by the first hints of decline—held his great-granddaughter close, his words a bridge between past and present. In that fragile moment, all crowns and conflicts seemed to fade, leaving only blood and family: a man, a child, and the fire of House Targaryen living on.

Rhaenyra watched, her heart tightening. She did not see a failing monarch or the weight of war to come, but the father who had once lifted her just the same, whispering promises of love and legacy. And she knew this moment would endure, a memory carved in fire and steel, even as storms gathered beyond the Red Keep’s walls.

That night, torches burned long in the halls of the Red Keep, casting shadows that flickered like restless spirits across ancient stone. The city below whispered of dragons in the sky and the princess returned, of a king’s joy and of omens yet unspoken. For every tale carried on the wind, another was born in silence, tucked away behind closed doors where rivals measured what the day had revealed.

But in the royal apartments, there was peace for a time. Laughter returned, if only in brief strains, and for a few fleeting hours, the Red Keep seemed a home rather than a fortress.

Viserys lingered with his daughter and grandchildren, finding in them a balm for his weariness. The babe, Aemma, slept soundly in her mother’s arms, and the king, though touched by confusion at moments, seemed steadier with them near. To those who watched, it was as though the realm itself had breathed easier, the court momentarily united in the quiet triumph of blood unbroken.

Days stretched into weeks, and weeks into months. Letters were exchanged with Dragonstone, gifts brought forth from lords eager to honor the royal line, and the city brimmed with cautious optimism. In council, Viserys spoke with more clarity, though his temper sometimes frayed, and Rhaenyra found herself once more at his side, her counsel sought and, at times, heeded.

Yet beneath the surface, divisions lingered. Alicent and her children moved like shadows through the halls, their smiles polite but their eyes ever-watchful. The court’s whispers did not fade; they merely shifted, settling like dust in hidden corners, waiting for the next gust of wind to stir them into storm.

It was on such a day, bright with banners and heavy with murmurs, that the gates of the Red Keep opened to admit a new guest. The arrival was quiet at first, without fanfare, yet it carried a weight that could not be ignored. Rhaena, daughter of Laena Velaryon, dismounted within the yard, her silver hair gleaming in the sun, her bearing proud though her youth betrayed her.

Rhaenyra, watching from the steps of the keep, froze. Only then did the whispers reach her ears—the match arranged by Alicent’s counsel, a betrothal of Rhaena to Aemond Targaryen, sealed with Viserys’s consent.

Her smile held, as duty demanded, but beneath it her heart thundered. Shock cut through her composure, though she buried it swiftly. The game had shifted while she lingered in comfort, and for the first time since her arrival, Rhaenyra felt the ground beneath her begin to move.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3

The eight years had passed swiftly marked by both triumphs and griefs, as the realm settled into a fragile rhythm under the waning reign of King Viserys. ever since Rhaenyra first took up residence in King’s Landing to aid her father in his time of need, the Red Keep had shifted like a great tide.

Viserys once the vigorous and determined king of Westeros, now seldom left his chambers. His health had declined sharply—his body thinner, his mind often clouded, his steps slow and hesitant. Whispers of confusion, forgotten names, and lapses of memory clung to him like shadows. Where once Queen Alicent had held sway over the council and stood by his side it was now Rhaenyra who guided the affairs of the realm. her voice commanding in the chamber, her judgment firm. Although the echo of Alicent never far from lords ears.

The princess and her children had moved back and forth between King’s Landing and Dragonstone over these years, their lives bound tightly between duty and the pull of their freedom of court. though the crown weighed heavily upon her shoulders, Rhaenyra found solace in her family, now grown into men and young women of strength, wit, and fire. Many had wed and many had given her grandchildren. the halls of both Dragonstone and the Red Keep now rang with the laughter and cries of a new generation.

The children of House Targaryen and Velaryon had come into their own. The years had reshaped Rhaenyra’s brood most of all. Viserys her eldest, remained fiercely protective and proud, a man ruled by his convictions. Stubborn and slow to forgive, he wore his devotion to his family like armor. His union with Visenya, his aunt and childhood confidante, only deepened that loyalty. the pair bound by shared strength and unshakable trust, Together they became the pillar around which their kin gathered.

Maegor who was spirited and adventurous, leapt headlong into every challenge. His impulsive nature had led to countless fights in youth, yet his bravery and good instincts never wavered. He was bold to the point of recklessness, a dragon always in motion. His marriage to Baela was a storm meeting flame—two fierce spirits bound by love and rivalry alike. Where one charged, the other followed, and though they debated often none could doubt the fire between them.

Jaehaerys was maegors opposite: calm, intelligent, and contemplative. A boy who once dreamed of becoming a maester. he still spent long hours buried in books, aloof yet insightful. His union with Jeyne Arryn suited him well, her sharp wit and keen sense of duty balancing his quiet reserve. Together, they forged a partnership of thought and strategy, steadying the more tempestuous branches of the family.

Aegon, restless and mischievous, sought freedom wherever he could find it. Though hardworking, he lacked focus, his energy spilling instead into pranks and charms that won him both laughter and groans. Beneath the surface lay insecurities, a nagging sense of being overshadowed. His marriage to his younger aunt, Elaen had been a matter of duty, not desire. it weighed upon him, A fifteen-year-old bride was no true match, and unlike his brothers, he found little comfort in his union. Thus he masked his discontent with wit and charm, a dragon always running from the shadows of his own doubts.

Baelon, ever the mediator, carried himself with a quiet compassion. Observant and clever, he was the one who smoothed quarrels between brothers, his patience a balm to Rhaenyra’s often fiery household. His marriage to Laenys strengthened that gentleness, the pair sharing a bond of easy warmth and devotion. In him, his sister found her truest ally and in his wife, he found a reflection of his own heart.

Aemon was the family’s warrior, curious and serious, with a sharp memory that served him well in both study and swordplay. Victim often to his brothers’ mischief, he bore it with quiet resilience, channeling his strength instead into teaching the younger kin their first letters and blade drills. His marriage to Larra of Lys brought an air of the exotic into their halls, for she matched his curiosity with tales of far-off seas and foreign lands. In her, Aemon found both challenge and wonder.

Laenys herself, sharp-minded and witty, possessed a natural charm that turned recklessness into allure. She loved her dragon dearly, often slipping away into the skies with laughter on her lips. Her marriage to Baelon, her brother and closest companion, had been one of both affection and familiarity, a pairing that surprised none and warmed many. Theirs was a union built not on duty, but on choice, and it gave her both stability and joy.

Laena’s brood carried her boldness into the next generation. Baela, fierce and independent, burned with courage. She met the world with fire in her eyes and steel in her heart, refusing to bend to anyone’s will but her own. Her marriage to Maegor was less a binding and more of a passionate closness that would to bind them tighter than oaths.

Rhaena, her twin, was softer, thoughtful and reserved, the quiet counterbalance to her sister’s flame. Patient and observant, she often seemed content to watch rather than act, though her jealousy ran deep. Her marriage to Aemond was a strange one, binding the Black and Green lines. To many, it seemed unlikely, but in her stillness and his pride, there was an uneasy understanding—whether of love or necessity remained uncertain.

Aelinor, ever gentle and imaginative, preferred the open skies and gardens to the courts. She flitted easily between Dragonstone, the Red Keep, and Driftmark, adapting to each place as if it were her own. Her marriage to Clement Celtigar brought her a partner who admired her wonder, grounding her gentleness with steadfast loyalty.

Laemond, bold and proud, carried himself with the air of command. Reckless in pursuit of glory, he was a natural leader, though not without flaws. His marriage to Elinda Massey suited his temperament, for she too, was ambitious and strong-willed. Together they shone, a pair whose fire promised both triumph and turmoil.

Daena, clever and impatient, was a spark none could ignore. Observant to a fault, she wielded her charisma like a blade, leaving impressions wherever she walked. Her confidence carried her far, and though still young, she was already spoken of as one destined for greatness.

Alicent’s children stood as both rivals and contrasts. Aegon ever reckless, squandered his charms on indulgence, gluttonous and bold ignorance. He sought to prove himself, yet shrank from responsibility, his make-belief crown heavier in dreams than in reality.

Helaena, gentle and strange, drifted through her days with a dreamer’s eyes. Empathetic yet socially distant, she understood more than she let on. She loved her children fiercely, though many misunderstood her ways.

Aemond, keen-eyed and calculating, bore pride like a second skin. His rivalry with his brothers had carved him into something sharp, and his intelligence was matched only by his hunger for renown.

Rhaegal, darker still, had earned whispers of being a second Maegor the Cruel. Twisted by suspicion and cruelty, his childhood cruelties had never wholly left him. Paranoid and reserved, he bore the mark of a warrior trained to bleed out his emotions in battle. Yet for his siblings, he would kill without hesitation, his loyalty twisted and fierce.his marraige to Maria Baratheon a perfect match as she was rumoured to be rather cruel at times.

In contrast, Prince Daeron shone as the darling of the smallfolk. Kind and eager to please, he carried his duties with compassion and diligence, though in quiet moments he admitted to feeling overshadowed by his elder brothers. His smile masked a gnawing insecurity that few but his mother recognized.his marraige to heyla Greyjoy somewhat a surprse.

And Elaen, the youngest, had grown into a girl both cunning and charismatic. Stubborn and favored above her siblings, she wielded her charm like a weapon, able to disguise her true intent behind a mask of innocence. Her marriage to Aegon, Rhaenyra’s son, had tied two branches of the family together in a union and she proved herself as sharp as any player in the great game of thrones.

So the lines of fire spread and split, weaving marriages and blood into the great tapestry of House Targaryen. Bonds of love and duty intertwined, yet beneath the surface of alliances simmered rivalries, jealousies, and ambitions. Dragons had grown, children had become men and women, and with them the stage for what was to come took sharper shape.

Yet amid all the shifting lines of fire and blood, one truth remained steady: Rhaenyra and Harwin.

Their marriage, forged in love and tempered by time, was the foundation upon which her world stood. For eight years in King’s Landing, through courtly intrigue and the slow decline of her father, Harwin was her solace. He walked with her in the godswood when her council debates grew too bitter, he held her in the quiet of their chambers when doubts gnawed at her heart, and he laughed with her in ways no one else could coax from her. Theirs was not the fragile affection of youth but a seasoned devotion, unyielding and true.

It was one such night, the moon high above the Red Keep, when Rhaenyra let her fears slip free. The fire burned low in their chamber, its glow soft against the lines of worry on her face.

“What if it is not enough, Harwin?” she whispered, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. “What if all I have done, all I have built, is swept away the moment my father dies? Alicent pushes still, and Aegon—” she hesitated, her voice tightening, “Aegon is a sword they may raise against me. What if the throne is stolen from my children?”

Harwin, seated beside her, reached out and caught her hands in his. His grip was firm, grounding, his dark eyes steady on hers. “Rhaenyra,” he said, his voice rough but sure “you are stronger than any of them know. You have won the loyalty of lords, the love of dragons, and the devotion of a family that stands with you. Aegon is but a boy who hides behind his mother’s skirts. You are the Realm’s Delight—and more than that, you are the heir. That cannot be stolen, not while I draw breath.”

She looked at him, tears glinting at the corners of her eyes, and shook her head. “And what if they take you from me and force you to no longer draw breath? What will I do then?”

For a moment, silence lingered, the weight of the truth between them. Then Harwin smiled—warm, unwavering. He lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles softly. “Then our sons will stand where I stood. Our daughter will rise when you falter and still, the fire of our house will burn. You are not alone, Rhaenyra. You never will be.” He kissed the back of her hand

Her shoulders eased at his words, the fear not gone but softened, held at bay by the strength of the man beside her. She leaned against him, resting her head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

But after a long silence, she murmured, “Sometimes I wish we could take them all back to Dragonstone. Leave this city, its whispers, its knives. The children, the grandchildren—our whole lineage. Let them grow with salt on the air and dragons in the skies, not chained by court and council.” Her voice caught, soft but fierce. “I do not want their laughter dulled by politics, nor their futures poisoned by Alicent’s schemes.”

Harwin let out a low breath, brushing his hand through her silver hair. “Dragonstone is yours, always,” he said. “And if you wish it, I would take them all tomorrow. Gods know I would rather see our sons and daughters chasing the sea-winds than skulking through these halls.” He tilted her chin, forcing her eyes to meet his. “But the Iron Throne is here. And until it passes to you, we must remain.”

Her gaze wavered, torn between duty and desire. “I know,” she whispered, her lips pressing together. “I know. Yet still my heart longs for the cliffs, for the skies. For the peace of it.”

“Then we will make Dragonstone our refuge when we can,” Harwin promised. “When the council recesses, when your father is well enough, when the burden eases—even for a moment. We will fly back, together, with the children and grandchildren. we will remind them who we are, not with crowns or swords, but with fire and kinship. That is what Alicent cannot take from us.”

Rhaenyra searched his face, saw the certainty in his eyes and allowed herself a small, fragile smile. “You make it sound so simple.”Harwin grinned, the edge of boyish mischief still lingering even after the years. “With you, my love, everything is simple. Even ruling the realm.”

She laughed then, a quiet, unguarded sound, and the tension that had bound her chest eased at last. In that moment, in their chamber heavy with shadows and firelight, Rhaenyra felt what she always had with Harwin: not just love, but strength enough to bear the world.
The quiet between them lingered, a rare stillness in the Red Keep. But it did not last. A sudden chorus of voices came echoing down the corridor, shrill and playful, followed by the thunder of small feet.

The chamber doors burst open, and in tumbled a tide of silver hair and bright eyes—grandchildren of every size and temperament, filling the room with noise and laughter. Little Aemma, her cheeks flushed and hair wild, darted in first, dragging her younger sister Vaella behind her, both of them chattering about some imagined dragon duel in the yard.Aelys, the youngest sister followed. clutching a doll with wings crudely sewn onto its back, insisting it was the mightiest dragon of them all half out of breath and in garbled words.

Behind them, Aerea and Rhaenys, Baela and Maegor’s spirited daughters, were already half-quarreling, half-laughing, their shrill voices blending as they argued which of their dragons would fly higher in the skies. Close at their heels ran Orys- rhaegar’s son. solemn despite his five years, his small hands stained from wooden swords in the training yard. Alyssa- rhaena and aemond’s daughter slipped in quietly after, her eyes wide and curious, watching more than joining.

The room filled with them all—shouts, questions, laughter, and the crashing of small bodies eager for affection. Rhaenyra laughed despite herself, caught between arms and voices, each child vying for her attention. Harwin only grinned, settling orys on his knee as the others swirled around them.

For a moment, all her fears melted away. Here was her strength, her legacy—not crowns nor thrones, but flesh and blood, fire and love. As Aemma clambered into her lap and vaella tugged at her sleeve, demanding she settle their quarrel about whose make belief dragon was strongest, Rhaenyra caught Harwin’s gaze across the room. in his smile, she found the promise he had spoken: that no matter the whispers of court, no matter Alicent’s schemes or the shadow of Aegon, her family would always be safe no matter what she had to do. Harwin’s laughter rang as he carried a sleeping grandchild to bed, yet Rhaenyra felt the weight of the cracks spreading beneath her family. Marriages had bound Black to Green, cousin to cousin, dragon to dragon—but those same threads might yet pull them apart.

The morning sun filtered through the windows of Maegor’s Holdfast, warm but pale, as if the light itself hesitated to touch the Red Keep. Rhaenyra sat in the gallery with Laena, a flagon of wine between them, their children and grandchildren’s voices echoing faintly from the yard below. For a while, they spoke of trivial things—the progress of young dragons, the stubbornness of tutors, the endless repairs required for the castle roofs. But soon Laena’s laughter faded, her eyes turning distant as she twisted the ring on her finger.

“Do you ever feel caged here?” Laena asked at last, her voice low, the words falling into the space between them like stones in a pond. “I walk these halls and I feel the walls pressing tighter each day. The lords stare, the ladies whisper, and when I look to Alicent, I see nothing but a serpent coiled and waiting. Gods, Rhaenyra, some nights I dream of gathering my children and flying to Pentos. Back to the warm skies, the markets, the sea. Somewhere far from these games.”

Rhaenyra studied her, seeing in her eyes the same restlessness that burned within herself. “You think I do not feel the same?” she said gently. “Every smile in these halls hides a dagger. My father dwindles before us, and still they circle, waiting to see which crown they may snatch when his light goes out. Pentos may promise freedom, yes—but it is not our place, Laena. Not our duty.”

Laena’s lips pressed tight, her fingers curling against the cup in her hands. “And what of our children? Do they deserve to be raised like hostages, under Alicent’s gaze? I would rather see Baela and Rhaena chasing gulls along the cliffs than hear them repeat some courtier’s flattery. This court poisons everything it touches.”

A long silence lingered. Rhaenyra swirled the wine in her cup, her reflection wavering in the dark red. “Then perhaps Pentos is not where we must go,” she said at last. Her voice was firmer now, the glimmer of resolve cutting through her weariness. “Perhaps it is Dragonstone. Our seat. Our refuge. Not a flight, but a return. There, our children can grow with dragons over their heads instead of vipers at their heels. There, no one can doubt who I am—or what is mine.”

Laena let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, her eyes softening. “Dragonstone,” she repeated, as though testing the weight of the word on her tongue. “Yes. A place that belongs to us. A place they cannot take.” She reached across the table, her hand finding Rhaenyra’s. “If you go, I will follow. With my children, my husband—our whole line. Let them plot here in the shadows. We will make our stand in fire and stone.”

Rhaenyra squeezed her hand, a flicker of a smile tugging at her lips. “Then it is settled,” she said. “we leave this nest of snakes. For Dragonstone.” for the first time in many moons, both women felt the weight in their chests lighten, replaced not with certainty but with a shared resolve.

Rhaenyra lingered a moment longer in the gallery after Laena departed, her eyes tracing the gilded beams overhead, the banners that hung heavy with dust. The Red Keep had never felt like home, not truly. Its stones whispered of secrets and betrayal, its shadows long and watchful. Dragonstone was calling, she realized—not as an escape, but as a return.

She turned and strode swiftly down the corridor, her steps sure, her cloak sweeping behind her. When she entered her apartments, Harwin looked up from where he stood fastening his swordbelt. He read the fire in her eyes before she spoke.

“Pack,” she said simply, her voice carrying the weight of finality. Harwin raised a brow, half a smile tugging at his lips though he knew her tone left no room for jest. “So. You’ve made your choice.”

“I have,” she answered, stepping closer, her hand brushing his arm. “We leave for Dragonstone, Tonight.I will not let our children grow in these walls another day while Alicent watches and waits. It is time we return to where we belong.”

Harwin studied her for a moment, then nodded. “Then we will go. I’ll see it done.” His voice was steady, but there was a gleam of relief in his eyes. He had longed for the open skies as much as she.

That evening, the chambers of Maegor’s Holdfast buzzed with motion. Trunks were hauled from closets, silks and jewels hurriedly folded, books and scrolls bound in leather straps. Children dashed to and fro with half-packed satchels, their chatter filling the halls. Visenya, ever graceful, took charge of her daughters, her calm instructions softening the chaos. Viserys moved with purpose, ensuring nothing of value was left behind, his sharp eyes catching what others overlooked.

Maegor was the loudest, charging through the corridors with Baela at his side, the pair turning the act of packing into a competition—who could fill a trunk fastest, who could wrestle more toys from the servants. Aelinor and Daena flitted between them, more hindrance than help, their laughter spilling into every corner. And Laenys, though young, busied herself with her own small satchel, determined not to be left out.

By dawn, the dragons were saddled, their cries splitting the morning mist. The procession lifted from the Red Keep like a storm breaking, wings blotting the sky as the city below watched in awe. To the smallfolk, it was a sight of wonder; to the lords who whispered, it was a reminder that Rhaenyra was not merely a princess—she was the Mother of Dragons.

When at last Dragonstone rose on the horizon, black and jagged against the sea, Rhaenyra’s heart swelled. The ancient fortress welcomed them with its towers of stone and fire, its cliffs lashed by waves. Here was no court of vipers, but the seat of her house, the cradle of her blood.

They descended into the courtyard, the dragons’ wings stirring the morning sea air into a gale. There, waiting with open arms, were the rest of her brood—children and grandchildren who had remained behind, the keep alive with their laughter. Little ones darted forward to greet their cousins, silver hair flashing as they tumbled together in joy. Older sons and daughters approached more slowly, their embraces fierce, their relief plain.

Rhaenyra stepped down from Syrax, her boots striking the black stone, and felt at last as though she had come home. Harwin stood beside her, his hand finding hers, and together they watched their children and grandchildren unite in a tangle of laughter and dragonfire.

Here, on this isle of stone and smoke, their house was whole again. And though she knew the war to come would one day tear it apart, in this moment Rhaenyra allowed herself to believe in peace.

The courtyard of Dragonstone bustled long after the dragons had roared their greetings to the cliffs. Smoke still drifted where talons had struck stone, the tang of salt and ash heavy in the air. Rhaenyra stood for a time before the keep, her eyes sweeping the familiar spires and black walls, the heat of the volcano rising through the flagstones beneath her boots. It was home—hers in a way the Red Keep had never been—and yet, after years of absence, it felt as though she were returning to something both changed and unchanged.

The household had gathered to receive her, staff and servants bowing deeply, their faces filled with relief and excitement. They looked at her not as the court in King’s Landing did, measuring and weighing her against her father’s fading crown but as their rightful lady. Here her word was not questioned or twisted into whispers—it was law. That truth struck her harder than she expected, easing a weight she had carried silently for years.

Inside the great hall, fires blazed against the sea chill, and the sound of her family’s voices filled the vaulted chamber. Children spilled between tables, their laughter echoing high into the stone ribs above, but Rhaenyra hardly noticed. Her gaze caught on the long table, polished smooth by generations of her kin. She remembered sitting there as a girl beside her mother, remembered her father’s voice booming through the hall when the world had seemed so much simpler. A soft ache rose in her chest, the mingling of loss and belonging.

Harwin joined her at the threshold, his presence as steady as the stones of the keep. He leaned down, his voice low for her alone. “It suits you,” he said, his eyes sweeping the hall. “The people here—they do not see a princess weighed down by court. They see their queen.” His words warmed her, though she did not answer at once. She only tightened her grip on his arm and walked forward, letting the sound of her children’s laughter cloak her as she took her place at the head of the hall.

As the day stretched on, Rhaenyra took herself into the heart of Dragonstone. She walked the familiar corridors slowly, like a woman tracing the lines of an old scar. Her hand slid along the cool black stone, pausing at carvings she remembered from girlhood. Every corner reminded her of time lost—the mother she had buried, the youth she had long since shed. And yet the walls welcomed her still, as though waiting all these years for her return.

When she reached the terrace overlooking the narrow sea, the wind struck her full in the face, sharp with brine and storm. She closed her eyes, breathing deep. It was nothing like King’s Landing, where the air carried the stench of ambition and rot. Here, the sea washed her clean, scoured her of doubts, even if only for a moment. She whispered into the wind, “This is where we belong.”

Later, she visited the dragonpit, its yawning cavern thrumming with heat and the distant growl of wings. Syrax moved first, her golden hide shifting like molten light in the shadows. The dragon lowered her head, and Rhaenyra stepped close, resting her palm against the warm scales. A calm spread through her—wordless, primal. Here was power no council could steal, no rival could counterfeit. Her bond with Syrax was more than politics; it was blood and fire, the bond of two mothers.

As dusk fell, the great hall filled with light and clamor. Torches blazed in sconces, shadows dancing across the black walls, while servants laid platters heavy with roast boar, fish fresh from the sea, and honeyed breads. Rhaenyra entered last, Harwin at her side, and every voice in the hall rose in greeting. She paused a moment in the doorway, watching her kin gathered—brothers and sisters, children and grandchildren, their silver hair bright as flame in the firelight. The weight of years and doubts fell from her shoulders as she stepped forward to join them. Tonight, at least, she was not a princess beset by rivals nor an heir overshadowed by whispers. She was Rhaenyra of Dragonstone,the realms delight, the mother of dragons, surrounded by fire, blood, and family.

The feast was a rare moment of peace for Rhaenyra. She sat at the head of the long table, her cup filled with rich red wine, her plate with food she had not tasted in years. She let herself laugh at Maegor’s bold stories from the training yard, smiled softly at Aelinor’s dreamy chatter about the skies above Dragonstone and even joined in when Laemond teased his younger kin. Every now and then, her eyes strayed down the table to where Laena sat, radiant in the firelight. Their gazes met more than once, an unspoken bond weaving between them— friends, not by blood but by fire, bound by loss and longing. In Laena’s smile, Rhaenyra found strength; in her steady presence, a reminder she was not alone.

The hall rang with merriment, the warmth of kinship softening even the harshest shadows of the black stone. Yet as Rhaenyra lifted her cup again, the doors creaked open. A servant entered, pale-faced and hesitant, clutching a sealed letter in trembling hands. The laughter dimmed as he crossed the hall, his steps faltering under so many watching eyes. He bowed deeply before Rhaenyra and laid the note upon the table. For a moment, she only stared at it, her hand hovering, her smile fading.

At last, she broke the seal. Her eyes moved over the words, and the blood drained from her face. She read it once, then again. her lips pressed tightly together, her hand trembling slightly though she willed it still. Her gaze fell to the table, her expression shuttered, but the weight of her silence spoke louder than any words.

Visenya, seated beside her, noticed the tremor in her sister’s fingers. Without hesitation she reached out and gently pulled the parchment from Rhaenyra’s hand. Her eyes flicked across the ink, and in an instant her composure shattered. Her breath caught sharply, tears welling. She rose half from her seat, her voice breaking as it carried through the hushed hall.

“Our father is dead,” she cried, the words raw, anguished, unyielding. “King Viserys is gone—and they have named Aegon king in his place!” Her voice cracked as the truth rang out like steel on stone.

Around them, the hall erupted into gasps, whispers, and cries, but Rhaenyra sat frozen, her face pale, her silence heavier than any wail. Her world had ended quietly in her hands—and Visenya had given the words voice.

The hall seemed to collapse in on itself the moment Visenya’s voice broke the silence. For a heartbeat, no one moved—then the air filled with gasps, the scrape of chairs, the sharp cries of the younger children who clutched at their mothers’ skirts. Rhaenyra sat unmoving, her hands pressed flat to the table, her wine untouched. The words she had read still echoed in her skull, pounding like war-drums. Viserys… dead. Aegon… crowned. Her lips parted as if to speak, but no sound came, only a tremor of breath that barely left her throat.

Daemon was the first to break the paralysis. His chair scraped harshly against the stone as he surged to his feet, his eyes alight with a fury that filled the hall like wildfire. “The bastards crown him the moment my brother draws his last breath!” he snarled, his voice carrying over the stunned silence. “They steal what is yours, Rhaenyra, what was promised before half this court could walk! Treachery! Treason!” His fist slammed down upon the table, rattling cups and plates. “Let them choke on their false king. I will cut the usurper from his throne myself.”

The younger children began to cry in earnest, frightened not just by the words but by the rage burning in Daemon’s face. Harwin was already on his feet, moving quickly to gather them, while Laena crossed the hall to herd her daughters and own grandchildren toward the doors. “Come,” she whispered firmly, ushering the little ones with urgent but gentle hands. “Out, all of you. This is not for your ears.” Harwin swept up Aelys and baela, his broad frame shielding them from the rising storm, and together he and Laena ushered the children —every child younger than fifteen—from the hall. Their protests and sobs faded into the corridors beyond, leaving the chamber emptied of innocence.

Still, Rhaenyra did not move. At last she rose slowly to her feet, her face pale, her hands trembling at her sides. She turned to her elder children—Viserys, Maegor, Jaehaerys, Aegon, Baelon and Aemon—her voice coming in sharp, broken commands. “We must… we must send ravens. Driftmark must be told. The Vale—Jeyne must stand ready. We must call the banners. Gods, the dragons, the dragons must be prepared at once, and Syrax—Syrax must—” She faltered, pressing her hand to her brow as though the thoughts were too many to hold. “The realm will not abide this, the lords swore their oaths—”

Daemon cut across her words like a sword through silk. “Enough of oaths!” he barked, his voice a whipcrack in the chamber. “Oaths mean nothing when knives are drawn! Aegon wears the crown already. You think ink and ravens will unseat him? We must strike, Rhaenyra—strike before the usurper has time to dig in his claws. Blood must answer blood, or you will be swept aside like a maid at her first dance.” His face was a mask of fury, eyes gleaming with the promise of violence.

But then—over his roar, over Rhaenyra’s spiraling commands—came Visenya’s voice, breaking still with tears. She had not left her seat; her hands clutched the letter so tightly it crumpled in her grasp, her sobs spilling into words ragged and raw. An unusual sight compared to visenya’s usual composed self. “He is dead,” she wept, again and again. “We saw him before we left this morning, how can he be dead?!”

The words cut sharper than any blade. They pierced through Daemon’s fire, through Rhaenyra’s spiraling commands, dragging the room into silence once more. Rhaenyra turned to look at her sister, her throat tightening, her vision blurring as the truth settled like ash upon her heart. For all her talk of thrones and banners, of war and treachery, the reality she had buried beneath her orders could not be ignored. Viserys was gone. Her father was gone.

Her knees weakened, and she braced herself against the table, her breath shuddering. Around her, her elder children shifted uncertainly—Viserys standing tall, jaw clenched, Maegor restless and fierce, Jaehaerys pale but steady, Aegon uneasy but watchful, Baelon hovering close to his mother holding onto her arm and Aemon silent and grim. They were torn between duty and grief, between their mother’s unraveling composure and Daemon’s call for war. The hall seemed to hold its breath, waiting for what Rhaenyra would say next.

Rhaenyra’s chest heaved once, twice, before the dam broke. Tears welled hot in her eyes and spilled freely down her cheeks, cutting tracks through the composure she had worn so long. She pressed her hand against her mouth to stifle the sob that tore through her, but it escaped nonetheless, raw and unguarded. For a moment she was not the heir, not the princess, not the Realm’s Delight—only a daughter who had now also lost her father.

She turned toward Visenya, who still clutched the crumpled letter in her hands, her body shaking with grief. Rhaenyra moved to her, gathering her younger sister into her arms with trembling strength. “Enough,” she whispered, her own voice cracking. “Please, Visenya… enough. You must calm yourself.” She smoothed her sister’s silver hair with shaking fingers, her own tears wetting her cheeks. “We will not dishonor him by falling to pieces. He deserves more from us.”

The hall was quiet now but for the sound of their grief. Rhaenyra drew in a long steadying breath, pressing her forehead briefly to Visenya’s before lifting her chin. When she turned back to her children, her eyes still glistened but her voice was firm, carrying the steel of command.

“They would steal my throne before my father’s body is cold,” she said, her voice gathering strength with each word. “But the realm swore its oaths. Every lord bent the knee, every house pledged its honor. They will be reminded.” She turned her gaze, one by one, to Viserys, Maegor, Jaehaerys, Aegon, Baelon and Aemon while she still held Visenya in her arms. “You are Targaryens. You are riders of dragons. You will take to the skies, to the castles and keeps of Westeros, and you will remind them of their vows. If they mean to break faith, let them say so to your faces, with fire in the skies above them.”

The older boys straightened, the weight of her command sinking into their bones. Viserys, tall and resolute, bowed his head with a grim sort of pride. Maegor’s lips curved into a fierce, eager smile, though Jaehaerys’ expression was more thoughtful, already weighing strategy behind his calm eyes. Aegon shifted uneasily but nodded, determination simmering beneath his mischief. Baelon’s steady gaze met hers with quiet strength, while Aemon’s hand rested against the hilt of his sword as if already preparing for the task.

Daemon let out a sharp breath, almost a laugh, though there was no humor in it. “At last, fire answers treachery,” he said, his eyes gleaming. But Rhaenyra silenced him with a look—grief still heavy in her gaze, but her resolve clear as Valyrian steel.

“This is not for vengeance,” she said firmly. “Not yet. It is to remind them who their queen is. No sword will be drawn unless they force our hand. Do you understand me?”

There was a murmur of assent, though Daemon’s jaw tightened in barely restrained impatience. Still, he did not argue. Rhaenyra’s children looked at her with solemn eyes, their grief tempered by purpose, their fear steadied by the strength in her voice.

For the first time since the note had entered the hall, the air shifted. Not lighter, not free of sorrow—but steadier. A sense of direction, of bound duty, threaded through the chamber. Visenya’s quiet sobs softened against Rhaenyra’s shoulder, her weeping slowly stilled by her sister’s strength.

Daemon’s lips curled into something dangerously close to a sneer as he stepped forward, the firelight sharp in his violet eyes. “You speak of oaths, Rhaenyra, as though vows ever stopped a hungry wolf. The Greens have already crowned the boy, already spat on every word sworn before gods and men. If you do not answer with fire now, if you hesitate, they will crush you before your banners are raised. You cannot afford—”

“Enough, Daemon.”

The words came not from Rhaenyra but from Laena, her voice sharp as a whip crack. She had lingered close to the shadows, silent until now, but her presence carried like a gale. “You would drag her into war before her tears have even dried. Do you not see her? Do you not see the grief? For once, set aside your thirst for blood and hold your tongue.”

Daemon’s jaw worked, fury barely chained, but at the sight of his wife’s gaze—unyielding, steel-hard—he stilled. His hand twitched near the pommel of Dark Sister, not in threat but in restless impatience, and at last he turned aside, pacing like a caged beast before leaving the chamber.

Silence fell again, but this time it was broken by movement at the edge of the hall. Viserys, tall and composed even in grief, stepped to his mother’s side. He laid a steady hand on Rhaenyra’s arm, then glanced at his aunt. “Come, Visenya,” he said softly, guiding the weeping woman away from Rhaenyra’s embrace. “Let us leave them a moment” he said more to the room than just his wife.

Visenya resisted at first, her tear-streaked face clinging to her sister’s shoulder, but at last she allowed herself to be led from the room. Viserys wrapped a protective arm around her, his presence calm and firm as they disappeared beyond the heavy doors.

When the doors closed behind Viserys and Visenya, the hall seemed cavernous, every candle’s flame too loud in its flicker. It was only laena and rhaenyra now. Rhaenyra pressed her palms to her face, her body trembling as though she might collapse where she stood. At last the dam broke, and her voice came cracked and raw, her words tumbling in a rush she could not stop.

“I knew this day would come,” she choked, lowering her hands as tears came streaking down her cheeks. “Gods, I knew it. I felt it every morning I looked upon him—his mind slipping, his body wasting. I told myself I was ready, that I would be strong, that when the time came I would rise. But not like this. Not like this, Laena. Not when I thought we had more time, not when I believed things were steady, when I let myself breathe—”

Her breath hitched, and she stumbled back a step, hands twisting together. “I thought I had done enough, that my children were secure, that the lords would remember their vows. And yet—yet while I sat at my father’s side, while I laughed with my grandchildren, they crowned the usurper. They spat on me, on us, on everything we bled for. Was I blind, Laena? Was I so desperate to believe in peace that I left the door wide open for them to steal it all?”

Laena moved toward her, quiet and steady reaching her hand out about to usher a word but Rhaenyra hardly seemed to notice, her words spilling faster, harsher, as if the sound might fill the hole in her chest.

“I told myself I was prepared. But I wasn’t. I wasn’t ready to lose him, not today, not like this—” Her voice cracked on the last words, and she pressed her fists to her temples, as though she might claw the grief from her skull. “What kind of queen falters before the fight even begins?”

“Rhaenyra—” Laena tried softly, reaching for her hand. But Rhaenyra wrenched away, pacing like a storm uncontained, the tears shining against her flushed cheeks And then Laena moved with sudden, decisive force. She caught Rhaenyra’s face in her hands, ignoring the resistance, and pressed her lips to hers. It was fierce, desperate—a spark struck against grief’s suffocating dark.

For a moment, the world stilled. No whispers, no flames, no war—only the taste of salt and fire. Laena drew back first, her breath uneven, eyes searching Rhaenyra’s as if braced for rejection. Silence yawned between them, heavy and raw. then as though the weight of her grief tipped her past hesitation, Rhaenyra closed the distance again. Her fingers tangled in Laena’s long curly hair, her kiss answering with all the sorrow, fury, and yearning that words could not contain.

The hall was quiet but for the sound of their breath, the beating of two hearts in fragile unison, grief and desire tangled beyond unraveling.

Rhaenyra pressed harder into Laena, her body trembling as grief bled into need. Her hands clutched at the other woman’s waist, desperate, anchoring herself against the storm that threatened to break her apart. Laena did not resist—her arms wound around Rhaenyra’s shoulders, pulling her closer still, their breaths mingling, heavy with loss and unspoken hunger.

Rhaenyra pressed her body flush against Laena’s from behind, letting her hands roam over the curves of Laena’s hips and waist, brushing and kneading with a slow, deliberate intensity. Laena shivered beneath her touch, tilting back slightly, lips parting, caught between hesitation and a longing she could barely contain. Her fingers twined in Rhaenyra’s hair as her back arched, almost pleading, almost begging, her chest rising and falling with rapid, shallow breaths.

For a heartbeat, nothing else mattered. The throne, the war, the usurpation—it all dissolved into the heat between them, into the solace they found in one another’s closeness. Rhaenyra’s lips trailed along Laena’s jaw, her hand moving further and further down before laena’s gasp made it clear rhaenyra had reached her desired location. The two now intertwined in passion and grief felt as if time belonged to them, before rhaenyra unwillingly stopped at the familiar sound of the door creaking open.

Both women froze, breath still ragged. Rhaenyra stepped back half a pace, her hair falling loose into her face, as Harwin Strong stepped into the room. His broad frame filled the doorway, his expression steady but shadowed with the kind of weariness that came not from battle, but from duty.

“They’re gone,” he said quietly, his eyes finding hers. “All of them. Viserys, Maegor, Jaehaerys, Aegon, Baelon, Aemon. They mounted their dragons at once—your orders, my queen—and flew to remind the lords of their oaths.”

The words struck her like a blow, her chest tightening. For an instant, she saw them all through the window: her sons in the skies, silver and brown hair streaming in the wind, fire at their backs. Children—her children—facing a realm that had already named another king.

Her throat closed. Whatever heat had burned between her and Laena moments before cooled into the heavy chill of reality. Harwin took a step closer, his hand reaching for hers with the quiet certainty he had always carried. His calloused fingers folded over hers, grounding her in a way no fire could.

In that touch came the reminder of who she was—not only a sister, not only a lover of fleeting comfort, but wife, mother, heir. The weight of crowns and family and blood all pressing at once.

Her lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. Only tears. Silent, unyielding, as she turned her gaze between the two pillars of her heart—the man who had stood by her side all her years, and the woman who in one desperate instant, had reminded her she was still flesh and blood.

The fire in the hearth crackled. Somewhere beyond the keep, dragons roared into the night And with that, the day was done.

The realm was changed.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4

The storm outside Dragonstone raged as though the gods themselves sensed the world had shifted. Wind howled through the towers, rattling shutters and driving rain against the stone like thrown pebbles. Inside the chambers set aside for Elaen, another storm had begun.

Her labours struck with a swiftness that stole her breath. Bent double, clutching at the carved post of her bed, Elaen fought to steady herself as the next wave of pain tore through her. The midwives fluttered around her, their voices a blur of prayers and instruction, but all she could hear was the crack of thunder outside and the pounding of her own heart.

“They’re gone,” she whispered between ragged breaths. “All of them—gone.” The words were not for the women, but for herself. Her husband, Aegon, and his brothers had taken wing to rally the realm, flying in defiance of the Greens’ usurpation unknown to her. The skies were theirs tonight, but she was left grounded, torn between the blood that bound her to Alicent and the vows that bound her to Rhaenyra’s son.

Another pain seized her, sharper than before, and Elaen’s nails raked against the polished wood. “Gods,” she gasped, sweat beading across her brow. “Not while they are away.”

When Rhaenyra was brought to her chamber, Harwin and Laena close at her side, the queen’s face was pale, her eyes shadowed and red from the news still raw in her heart. Yet as she stepped into the storm-lit room and saw Elaen writhing, her hand pressed firm to her swollen belly, something shifted in her. Grief was pushed aside by urgency, by the brutal insistence of life demanding to be born.

Despite being the youngest child of Queen Alicent, Elaen stood as if carved from wax, still warm with youth, yet molded by the fire of sorrows that belonged to age. Her marriage to Prince Aegon, Rhaenyra’s restless son, had been forged of politics rather than affection, binding the two rival branches of their house in an uneasy truce. For all her youth, the weight of that choice pressed upon her now, every pain of labour reminding her that her body had been claimed by oaths and crowns long before her heart was ever given a chance to choose.

Rhaenyra remained close through the long hours, never retreating from Elaen’s side despite the maesters’ urgings that a queen’s place was not in the birthing chamber. “She is but a child,” Rhaenyra had snapped silencing them with a single look, “she will not suffer it alone.” She held the girl’s hand steadying her through each shuddering wave of pain and whispering words of comfort that she wished her own mother could’ve said to her.

When Elaen’s strength faltered, when her sobs became desperate gasps of fear, Rhaenyra pressed her forehead gently to hers. “You are strong, far stronger than they have ever allowed you to believe. You will not break sweet girl, You are Targaryen, you are fire and fire endures.”

As the chamber grew heavy with the scent of sweat and herbs, Elaen clutched at Rhaenyra’s sleeve like a drowning sailor grasping driftwood. Rhaenyra did not pull away. For that night, she was not only heir to the throne or mother of princes—she was a shield, a sister, and a midwife’s aid, refusing to abandon this child forced too soon into a woman’s trial.

The birthing chamber was heavy with heat and the acrid scent of burning herbs, its windows shuttered against the sea-winds. The cries of the girl within echoed against the stone walls, sharp and unrelenting. Elaen, no older than fifteen, writhed upon the bed, her dakr auburn hair plastered damp to her brow. Her hands trembled as she gripped the sheets, every contraction seeming to wrench her fragile body apart. She had been Alicent’s only daughter, yet here on Dragonstone she was far from her mother’s careful eye, a child-bride given to Aegon in the name of duty. Now, too young and unready, she faced the peril of womanhood alone—save for Rhaenyra, a second mother in her eyes.

Rhaenyra sat close, her hand clasped firmly around Elaen’s. The girl’s small fingers clung to hers as if to life itself, squeezing with a desperation that made Rhaenyra’s bones ache. “Breathe with me,” she urged softly, her tone firm but tender as it guided her through each wave. “Do not fight it. Let the pain pass through you, You are not alone.” It struck her how much Elaen resembled a frightened bird, fragile yet fierce in her own way, and it hardened Rhaenyra’s resolve to remain.

Beyond the closed doors, muffled voices gathered—curious, anxious, restless. Among them was Daena, Laena’s sharp-tongued daughter, who had slipped past her mother’s guard to reach the threshold. The two girls had grown inseparable since the earliest days of Elaen arriving in dragonstone, they had become companions in secrets and laughter. “Let me in,” Daena hissed at the servants holding her back, her fists balled in frustration. “She needs me. I am her friend, not some stranger to be kept away.” But the women of the chamber barred her path, murmuring that birthing was no place for children. Rhaenyra heard the commotion but did not turn. Elaen whimpered, and that was enough to anchor her where she was.

As the night deepened, the labour grew harder. Elaen’s cries sharpened into raw screams that tore through the chamber, her body arching with the effort. The maester hovered at the foot of the bed, muttering orders and adjusting cloths, but his presence seemed a shadow beside the queen’s steady calm. Rhaenyra wiped the sweat from Elaen’s brow, brushing damp strands of dark hair from her face. “You are brave,” she whispered, pressing her forehead to hers, “braver than they will ever give you credit for. Hold fast, child. Fire runs in your blood. Fire will see you through.”

The chamber seemed to tighten with each scream, as though the stone itself pressed down upon them. Elaen clutched at Rhaenyra’s arm, nails digging crescent moons into her skin, and her sobs broke into hoarse gasps. “I cannot,” she choked, thrashing against the wave of pain. “It will kill me—”

“You can,” Rhaenyra cut across firmly, her voice steel wrapped in silk. She pressed Elaen’s hand against her own chest so she could feel the steady beat of her heart. “You will. Do not let fear steal what is yours to give. Look at me, only me.” And somehow, the girl obeyed, clinging to that command as the maester urged her to bear down once more.

The air filled with the guttural sound of effort, the wet crack of the struggle, and then—suddenly—another cry pierced the room. Not Elaen’s, but thin, wailing, new. The sound of a child. For a heartbeat, silence held, all faces turned toward the small, red bundle raised by the midwife, squalling and alive.

Elaen slumped back against the pillows, her chest heaving, tears spilling down her cheeks as though she could scarcely believe it was over. Rhaenyra bent close, brushing her lips against the girl’s clammy brow. “You did it,” she whispered fiercely, pride burning in her eyes. “You are stronger than you ever knew.”

At the door, the commotion surged again. Daena— laena’s youngest, had slipped past the protesting servants. her cheeks flushed with stubborn triumph. She froze when she saw Elaen on the bed, pale and trembling but alive, the tiny child laid upon her breast. For the first time in her young life, Daena’s sharp tongue faltered. She simply crept forward, her eyes wide and wet, whispering, “You’re safe. Gods be good, you’re safe.”

Elaen smiled faintly, the curve weak but real, as she looked between her queen, her dearest friend, and the small life in her arms. Her voice was a hoarse whisper when she finally spoke: “Alice. Her name is Alice.” She pressed her lips to the child’s downy head, as though sealing the name with her breath.

The firelight flickered against the stone walls, casting long shadows, and for a moment all of Dragonstone seemed to breathe with her—relieved, astonished, trembling. Rhaenyra’s hand stayed on her shoulder, steady as ever, while Daena leaned closer, brushing the baby’s tiny fingers with awe. Amid the storm of war and death that loomed beyond these walls, a fragile new flame had been kindled.

At Driftmark, Baelon’s arrival came as a storm from the sea. Viritem, his dark green dragon burst from the mist with a roar that shook gulls from their cliffs and sent waves pounding against the rocks. High Tide opened its doors to him, but it was Lord Corlys Velaryon who commanded the true tide—the thousand ships that could choke the Narrow Sea.

Inside the hall, Baelon stood before the Sea Snake, Viritem’s restless shadow still heavy in his mind. “Your fleet must sail for my mother, lord corlys ” he said, steady despite his youth. “The Greens would strangle your house. Stand with us, and Driftmark rules the seas unchallenged.”

Corlys studied him with the eyes of a man who had seen every current, every treachery. At last, he leaned upon his carved map table. “You speak with fire, boy, but I hear the sea in you as well. The fleet sails. The Velaryon name will not be remembered for silence.”

Baelon left with Viritem’s wings hammering against the salt air, Driftmark’s fleet bound for the Black cause. The realm trembled with every oar.

Slightly to the north Jaehaerys dismounted swiftly, his black cloak snapping in the wind. He had rehearsed this moment countless times on the flight: the careful words with which to remind the Vale of its oath, the measured calm to soothe doubts, the firmness to ensure loyalty. Duty weighed on him like armor, but beneath it all was a strange anticipation—he had not seen Jeyne Arryn for many months. Their marriage was one built of politics and understanding, not of passion. But in that understanding, there had been comfort.

He pushed open the carved door of her chambers and froze—not in fury or jealousy, but in the half-expected truth of it. Jeyne was not alone. Her brown hair tumbled freely as she reclined on her bed, laughter caught in her throat, another woman tangled with her in the glow of a hearth. At the sound of the door, both women startled, Jeyne’s lover a girl known as Jessamyn Redfort was scrambling upright with a gasp. Jeyne’s eyes widened at the sight of her husband, though no shame lingered long in her face.

For a heartbeat, silence reigned. Then Jaehaerys’s lips quirked into the faintest of wry smiles. “I see nothing has changed,” he said softly. His voice was calm, carrying no heat.

Jeyne exhaled slowly, her shoulders easing as recognition settled between them. “And I suppose you haven’t been lonely either.”

His gaze flickered, but he did not answer—there was no need. They both knew the nature of their bond. She was a woman who loved women; he a man whose heart was never drawn to them. Their marriage was one of strategy, of duty, and of respect. They had promised each other honesty, and in that moment, they had kept it.

The other woman rose awkwardly, murmured an excuse, and slipped out of the room. Left alone, Jeyne drew her furs tighter around her and tilted her head toward him. “So. You’ve come not for me, but for the Vale.”

“For both,” Jaehaerys admitted quietly. His face, so often solemn, softened as he met her gaze. “I would have your counsel, and your strength beside me. But above all, the Vale must remember its oath to my mother.” Jeyne studied him for a long moment, then nodded. “You will have it,” she said simply. “Whatever storms are rising, you will not face them without the Eyrie.”

And with that, the air between them settled—not with passion, but with the unshakable bond of two people who understood each other completely, each free in their truths, yet united in loyalty to blood and duty.

The firelight flickered across Jeyne’s face as she rested her hand over the curve of her belly. Her words still lingered between them, heavier than stone.

“It is yours,” she said firmly, her voice clear despite the softness in her tone. “Four months gone. Our child.”

Jaehaerys lowered his eyes, his throat tight with unspoken things. Though affection in its truest sense had never passed between them, there had been respect, trust, and a bond that had grown over years of shared honesty. In a realm where masks ruled, they had always given one another truth.

At last, he let out a slow breath and looked up at her again, his features easing into something almost tender. “Then you have given me a gift I did not expect,” he said quietly. “Whatever else may come, no one will doubt our tie to the Vale. No one will question your loyalty, nor mine.”

Jeyne’s lips quirked into a small, wry smile. “And for once, the game has given us both a piece to play that suits us.”

A silence followed, not uncomfortable but full, like the pause between heartbeats. She reached across the table, her fingers brushing his hand, a gesture of solidarity rather than affection. He clasped her hand in return, firm, steady.

“You have the Vale,” she said. “And you will have me, in all the ways I can give you. As for the rest…” She let the thought trail away, both of them knowing well what remained unspoken—the lovers that gave them joy, the freedoms they had never begrudged one another.

Jaehaerys allowed himself a faint smile. “And the child,” he murmured. “The child will have us both.”

Later, as he walked to Terrax’s roost, the moonlight cast pale silver over the dragon’s shining scales. The thought pressed heavier with every step. Terrax was power—his greatest strength in the wars to come. But he was also trust, and trust was what Jeyne had placed in him this night.

He laid his hand upon the beast’s warm flank, the dragon rumbling low in its chest. Perhaps, Jaehaerys thought, there would be wisdom in leaving Terrax here in the Vale. To guard his wife, their unborn child, and the Eyrie’s high halls. A promise carved in fire and scale that their bond was no hollow oath.

And if he must return to war, the Vale would not only have his word, but his dragon’s shadow to remind them where their loyalty lay.

Jaehaerys left the Vale with a heavier heart than he had arrived. His farewell to Jeyne had been tender, softened by the shared knowledge of her pregnancy and their strange but steady bond. Terrax’s wings beat through the skies as he took off from the Eyrie, the dragon’s crimson hide vanishing into the clouds as Jaehaerys turned south. Behind him, Jeyne stood upon the high balcony with her sworn lover by her side, one hand cradling her belly, the other lifted in farewell. The Vale was secure, their oaths intact, but the rest of the realm was far less certain.

to the west , Maegor Targaryen pressed through the storm winds that lashed the coast. Arrax was restless beneath him, the dragon’s pale scales gleaming whenever lightning flashed across the sea. The closer they came to Shipbreaker Bay, the heavier the air grew, as though the storm itself had been summoned by Storm’s End. Maegor’s jaw clenched with determination. The Baratheons were too great a house to leave wavering. If they kept their word, the realm might still bend toward his mother.

When at last Storm’s End rose from the cliffs, its high walls stark against the storm-dark sky, Maegor’s eyes narrowed. Another dragon circled above the keep — vast and strong, wings beating against the gale. Gretheos, Rhaegar’s mount. For a heartbeat Maegor felt relief. His cousin was here already, perhaps securing their cause. But then doubt seeped in — why had no raven flown to announce it? Why had no word been sent of Rhaegar’s success?

Arrax landed heavily in the courtyard, claws scraping against wet stone. Guards hurried forward, wide-eyed but wary, their spears tipped toward the ground in respect more than hostility. Maegor dismounted, cloak dripping, boots striking the puddled floor as he strode toward the great hall.

The doors opened upon a chamber lit by torches that sputtered in the drafts, shadows stretching high across the vaulted ceiling. At the far end of the hall sat Lord Borros Baratheon, massive and brooding, his storm-grey cloak spread across his broad shoulders. At his right hand stood Rhaegar, tall and proud, with Maris Baratheon beside him — her chin lifted though her eyes betrayed unease.

Maegor’s voice cut through the hush as he strode forward, “Lord Borros. I come on behalf of my mother, Rhaenyra Targaryen, rightful queen of Westeros. You swore your oath before the realm, and I have come to remind you of it.” His words rang with youthful fire, his eyes burning with the same determination that had driven him through the storm.

But Borros’s face bore no welcome. Instead, he leaned forward, resting his fists on his knees, and spoke with the unyielding certainty of a lord born of tempests. “You come too late, boy. My daughter is already wed. Maris, my daughter and blood of Storm’s End, is wife to Prince Rhaegar — brother to the king. And that makes us bound to Aegon, true king of Westeros.” His words thundered louder than the storm outside, striking Maegor like a physical blow.

Maegor froze, his fury boiling up at once. His eyes darted to Rhaegar, who stood proud, his hand possessively over Maris’s. The smirk on Rhaegar’s lips was faint, but it was enough. Maegor spat, “You would turn traitor, then? Cast aside your sworn oath as if it were nothing? You shame your house, Lord Borros, and you shame your blood.”

Borros rose to his feet, towering, his cloak rippling as though it too carried the storm’s fury. “I shame nothing. I have bound my line to kingship, not to pretenders. If your mother wishes Storm’s End at her side, she should have been queen already. But she is not. Aegon wears the conquerors crown, and I stand with him.”

Lightning flared through the high windows, casting the hall in white fire for a heartbeat. Maegor’s hand twitched at his sword, but he felt Arrax’s restless cry echo through his blood, as if warning him against rashness. He clenched his teeth, fists tight at his sides.

Behind him, Rhaegar’s voice rose, sharp with mocking pride. “Tell your mother she may sit upon her crumbling rock at Dragonstone and dream of crowns. The realm has chosen its king. if she dares contest it, she will be crushed beneath the storm. Tell her that her son stood here and found no welcome. Tell her the Baratheons are true.”

Maegor’s fury boiled over. He turned sharply on his heel, cloak whipping behind him as he stormed down the hall. The laughter of Borros’s men and the mocking echo of Rhaegar’s words followed him out into the rain. Arrax bellowed as he leapt back into the stormy skies, wings straining against the wind.

From the battlements above, Gretheos roared in answer, his call mingling with the thunder. Storm’s End faded into the night behind them, but Maegor’s rage burned hotter than the lightning, searing itself into memory. He would not forget this slight — nor forgive it.

Maegor left Storm’s End with rage boiling hotter than dragonflame. Arrax’s wings beat furiously against the stormy air, scattering sea spray from the cliffs below as the boy prince turned his dragon north. Rhaegar’s voice still echoed in his ears—mocking, triumphant. Borros Baratheon had slammed his oaths down like a gauntlet, his daughter already wed to a Green prince, his banners sworn to Aegon the Usurper. The Stormlands were lost, and Maegor’s fury could not change it.

Far across the realm, another of Rhaenyra’s sons sought a different oath. The Riverlands, heart of the Trident, would not be won by threats and laughter on a storm-lashed battlement. They must be secured by memory—memory of fire, blood, and the loyalty sworn long ago.

By the time Aegon descended upon Riverrun, the moon had long since sat in the sky. Torches flickered along the battlements, and the sound of rushing water filled the night air. Vermax shrieked as he circled, his wings brushing the towers, sending fishers scrambling on the banks. The portcullis groaned open at once, for word had raced ahead of him.

The great hall of Riverrun smelled of river reeds and woodsmoke. Lord Grover Tully sat in his carved chair beneath the trout banners, his hand trembling on the armrest though his eyes were keen as ever. Beside him stood his son,ser edric, broad and quiet, his jaw set like stone.

“Prince Aegon,” Lord Grover greeted, his voice raspy with age but steady. “You come on your mother’s errand.”

Aegon bowed stiffly, the journey’s dust still clinging to his cloak. “I come on no errand, my lord. I come as her son. The Greens have placed my uncle Aegon upon the Iron Throne, yet every lord here swore to my mother when my grandsire named her heir. I ask you now to remember those oaths, to stand with your queen and not my traitor uncle.”

A hush fell across the chamber. Aegon’s heart thudded, his palms damp despite the cool air.

At last, Grover Tully leaned forward, his thin hand gripping the arm of his chair. “The Trident remembers, prince. The Tullys remember. When the lords gathered to bend the knee, they swore not to the Hightower children but to Rhaenyra and her line. I will not break faith in my old age, nor see my house stained with dishonor.” His gaze flicked to Aegon, sharp despite his years. “The Riverlands stand with your mother son, With you.”

Relief swept through Aegon like a tide, though he masked it behind a careful nod. The hall stirred with murmurs, steel striking against shields as knights voiced their approval. The Riverlands would bleed for Rhaenyra.

Aegon lingered in Riverrun no longer than duty required. he stood again in the yard, the mist curling thick along the waters. Lords of the Trident gathered to bid him farewell, their banners stirring in the pale moonlight. They knelt as one when he mounted Vermax, the sound of their voices echoing against the stone: “For the Queen.” It sent a shiver through him, pride mingling with unease.

When Vermax’s wings caught the night air, Aegon felt the weight of it all settle on his shoulders. Riverrun’s banners were secured, yet the realm was vast, and too many oaths lay buried beneath ambition. He flew eastward, knowing more trials awaited, but with one certainty fixed in his chest: the Riverlands were his mother’s still.

Westward, another shadow crossed the skies. Aemon’s Pureustem was a beast of dark red, his wings vast as the fields below, each beat like a drum of war. When he descended upon Lannisport, firelight washed the harbor crimson, sailors dropping their nets, children pointing skyward in awe. The lion banners of House Lannister stirred in the night breeze, but their pride did not bend at the sight of a dragon.

Within Casterly Rock, Lord Jason Lannister received him with wine and gilded words. The great hall glittered with torchlight, every pillar carved with roaring lions. Aemon stood tall, the heat of Pureustem’s fire still clinging to his skin, and spoke plain.

“The oaths of your house bind you to my mother, the rightful heir,” Aemon said, his voice edged with steel. “The Greens crown a usurper. I ask not for flattery, but for your swords, your ships, your honor.”

Jason’s smile was smooth as polished gold. “Oaths bend with crowns, prince. The Iron Throne is no longer a chair for dreams—it is ruled by your uncle, Aegon. Shall I cast away my house’s strength to chase your mother’s quarrel?”

Aemon’s temper flashed. “It is not her quarrel—it is the realm’s. Do lions care so little for their word?”

The chamber stirred with laughter, sharp and cutting. Jason leaned back, his mantle of crimson catching the firelight. “Lions care for survival. For gold. For their kin. We are not oathbreakers—we are realists. The West will not bleed for your mother.”

Fury burned Aemon’s throat. Pureustem roared outside the Rock, the sound carrying through the hall like thunder. For a moment, Aemon thought to order fire and see if gold melted as easily as steel. But he clenched his fists and turned, his boots striking the stone like hammer blows.

When Pureustem took to the skies once more, the glow of his wings painted the waves red. Yet Aemon’s heart knew only black rage—the West was Green, its pride as unyielding as the Rock itself.

Far away, another dragon traced a different path. Draxtar’s wings beat against the chill winds, carrying Prince Viserys northward, further than any of his siblings had dared. The green fields of the south gave way to rolling hills and thick forests, until at last the land grew harsh, the rivers dark, the air cold enough to bite. Snowflakes danced in the wind as Draxtar’s shadow crossed the Neck.

Winterfell rose like a fortress of stone and frost against the northern sky, its towers black with age, its walls steaming where the hot springs ran. Stark men stood on the battlements, their breath misting in the cold, their eyes following the dragon as it circled overhead. Viserys guided Draxtar down, his cloak snapping in the wind, his heart quick with anticipation.

At the gates, Lord Cregan Stark awaited. Tall, broad-shouldered, and with a face already lined by stern youth, he looked every inch a wolf of the North. His dark cloak of wolfskin hung heavy about his shoulders, and his grey eyes studied the prince with the same intensity he might grant a foe.

“Prince Viserys,” he said, his voice a low rumble in the chill air. “Winterfell remembers your mother’s claim.”

Viserys inclined his head, the words more welcome than warmth itself. “Then you know why I am here, my lord. The Greens will try to buy loyalty with promises and threats. But oaths were sworn before gods and men when my grandsire lived. My mother is heir, and I ask only that you stand true.”

Cregan’s jaw tightened, his gaze never wavering. Around them, the wind carried the howls of direwolves in the distance. At last, the Lord of Winterfell gave a slow nod. “The Starks do not forget. Nor do we break our word. The North will ride when your mother calls. Winter comes, but our swords will burn in her cause.”

Viserys felt his chest swell, pride tempered with relief. The North was vast, its men hardened by cold and war. To have their banners meant strength unlike any other.

When at last he mounted Draxtar again to begin his flight back south, snow clung to his hair and cloak, the chill cutting to the bone. But his heart was warm. The wolves and the trouts had chosen, and soon the rest of the realm would have to declare where their loyalties lay. Viserys left Winterfell beneath skies swollen with snow, Draxtar’s wings stirring flurries as he rose above the Wolfswood. Behind him, the howls of direwolves echoed like a benediction, Stark loyalty secured by oaths as old as the First Men. He turned south, knowing his brothers scattered across the realm carried their own burdens.

The nights stretched long upon Dragonstone, their silence broken only by the sigh of the sea and the distant cries of restless dragons. Rhaenyra stood often upon the cliffs where black stone met blacker waves, her cloak whipping in the salt wind. Each flicker of torchlight along the walls reminded her of the sons she had sent away—fire scattered to the corners of the realm. She prayed to no gods, for they had never answered her before, but in her heart she whispered their names all the same. Viritem, Draxtar, Pureustem, Vermax… her blood carried on wings, and with every gust of wind she imagined she heard them breaking the skies above.

Yet when she turned from the sea, the halls of Dragonstone weighed upon her like a crown already claimed. Her sister’s grief, her daughter’s distractions for the younglings, even the cooing of newborn Alice felt muted beneath the stone arches. Rhaenyra walked those halls with measured steps, her mind turning ceaselessly to the throne she had not yet touched, the usurper who sat upon it, and the lords whose loyalty her sons now tested. At night, when all else was still, she lay awake beside Harwin’s steady warmth and stared at the ceiling, seeing not stone but the Iron Throne itself—sharp, vast, waiting. Fear gnawed at her, but beneath it coiled a fire fiercer still. Whatever the realm decided, whatever blood was yet to spill, she would not falter. The game had begun, and Rhaenyra would play it to its end.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5

The night upon Dragonstone was restless. The winds off the Narrow Sea battered the black cliffs with a mournful howl, and though the hour was deep, the queen did not sleep. Rhaenyra Targaryen sat in the chamber of the Painted Table, its surface lit only by scattered candles that burned low, their wax running in silver rivers over carved ridges of Westeros. Every flicker of flame set shadows crawling across the map, and every shadow seemed to whisper of her absent sons.

Her eyes stung with fatigue, yet she did not yield to bed. Baelon had been sent to secure the Velaryon fleet, Jaehaerys to the Vale, and Aegon to the Riverlands, maegor to storms end, aemon to lannisport and viserys to the north of claim winterfell. All of her sons, loosed across the realm, and though she had borne dragons, tonight she felt only the ache of a mother waiting in silence.

At last, the shriek of wings cut the night. She rushed to the battlements, the salt-air biting her cheeks. There—through the moonlight—came Viritem, Baelon’s dark green dragon, scales glinting like emeralds wet with dew. The beast landed hard upon the yard, claws striking sparks, and Baelon slid down with the ease of one born to dragonback. His cloak whipped in the wind, his face lined with dust and salt, yet his eyes shone bright with triumph.

“Mother,” he said, bowing his head as he approached her. “The fleet is ours. Lord Corlys stands with us, as he ever has. The ships are ready, the seas will burn for you if need be.”

Relief swelled in her chest so sharp it was nearly pain. She gripped his shoulders, pulling him close, and pressed her forehead to his. “My brave boy,” she whispered. “You have done what few men could.” For a fleeting moment, she let herself simply be a mother, feeling the warmth of her son against her, before the queen within her stirred again.

The Painted Table bore witness as Baelon spilled every detail—how the oaths were spoken, how the banners were raised. Rhaenyra listened with her hand resting on his, eyes drinking in his face as though she could fix him there forever. Yet even as her heart swelled with pride, she glanced to the door, straining for the sound of more wings.

A few hours after, the wind bore another cry. Terrax descended in a blaze of blue-white flame upon the courtyard, and Jaehaerys strode within the hall, taller and sterner than when he had left. His steps were steady, but his face betrayed the weight of what he carried. At Rhaenyra’s side, Baelon rose, and together they welcomed their brother.

“The Vale holds,” Jaehaerys declared, his voice low but sure. “Jeyne stands with me, and with you. The Eyrie has sworn, the knights of the Vale sharpen their swords in your name.” For a moment his eyes softened and Rhaenyra thought she saw a flicker of warmth as though the young man carried secrets too tender to voice. But the vow was enough and she embraced him, whispering thanks into his hair.

Two sons returned, yet her gaze still sought the horizon. Midnight waned into the hollow hours when the stars seemed to shiver and the sea grew darker still. She refused to yield to weariness. Instead, she stood watch, as though her sleepless vigil alone might summon her third son home.

At last, the thunder of wings broke her waiting. Vermax appeared like a phantom of silver-blue flame, circling the towers of Dragonstone. Aegon slid down from the saddle, his shoulders squared though his eyes were shadowed with fatigue. He strode into the hall and bent his knee, a gesture that made her heart twist—prince, warrior, yet still her child.

“The Riverlands are ours,” he told her, his voice ringing through the chamber. “Lord Tully remembers. The lords of the Trident remember. They stand with you Mother, as they once stood with Grandfather.”

Tears stung her eyes though she held her face firm. Three sons home, three victories won. The realm itself seemed to lean toward her cause, yet her heart could not rest easy. She touched each of their faces in turn, tracing the lines of boyhood that lingered beneath the steel of men.

The night drew on. Around the Painted Table, the brothers spoke at length—of oaths sworn, of dangers brewing, of threats whispered in halls and storm-swept keeps. Rhaenyra listened to every word, her hands folded tightly in her lap, though her thoughts spun like embers in a gale. She was queen but she was also a mother, and every detail of peril felt like a blade pressed to her heart.

At last, when the candles had guttered low and the sky beyond the windows lightened faintly with the first suggestion of dawn, she rose. Her voice was steady, though exhaustion dragged at her limbs. “Enough for tonight. You have done all I asked of you and more. Rest now. Tomorrow, the realm will test us again.”

Her sons obeyed, though their faces lingered on hers as if unwilling to leave her side. One by one they slipped away, leaving her alone in the vast chamber. She placed her hands upon the Painted Table, tracing the carved rivers and mountains, her eyes upon King’s Landing. There, the usurper wore her crown. Here, her sons had returned victorious, yet three more were still abroad.

With a weary sigh, she at last made her way to her chamber. She lay down in silence, staring at the canopy above her bed, her heart torn between pride and dread. Maegor, Aemon, and Viserys yet flew in the service of her name. Sleep took her at last, but fitful and restless, her dreams full of wings beating against storm-black skies.

The dawn crept slowly over Dragonstone, painting the sea in shades of pewter and rose. In the queen’s chamber, the quiet was broken by the patter of small feet and the whispers of girlish voices.

Aemma was first to clamber onto the great bed, her nine years giving her the boldness of command. “Wake, Grandmother,” she said, tugging insistently at the coverlet. Beside her, seven-year-old Vaella giggled as she buried her face against the furs, while little Aelys, clutching her wooden dragon with wings worn from handling, scrambled up after them, squealing as she toppled against Rhaenyra’s side.

Rhaenyra stirred with a groan, silver hair spilling across her pillow, but when she opened her eyes and saw the three blonde-haired girls smiling down at her, her heart softened. She drew them close, kissing each brow in turn. “My sweetlings… you rise with the dawn like true dragons,” she murmured, her voice still thick with sleep.

Harwin shifted beside her, his warmth pressed against her back. He cracked one eye open to find their bed besieged. “Seven hells,” he rumbled, though a smile betrayed him. “Are we under attack, then? A pack of wolves sent to topple us?”

“Dragons,” Aemma corrected fiercely, planting her fists on her hips. “And we’re hungry.”

Harwin laughed and sat up, swinging his legs to the floor. He leaned across to kiss Rhaenyra’s temple before rising, pulling on his tunic with practiced ease. “I’ll see to the yard, love. Men must be drilled and blades kept sharp, no matter how sweet the morning. You take them down for breakfast. I’ll join you once I’ve seen things set to order.” His hand lingered on her shoulder a moment before he left, his heavy tread fading down the corridor.

Rhaenyra watched him go, her chest tightening with both pride and sorrow. He was her rock—yet how long could even stone withstand the sea’s battering waves? Shaking off the thought, she turned to the girls.

“Come,” she said, rising and pulling a robe about her shoulders. “Let us see if the kitchens have remembered that dragons need feeding too.”

The four of them made their way through the still corridors of Dragonstone. The fortress slept; only the faint crackle of torches and the distant hiss of the sea broke the silence. The girls clung to her hands, their chatter soft and unguarded, speaking of dolls, shells found on the shore, and whose dragon—real or imagined—would fly highest in the skies.

In the great hall, the hearth burned low but warm, the long tables empty save for the simple morning fare already laid out: warm bread, honey, smoked fish, and cheese. The girls scampered ahead, climbing onto benches too big for their small frames. Rhaenyra settled at the head of the table, watching as Aemma tore bread in eager chunks, Vaella daintily spread honey with grave focus, and Aelys hugged her wooden dragon while trying to balance a cup too large for her hands.

The hall was theirs alone, quiet but for the laughter of children and the steady beat of the sea against the cliffs. Rhaenyra let herself breathe, her fingers wrapped around a cup of steaming tea. For a fleeting moment, war felt far away, as if Dragonstone itself shielded them from the world beyond.

Yet beneath the calm, her mind never stilled. She thought of her sons scattered to the winds on dragonback, of the lords who would keep or break their oaths, of the iron crown her father had promised her. She forced a smile for the girls, steady and reassuring, though her heart carried the weight of all that lay beyond these walls.

The girls were halfway through their honey and bread when the doors at the far end of the hall creaked open. Visenya swept in, silver hair falling loose down her back, a robe of deep blue silk belted hastily about her waist. Though her face was unpainted and her eyes still heavy-lidded from sleep, she carried herself with the easy grace of a queen in her own right.

Rhaenyra smiled faintly at the sight of her sister. “Well rested, I hope?” she asked, lifting her cup in greeting.

Visenya exhaled as she lowered herself onto the bench beside her. “Better rested than you, I wager. You look as though you’ve not closed your eyes since yesterday.” Her gaze softened as she glanced at the children, who were now arguing over whether Aelys’ wooden dragon could defeat a real one. “And yet you still rise to tend the little ones. I don’t know how you do it.”

Rhaenyra reached for her sister’s hand across the table, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Because I must. They look to me, to us. If I falter, the whole of Dragonstone falters.”

Visenya was quiet a long moment, her fingers curling around Rhaenyra’s. Finally, she spoke, her voice low, thoughtful. “I have turned it over in my mind a thousand times. This war that seems to creep closer with every raven, every returning rider. And yet…” She shook her head, pale hair catching the morning light. “I cannot stomach the thought of the realm drowning in fire and blood again. Not if there is another way.”

“You think I want war?” Rhaenyra’s voice was sharper than she meant, but she did not withdraw her hand. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “I would give anything to sit the throne without a sword drawn. But they have named our brother king. They have stolen what Father gave to me, what he meant for me. Shall I bow and let them strip me bare of everything I am?”

“No,” Visenya said firmly, her tone carrying a steel rarely heard in her. “No, never. I do not doubt your right. I do not doubt your strength, nor mine. I only wish…” She trailed off, eyes drifting to the girls. Aemma had begun braiding Vaella’s hair while Aelys watched with rapt attention. “I only wish the throne could be won with oaths and honor alone. That men might remember their vows without us sending sons and daughters to die for them.”

Rhaenyra followed her gaze, the weight of her sister’s words pressing on her chest. “If only wishes could make it so,” she murmured. “But we are Targaryens, and our wishes burn too brightly. The realm does not fear words, Visenya. It fears dragons.”

Visenya turned back to her sister then, determination settling over her features. “Then let them fear us. But let us wield that fear with care, not madness. If blood must be spilled, let it be the least amount needed to seat you where you belong. I will see you crowned, Rhaenyra. Even if I must play the peacemaker while Daemon sharpens his knives.”

For the first time in days, Rhaenyra laughed softly, though it trembled at the edges. She leaned across the table, resting her forehead against Visenya’s. “You’ve always been my balance, little sister. Gods help me, I need it now more than ever.” The sisters sat together in the early light, their hands clasped, their children’s laughter echoing faintly in the hall—a fragile moment of unity before the storm that loomed beyond Dragonstone’s black walls.

The first shouts came from the yard below, echoing up through the open windows of the hall. The children perked up at once, abandoning their half-eaten bread, while Rhaenyra stiffened where she sat. A moment later, the unmistakable screech of Arrax tore across the morning air.

Rhaenyra rose quickly, her heart thudding. “Maegor,” she breathed.

Visenya was already on her feet, her face set hard. She strode to the window and threw open the shutters, watching the pale shape of the young dragon wheel down into the courtyard.

Rhaenyra gathered her skirts, motioning for the girls to stay where they were, though Aemma and Vaella were already on tiptoe, straining to see. With Visenya at her side and Baela falling into step as they passed, she made her way through Dragonstone’s cold corridors toward the yard.

They arrived just as Maegor slid down from Arrax’s saddle. His hair was wind-tossed, his face flushed with fury, and even before he spoke the anger poured off him like heat.he had clearly been flying most of the night deciding how to tell his mother of the Baratheon’s betrayal.

“They’ve spat in our faces!” he barked the moment he saw them. “Borros Baratheon claims oaths mean nothing, claims his daughter is already wed to Rhaegar so why support us when his daughter is married to the kings brother —” His voice cracked with rage as he kicked at the ground. “They mock us mother, they mock you!”

Rhaenyra held her composure, though her hands trembled as she clasped them before her. “Did he speak so plainly? Did he say the Stormlands are for the hightowers?”

“Yes!” Maegor snapped, his tone full of indignation. “And Rhaegar stood there grinning, gloating. Threatened me as if I were a child to be cowed. He—”

“Enough.” Rhaenyra’s tone was calm, but her eyes betrayed the hurt, the deep cut of betrayal.

Visenya stepped forward then, her voice sharper, her fury blazing where her sister tried to restrain hers. “Enough? You call that enough?” she spat, eyes blazing like molten silver. “The Baratheons are oathbreakers! They swore to your claim, Rhaenyra. To your children. And now they spit upon it, and in doing so spit upon Father’s word, upon our house!” She turned on her heel, fists trembling at her sides. “They dare to think us weak. They dare to think we will simply yield. Seven hells, I’ll see Storm’s End burned stone by stone before I—”

“Visenya!” Rhaenyra caught her arm, her voice firm but heavy. “Do not let rage guide you. Need I remind you what we just discussed”

Visenya’s chest heaved, her lips pressed thin, but her eyes shone fiercely. “Do not mistake my anger for folly, sister. They have made themselves enemies of House Targaryen. And I will not sit meek while your throne is stolen and your sons mocked.”

Baela glanced between them both, unease plain on her face, but she said nothing.

Before the moment could break, another dragon’s cry split the sky, lower and louder than Arrax’s. All three women turned upward as Pureustem came circling down, the great red wings beating hard against the sea air.

Aemon dismounted with less fury than Maegor but no less urgency. His face was grim, his jaw set like a sword’s edge. “Lannisport is lost,” he announced bitterly, striding across the yard. “The Lannisters will not break their feasts of gold for our cause. They claim neutrality, but their silence is as good as a pledge to the Greens.”

Maegor slammed his fist against Arrax’s flank, the dragon letting out a startled hiss. “One by one they fall away! How many more must betray us before we act?”

Rhaenyra closed her eyes for a moment, her shoulders sagging under the weight of it. “We will act,” she said softly, though her voice carried. “But we must act as one. Fury will not win us thrones. It will only scatter our strength.”

Visenya’s teeth clenched, her gaze burning on the horizon. Yet even as she swallowed her rage, she said through gritted teeth, “Then we will not falter. We will answer them—not with begging, but with fire.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze swept across her sons, their faces pale with exhaustion and anger alike. Maegor still quivered with rage, his fists clenched, while Aemon’s eyes were shadowed with the weight of failure. She stepped forward, laying a hand on Maegor’s arm, then reaching for Aemon’s shoulder in turn.

“You’ve flown far, and you’ve done what was asked of you,” she said, her voice softer now, maternal where before it had been steady and queenly. “But you are not soldiers carved from iron. You are my boys, and you need rest. Go—eat, sleep, breathe. The war will not be won in this hour.”

Maegor looked ready to protest, but the fatigue in his bones betrayed him; he bowed his head instead. Aemon said nothing, only gave a curt nod before striding away toward the keep. Rhaenyra watched them vanish with heaviness in her chest, then turned back to Visenya and Baela. “I will see the others. We’ll speak of this again when they’ve gathered their strength.”

With that, she returned to the hall where the morning meal still waited. The food had grown cool—bread hardening at the edges, porridge thickening in its pot—but the smell of roasted fish and sweet butter lingered. Her granddaughters sat quietly at the trestle table, their chatter subdued after the uproar in the yard. Aemma picked at her eggs with a wooden spoon, Vaella hummed to herself as she tore bread, and little Aelys had crumbs stuck to her cheeks.

Rhaenyra forced a smile and slipped back into her seat beside them, smoothing Aemma’s hair. “Eat well, sweetlings. Your uncles will need your laughter when they wake.” She pushed a cup of watered wine aside, taking instead a piece of bread and tearing it slowly. For a little while, the hall was filled only with the small sounds of chewing and the distant crash of waves against Dragonstone’s cliffs.

Not long after, footsteps sounded in the corridor, heavier than a child’s, lighter than a warrior’s. Aegon entered first, tall but bleary-eyed from the long night, Elaen beside him in a gown of pale blue. She looked impossibly young at Rhaenyra’s table, her cheeks still round with girlhood though her belly carried her new womanhood plainly. They greeted the room quietly, taking seats opposite their queen.

Rhaenyra watched Elaen with a pang in her heart—a girl not even a year older than her own daughter, snared in the traps of duty, carrying the weight of marriage and motherhood already. She reached for her hand across the table. “How fare you this morning, sweet one?”

Elaen’s lips quirked in a small, brave smile. “Better for the company.”

Aegon, ever awkward with the formality of court and family alike, simply began to eat, ducking his head, though now and again he glanced at his mother as though waiting to be judged.

The hall door opened once more, and Jaehaerys stepped in. He looked far older than his three-and-twenty years after his flightto the eyrie, his hair windswept, his cloak smelling faintly of the mountain air. there was a lightness about him too, as if some private burden had eased.

“Mother,” he greeted, moving to kiss her brow before sitting beside his siblings. He waited until the servants had poured him a cup of mulled wine before speaking further. His eyes flicked briefly to Elaen, then back to Rhaenyra.

“There is news,” he said at last, his tone quiet but steady. “Not of war, but of family. Jeyne… she is with child. Four months now.”

The words hung in the air like a spark caught between breaths. Rhaenyra’s hand froze where it rested on the table, her eyes searching her son’s face as though to find jest there. But there was none—only an odd mixture of pride, relief, and something softer.

Her breath shuddered “A grandchild,” she whispered, almost to herself. She felt the eyes of her daughters and granddaughters alike upon her but in that moment she looked only at Jaehaerys. Her voice steadied as she reached across to clasp his hand. “I am proud.i am happy for you my boy”

The tension in the hall eased, and for a heartbeat, the storm beyond Dragonstone’s walls seemed to fade.

Jaehaerys lingered over his cup, the mulled wine gone lukewarm in his hands. For a while he watched the fire crackle in the hearth, his silence heavier than before. When at last he spoke again, his voice carried a thread of unease.

“The Vale is undefended, mother,” he said, his eyes fixed on the flames. “The Eyrie’s high walls may keep it safe from an army, but dragons have little care for such stones. If the Greens turn their gaze eastward, Jeyne and her family will stand defenseless And now with the child…” His voice trailed, softening with uncharacteristic warmth.

Rhaenyra set her cup aside and studied her son carefully. He had always been the most reserved of her boys, buried in books and letters, more scholar than warrior. Now, though, his words carried a resolve that was new—unexpected. “You wish to return there,” she said, more statement than question.

Jaehaerys nodded, his jaw firming as he met her gaze. “Yes. For her. For our child. I cannot sit idle while others fight to guard their homes, and mine lies open.”

For a moment, Rhaenyra said nothing. She remembered the boy who had once hidden in the libraries of Dragonstone, shy of sparring and stubbornly aloof. And now here he stood, speaking not of books but of duty, of family, of protection. It surprised her—startled her, even—but she saw truth in his eyes.

“You care for her deeply,” she murmured, more to herself than to him. She thought of Jeyne’s sharp wit, her quiet strength, and how she had made a place for herself in this tangled web of dragons and blood.

Jaehaerys gave a small, almost sheepish smile. “In my own way, yes. She has given me more than I thought possible. I owe her that much—to be by her side, should fire fall.”

Rhaenyra reached across the table, her hand covering his. “Then go, my son. Go and stand for your wife, for your child, for the oaths that bind us all. I had not expected this from you—but the old gods and the new know I am proud to see it.”

His shoulders eased, relief softening the lines of worry on his face. He bowed his head, pressing her hand briefly to his brow in a gesture both filial and reverent. Around them, the hall was quiet. Visenya watched silently from her seat, her eyes thoughtful and sharp, while Elaen sat in wide-eyed wonder at the exchange, her young face caught between admiration and confusion.

For a fleeting heartbeat, the war outside seemed far away, and Rhaenyra felt the smallest measure of peace: her children were growing, not only into warriors, but into men and women who could stand upon their own.

It was then that Elaen, seated beside Aegon, lowered her lashes to hide the glint of realization in her eyes. She had listened in silence, her fork idly tracing the rim of her plate. She was no fool. She heard the unspoken truth in Jaehaerys’s words: war. Not whispers in corridors, not shadows on the horizon, but war with her family—her mother, her brothers.

A chill threaded down her spine, but she let none of it touch her face. Instead, she smoothed her skirts, schooling her expression into practiced innocence. To the casual eye, she looked the perfect young bride—soft, attentive, obedient. But behind her placid gaze, her mind raced.

If battle came, what was she here but a piece on the board? A hostage dressed as a wife, bound to the Blacks by name and ring, yet still her blood ran Green. She felt Aegon shift at her side and gave him a small, serene smile, as though utterly untouched by the storm outside.

But inside, Elaen tucked away every word, every glance, every hesitation. If she were to survive this dance, she would play the role expected of her—and beneath it, sharpen her own game.

The hall had been quiet save for the crackle of the fire and the soft scrape of plates until the sound of children’s laughter spilled through the doors like a rush of sunlight. Aerea and Rhaenys darted in first, ribbons flying loose as they tried to outpace each other, their shoes slapping against the stone floor. Behind them came Aenys, his short legs working twice as hard to keep up, clutching his little wooden dragon carved crudely in his fist. Daena entered last, her cheeks flushed from chasing her young nieces and nephew. her light eyes bright with both mirth and frustration as she scolded the twins for their lack of decorum.

Daemon stepped through after them, tall and commanding even at rest, his pale hair catching the firelight like steel drawn from a sheath. His smirk was faint, more habit than humor as he leaned against a pillar and folded his arms. Laena followed at his side, slower, her gown trailing over the floor in soft waves, her face set in quiet thought until her eyes found Rhaenyra seated at the table.

For the briefest of instants, silence seemed to fall. The women’s eyes locked, memory rushing in unbidden—the closeness of last night, the trembling kiss, the sharp interruption. Heat rose to Rhaenyra’s cheeks and she busied herself smoothing the tablecloth while Laena’s hand tightened subtly on the bench before she composed herself and lowered into her seat. No word was spoken of it, but the air between them carried the weight of it all the same.

Rhaenyra bent down, scooping Aenys onto the bench beside her. He beamed at the honor, placing his wooden dragon proudly on the table as though it belonged among the silver goblets. “You’re awake earlier than most grown men,” Rhaenyra teased, pressing a kiss to his hair.

“Bolder than he is wise,” Laena murmured softly, her eyes never leaving the children. She watched her grandchildren—bright, laughing, full of life—and her gaze lingered longest on Daena, whose sharp mind and steady posture reminded her too much of her own youth. But when Laena spoke again, her voice cracked just slightly. “I have been thinking of Rhaena all night long. She is far away, caged in the Red Keep, with her babes about her—and we know who surrounds her there. If the Greens mean to make pawns of anyone, they will look first to her.”

Daemon’s jaw hardened, his violet eyes narrowing with a fury that seemed to darken the very hall. He stepped forward fists curling tight at his sides. “My daughter sits in that nest of vipers without a dragon to shield her. Do they think her defenseless because she rides none? Do they believe I will watch while they clutch her in their claws? If harm comes to her—or those children—I’ll put fire to the Red Keep myself. I’ll see the city burn before I let her be made a hostage.”

Rhaenyra’s chest constricted at the sound of Laena’s trembling voice and the sight of Daemon’s rage. She reached across the table, laying her hand over Laena’s knuckles. The contact was brief, hidden in plain sight by the children’s chatter, but it burned hot between them. “She is my blood as she is yours,” Rhaenyra said firmly, her eyes locked to Laena’s. “I will not abandon her. I will not leave her babes to grow up as captives in the shadow of that throne. Whatever must be done, we will see her safe again.”

Laena’s composure wavered at last. Her lips parted as though to speak, but her eyes glossed with tears that she stubbornly blinked back. She swallowed, voice low. “I fear patience will cost me my daughter. I do not want to be a mother that spends every night seeing her face, and every morning wondering if she wakes in fear.”

Daemon slammed a fist lightly against the pillar, making the wood groan. “If they use her against us, I’ll burn them out of their keep stone by stone. Dragonless or not, she is mine—and no man, usurper or otherwise, shall hold her from me.”

The children’s laughter carried on, high and sweet, but to the three adults it rang brittle, fragile—like glass stretched too thin. Aerea and Rhaenys tugged at Daena’s sleeve, begging her to join in their game. Aenys banged his toy dragon on the table in delight. Yet to their elders, each sound seemed a reminder of what could be lost if the war swallowed them whole.

Rhaenyra leaned closer to Laena, lowering her voice so only she would hear. “I promise you—we will not fail her. She is yours, and she is mine. As much my duty as my crown.”

Laena inhaled sharply, fighting to hold her composure. “Then let us not delay. Every day we tarry, the walls close tighter around her.”

Rhaenyra gave a small nod, her hand still covering Laena’s for just a breath longer than it should. “Then we will endure, until the moment is right. And when it comes—we will not falter.”

Daemon turned back to them, his eyes burning like coals, and though his words were sharp, there was no mistaking the fire of his vow. “Let them try to keep her. Let them try. The day will come when all of King’s Landing will choke on smoke.”

The children shrieked with laughter, chasing one another around the table, their joy at odds with the storm gathering in the hearts of their kin.

The vow hung between them, unspoken but binding, and for a time silence filled the chamber save for the crackle of the fire. Visenya’s girls—Aemma, Vaella, and little Aelys—had gone back to their play with scraps of bread, but even they seemed subdued, sensing the heaviness of their elders.

Outside, the world was stirring to life. The pale light of morning crept through the narrow windows, turning the mist above Blackwater Bay into a dull silver. Servants began to bustle in the corridors beyond, bearing baskets of bread, ewers of watered wine, and fresh rushes for the floor. But within the hall, tension clung to the air like smoke.

Not long after, the sound of wings broke the stillness. A distant roar echoed faintly across the keep, unmistakable to dragonriders. Rhaenyra rose from her seat at once, her heart thudding. She knew that sound—it was Draxtar.

The heavy rush of air grew louder until shadows swept across the courtyard. Servants scattered as the dragon descended, wings folding tight as its talons cracked stone. With a final bellow, Draxtar lowered his neck, and Prince Viserys slid down from the saddle, his cloak whipping in the morning wind.

Rhaenyra’s breath caught, equal parts relief and dread. He had returned.

Viserys dismounted with a tired grace, boots crunching against the stone. He pulled free the heavy riding gloves, his face pale from cold winds but his eyes bright with purpose. Before he could even step forward, a shriek split the courtyard—not Draxtar’s, but the high, unrestrained call of a child.

“Father!”

Aemma’s voice cracked with excitement as she raced ahead, her younger sisters struggling to keep up. Vaella clutched her skirts as she ran, while little Aelys stumbled, righted herself, and pressed on determinedly.

Viserys had barely slid down from Draxtar’s saddle before they were upon him. He crouched low, his arms sweeping wide to catch them all. They collided with a force that nearly knocked him back, and he laughed breathlessly, kissing their hair one after another. “My darlings, my strong girls—did you miss me so sorely in one night?”

“We thought you’d be gone forever,” Aemma whispered into his chest, clinging tightly. Viserys’ heart twisted at the words. He smoothed her hair, forcing brightness into his voice. “Never forever, sweetling. Not while I draw breath.”

Visenya came slower, her robe still loose from sleep, her hair in a loose wave from her braids. Relief softened her features the moment her eyes found him. She reached him just as he rose, and he folded her into his embrace with the children still caught between them. “It was but a day,” he murmured against her hair, “yet it felt like years without you.”

Rhaenyra and Harwin had lingered at the yard’s edge, watching in silence. Rhaenyra felt something tight inside her loosen at the sight—her son returned safe, her sister’s worry eased. For all the storm brewing, this moment of family stillness was worth more than banners or blades.

Viserys finally drew back, his hand lingering at Visenya’s waist as he turned to face his mother. His shoulders were straight, his expression grave but proud. “The North remembers, Mother,” he said. “Lord Stark has sworn. The North will stand with us.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with promise.

The warmth of Viserys’s return still lingered in Dragonstone long after the first rush of tears and embraces. The hallways echoed with the delighted shrieks of his daughters as they clung to him, their laughter bright enough to stir even the most jaded retainers into smiles. Yet when the children were finally ushered away, the castle returned to its quieter rhythms — servants carrying bread and steaming broth through the kitchens, the muted ring of hammers from the forge, the ever-present crash of the waves against the black cliffs. Rhaenyra lingered in the great hall, her cup of wine untouched, watching the torchlight dance against the walls as though the stones themselves were restless.

Visenya came to her soon after, shoulders drawn but eyes clearer than they had been the night before. She looked refreshed, though her brow still furrowed with the weight of thought. They sat side by side at the long table, breaking their fast slowly. “It gladdens me to see him with them again,” Visenya murmured, speaking of her husband, “but I cannot shake the fear. Joy feels fragile, as if one hard wind could blow it to pieces.” Rhaenyra reached across the table, her hand brushing Visenya’s. “We’ve weathered hard winds before,” she said gently, though her own voice carried little conviction.

Elsewhere, the castle stirred. Harwin had already left the hall, his stride heavy with purpose, to see to the training yard where steel rang against steel. Rhaenyra could hear his voice rising over the clamor, barking corrections, urging the men-at-arms to hold their shields tighter, their lines firmer. From a high balcony, she could see him striding between ranks of soldiers and squires, a broad figure cut sharp against the pale sky. His presence reassured her more than the clashing of blades — here was a man who understood the cost of war, and who would fight tooth and nail to keep it from tearing their family apart.

The morning stretched long, every tick of time heavy with anticipation. The hearths burned low, the sea-wind whistled through narrow slits, and conversation dwindled into murmurs. Rhaenyra found herself listening for the beat of dragon wings, though none came. It was only when the heavy doors of the hall swung open that the silence broke. The figure who stepped inside moved with a soldier’s weight, sea-salt clinging to his cloak. At first, no one stirred. Then came the glint of gold in his hands, wrapped in cloth yet unmistakable. A hush fell over the hall as realization spread. Ser Erryk Cargyll had come to Dragonstone — and with him, the crown of a king.

The air thickened the instant the crown’s glint was revealed. Daemon’s eyes locked upon the gleaming circlet with a sharpness that could cut glass. His mouth twisted into something half snarl, half bitter laugh. “My brother’s crown,” he spat, his voice low but carrying across the hall like a drawn blade. He stepped forward, hand twitching toward the hilt at his hip. “Stolen from his corpse like a grave robber’s prize, was it? You dare parade it here, in my sight, and call it loyalty?”

Harwin Strong shifted from Rhaenyra’s side, placing himself subtly between Daemon and Erryk. His voice was steady, measured, but the weight behind it was unmistakable. “Prince Daemon, you speak harshly against a Kingsguard sworn to honor.” His dark eyes met his kinsman’s, not challenging outright, but firm with warning. “The queen will hear his words before you condemn him. You forget yourself — she is heir no longer, but sovereign. Show her the respect her crown demands.” The reminder, pointed and deliberate, was a blow Daemon could not easily ignore, though his jaw tightened with silent fury.

Erryk bowed low, the strain in his posture betraying the miles he had ridden. “My lords, my queen,” he said, voice rough from dust and disuse, “I bring no usurper’s token. This is no crown of conquest or theft. It is the crown of King Viserys, worn upon his head until the day he drew his final breath. I could not abide to see it rest upon a pretender’s brow. I took it from the Red Keep at great peril, that it might rest where its true heir may wear it.” His words rang with conviction, silencing even Daemon’s muttered curses.

With careful hands, Erryk peeled back the velvet. Gasps echoed across the chamber as the slender golden band caught the light, its green jewel glowing faintly. Unlike the harsh black iron of the Conqueror’s relic, this was a crown of gentleness, of peace, a symbol of Viserys’s long and patient reign. Rhaenyra’s throat tightened at the sight, tears pricking at her eyes despite the iron mask of composure she wore. It was her father’s crown, and in that instant, the memory of his hand upon her shoulder when he named her heir came flooding back as though no years had passed.

The Grand Maester stepped forward, his voice carrying through the vaulted chamber as he opened the ancient book of vows. “By the will of King Viserys, first of his name, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, his heir is and ever was Rhaenyra of House Targaryen,” he proclaimed, each word echoing like tolling bells. As he spoke, Visenya turned to her sister. Her hands did not tremble as she lifted the golden circlet high, though her eyes glistened with fire and unshed tears. With solemn care, she set the crown upon Rhaenyra’s brow, her voice low but fierce as she whispered, “Yours, now and always.” At once, the vows and the act became one — queen by law, queen by blood, and now crowned by the sister who would die before seeing her robbed of it. A roar swelled from the gathered lords and ladies: “Queen Rhaenyra!”

“Queen Rhaenyra! Queen Rhaenyra!” The chant swelled in the great hall, banners shaking as lords struck sword against shield in thunderous acclaim. Rhaenyra sat beneath Viserys’s crown, her face composed yet luminous, the torchlight casting her in molten gold. Daemon stood to one side, his jaw tight, Harwin beside her with one hand resting protectively on the hilt of his sword. Visenya remained near, her eyes never leaving her sister as if to bind the crown to her head with her gaze alone. The realm had named its queen at last. But while the roar of loyalty filled the throne room, another chamber of Dragonstone was deathly silent. Elaen, Alicent’s daughter, moved with quiet urgency. She folded only what was necessary — gowns, shifts, a few cloaks for warmth — nothing that would slow her or raise questions. Alice, her infant, lay nestled in swaddling, wide-eyed though mercifully quiet. Elaen’s heart pounded as she cinched the satchel. Her hands shook not with doubt but with the weight of what she was doing: abandoning one life for another.

The cries of “Queen Rhaenyra!” carried even into the outer halls, muffled by stone, but Elaen did not pause to listen. She slipped along the torchlit passages, every shadow a possible betrayer. She thought of her brothers in King’s Landing, of her mother’s stern eyes, of the fate that had been carved for her long before she could choose. For all Rhaenyra’s kindness, Dragonstone had never been home. It had been a prison dressed in silks and silver.

At the dragonpit, the air was stifling, thick with the scent of ash and old fire. Vermithor, the Bronze Fury, loomed in the gloom, his scales glimmering like hammered bronze beneath the torchlight. The old dragon raised his massive head as Elaen approached, his golden eyes burning down into her. Fear should have frozen her — yet it did not. Vermithor had always answered her call, and tonight would be no different. She pressed a hand against his hot, rough hide, whispering, “Home.” The sky above Dragonstone burned pale gold, the sea below glittering like beaten bronze. Vermithor’s wings cleaved the sunlight as he surged upward, each beat scattering white gulls that wheeled and cried in protest. The great dragon’s roar rolled across the island, louder than the bells of any hall. Elaen clung tightly, the baby swaddled close against her breast, the satchel of clothes tugging in the wind. She did not glance back at the fortress, where banners of black and red now hung heavy with triumph. The cheers of “Queen Rhaenyra!” had only just faded from the stone when Elaen carried her secret away, streaking across the glittering bay toward King’s Landing — toward her mother, her brothers, and the tangled fate she could not yet name.

Daena had lingered in the gallery longer than most, her restless spirit unwilling to sit still. That was when she saw it — the glint of wings cutting against the late sun. Vermithor. Her heart sank as she leaned forward against the balustrade, eyes narrowing until the truth struck her like a spear. Elaen. Her best friend, the girl who whispered secrets with her in the night, who laughed with her when the world was too heavy, was leaving Dragonstone. And she wasn’t just leaving — she was running. Daena’s chest tightened, a hundred questions flooding her mind at once. Why now? Why without a word? Why with the babe in her arms?

Before the thought had even settled, Daena was moving. Her slippers skidded on the flagstones as she darted down the stairwells, skirts hiked up in her fists. She kept to the shadows, her breath sharp, determined not to be noticed. The keep around her was loud with feasting and celebration, but Daena only heard the pounding of her own heart. She knew where Elaen would go — there was only one place she could. The dragonpit. Daena ran for it with all the reckless certainty of a girl chasing after a friend she could not bear to lose.

The air grew hotter as she entered the cavernous pit, the scent of smoke and stone dust heavy in her nose. There, at the far end, her dragon stirred — Stormcloud. The pale silver of her scales seemed to glow against the dim torchlight, streaks of deep crimson tracing her spine and wing-bones like veins of fire. She was smaller than the elder beasts, but to Daena she was vast and terrible, her serpentine neck lowering as she recognized her rider. The dragon’s eyes, molten red and unblinking, fixed upon the girl as though she already knew the chase Daena intended. Chest heaving, Daena slowed her steps, the torchlight catching her flushed cheeks as she reached out her trembling hand. “We must go, Stormcloud,” she whispered, voice tight with urgency. “We must follow her.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 6

The Red Keep felt like a cage. Its crimson halls echoed not with joy but with a strained silence, punctuated only by the scrape of armored boots and the murmur of hushed voices. The smallfolk whispered in Flea Bottom that the new king wore his crown uneasily, and even within the Keep’s walls Alicent could not banish the same fear. The weight of Viserys’ passing still lingered and though her son now sat the throne, she could not shake the sense that they had merely moved one step closer to disaster.

Her nights had been sleepless since her daughter’s absence, though none could tell by her face. To the court she remained the Queen Dowager — steady, composed, unyielding. But within a mother’s heart bled. Elaen had been her youngest, her pride, her bright clever girl and now she was gone, carried off to Dragonstone and wed into Rhaenyra’s family. What mother could rest, knowing her child slept in the lair of the she-wolf who sought to destroy her own sons?

Alicent often stood by the windows overlooking the city, her hands folded tightly, her green silk sleeves clutched as though to keep herself from shaking. She thought of her daughter in strange halls, watched over by dragons and strangers. She wondered if Elaen remembered her mother’s voice, her touch, the lullabies she once sang. Those thoughts gnawed at her more fiercely than any council debate. In the Red Keep, power had shifted overnight. The lords who bent the knee did so with reluctance and the realm itself felt brittle. Yet none of that troubled Alicent more than the absence of her child. Oaths could be sworn again and steel could be sharpened, but the years with her daughter were lost, stolen by Viserys’ stubborn insistence on that woman’s brood. She cursed him in the privacy of her prayers.

She found herself remembering the day Elaen was born — so small, her fingers curling tightly around her own. She had been a balm then, a gift from the Seven. Now with war at their door, Alicent feared she might never see her girl again. Aegon wore his crown. Rhaegar sharpened his blade. Aemond had his wit. Helaena drifted in her dreams And Elaen… Elaen was the missing piece that left her hollow.

the horns sounded at the gates. Alicent’s heart leapt to her throat. She went to the balcony with Aegon and Aemond at her sides, dread and hope warring within her. The sky itself seemed to tremble as wings blotted out the sun but when the dragon descended, it was not fire and fury. It was Vermithor, and astride him was her daughter.

Elaen slid from the saddle her hair tangled by wind, but her arms cradled something far more precious than jewels or crowns: a child, her newborn daughter swaddled in cloth. Alicent’s knees weakened. For a heartbeat she could not move, could scarcely believe the sight before her.

“Mother,” Elaen whispered, her voice breaking as she crossed the stones. She looked thinner, older than her years but her eyes still shone with the sharp cleverness Alicent remembered. Tears blurred Alicent’s vision as she reached for her, her fingers trembling as they brushed her cheek. “You’ve come home,” Alicent said her voice catching, soft as prayer. She gathered her daughter into her arms, though the babe between them made the embrace clumsy. The child stirred and whimpered, and Alicent bent low, her lips trembling as they kissed the girl’s brow. “And brought me a grandchild.”

Aegon approached them uncertain at first, his crown glinting in the light. He looked at his sister as though seeing her anew, his arrogance subdued. “You’re safe now,” he said awkwardly, his eyes lingering on the babe. “We’ll protect you — both of you.”

Aemond too stepped forward, his face schooled but his one good eye betraying worry. “You should not have stayed there so long,” he muttered but his tone lacked rebuke. He reached out, almost hesitantly, and touched the swaddle. The babe’s tiny fist wriggled free, curling around his finger. Aemond swallowed hard. “What’s her name?”, “Alice,” Elaen said softly. “For my mother.” She glanced up at Alicent then as her lip started trembling, her eyes searching for approval, for forgiveness.

Alicent’s tears spilled anew and she pressed her lips to the child’s head. “My Alice,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “The realm may burn, but you are mine. Both of you are mine.” Together they walked to the open balcony, the sun slanting low over Blackwater Bay. The city below roared with noise — fishmongers, criers, smiths at their forges — but here, high above it was as though only mother, daughter and babe existed. The court watched but Alicent cared not. She had her child again and for a moment, the Iron Throne itself could go burn. For Elaen it was like breathing after years underwater. She clutched her babe tightly and let the wind strike her face. Her brothers flanked her and for the first time since her marriage she felt a measure of safety. Yet deep inside, she feared that this safety was built on sand.

The warmth of her mother’s embrace warred with guilt in her chest. She had lived among Rhaenyra’s children,birthed her child under their roof, even allowed herself to laugh with them. Now she had returned — not only with her daughter, but with knowledge of the Blacks that might damn them all. She swallowed her shame and held Alice closer.

Far above the Blackwater, Daena urged Stormcloud higher. Her pale silver dragon, streaked with glints of red, soared on the afternoon thermals. It was the first time she had ever ridden alone, the first time she held the reins of her fate, and her heart sang with it. The city sprawled before her like a tapestry of fire and stone, and she felt as though she could claim it all. The rush of the wind tore laughter from her throat. Daena’s pale hair streamed behind her, her eyes wide with exhilaration. Stormcloud’s wings beat strong and sure, the dragon’s cry splitting the sky. She had never felt so alive, never felt so certain that she was born for this.

As the city neared the shouts of the smallfolk rose, pointing fingers stabbing skyward. Some cried out in awe, others in terror. For many it was the first sight of a new dragon in years. To Daena their voices were fuel, the roar of the crowd beneath a champion’s flight. The sun struck Stormcloud’s pale hide, gleaming silver, the streaks of red blazing like fire. Daena smiled so wide her cheeks ached. She was her mother’s daughter, her family’s daughter, and no one would doubt it now.

On the balcony, Aegon’s head snapped upward first. The gleam of scales in the distance caught his eye and his hand tightened on Blackfyre. Alicent followed his gaze, her blood freezing as the dragon grew larger, nearer. Murmurs rippled through the gathered courtiers.

“Another dragon” Aemond growled stepping protectively in front of his mother and sister. His sharp eye narrowed. “Not ours.” The guards shouted, crossbows raised. Alicent’s heart clenched as Elaen gasped recognizing the beast at once. “No! That’s Daena! She’s my best friend!” Elaen cried, but her voice was drowned beneath the command. Aegon’s arm lifted and the bolts flew. The sky split with Stormcloud’s scream as Daena tumbled with her dragon, silver wings folding into fire.

Elaen’s hands trembled as she pressed Alice closer to her chest, the babe squirming and crying at the sudden upheaval. “Mother, take her!” she gasped nearly tripping over the marble balcony as she thrust the child into Alicent’s waiting arms. Her own feet carried her blindly forward, heart hammering against her ribs as every instinct was screaming to reach Daena.

She raced down the steps, the shouts of the court and the clash of wings fading behind her, replaced by the roar of her own fear. Her eyes searched the sky frantically, catching only glimpses of silver streaks against the sun — a dragon plummeting, twisting, folding into fire. Her throat constricted. “Daena!” When she reached the courtyard, the smoke and dust stung her eyes, and the chaos of courtiers and guards scrambling in every direction barely registered. She skidded across the stones, her hands reaching out, calling her cousin’s name in a raw, desperate wail. “Daena!, Daena!”

A large, armored hand closed around her arm before she could move further, spinning her around. Cristen cole, a guard she barely recognized in the chaos, held her firm, his grip almost painful in its insistence. “Stop! Stay back, girl!” he barked But Elaen’s vision blurred with tears; she could barely hear him over the pounding of her heart. “She’s alive! I saw her!”

Elaen tore her arm free, lunging again toward the smoldering courtyard where the dragon had fallen, but the distance between her and the creature that might be dead felt insurmountable. Every stone she crossed, every shout she ignored, her hope frayed, shredded by the impossible sight of silver wings crumpled against the ground.

Her knees buckled and she sank to the courtyard floor, gripping her hair, choking back a sob. Alice whimpered in Alicent’s arms above her but Elaen barely registered the sound. Daena—gone. The thought hammered at her skull, relentless, cruel. She had failed. She had left her cousin, her friend, to die. And then Alicent’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp and commanding, carrying both warmth and scolding. “Elaen! Enough!” The Queen Dowager’s presence descended like a shield around her, and Elaen flinched, guilt and fear coiling in her stomach. “Get up this instant. Look at your child! Look at me!”

Alicent’s voice cut through the chaos like steel, sharp with annoyance. “Elaen! Stop this hysteria!” she barked, hands gripping her daughter’s shoulders with more force than comfort. Elaen flinched under the sharpness, tears still streaking her face, clutching at nothing but air. “Do you think the smallfolk care about your feelings? Do you think they will forgive you for letting the enemy strike at the Red Keep?”

She gestured broadly to the courtyard, where guards scrambled and whispers ran like fire through the crowd. “That Targaryen princess—she came here for you! Not for me, not for the king, but for you, Elaen! She is here to punish you for leaving Dragonstone! Let the people see the truth!” Alicent’s voice rose, carrying across the stones and the crowd of courtiers and servants stiffened, eyes darting between mother and daughter, their fear mirrored in Elaen’s own chest.

Elaen’s heart clenched with sudden regret, a sickening twist that made her wish she could vanish back to Dragonstone. She had brought this chaos on herself. She had left the dragons’ protection for her own pride and now… now she had endangered them all. But the feeling passed as quickly as it came. Elaen drew in a sharp, steadying breath. No. She would not crumble here. She would not let her child see weakness.

With deliberate calm Elaen reached for Alice, taking her from her mother’s arms with the precision of someone switching off a storm inside herself. The baby cooed and wriggled oblivious to the fear that had gripped the courtyard. Elaen’s expression hardened, her sharp eyes sweeping over the assembled crowd. She would face this chaos like the Targaryen she was born to be, controlled and unflinching, no matter the cost to her own heart.

Elaen drew herself taller, Alice swaddled firmly against her chest. Her heart still thudded wildly but her expression remained calm, deliberate. She let her mother’s words wash over her, nodding with apparent agreement, though inwardly she knew the truth: Daena had not come for her. The Targaryen princess had her own designs, her own whims—and Elaen would not let Alicent or the smallfolk see the doubt lurking beneath her composed surface. She allowed herself the smallest flicker of a smile, measured and convincing, as she prepared to play her part, to shape the story that would ease the fear of the people while keeping her own motives hidden.

Elaen lifted her chin and let her gaze sweep across the courtyard, catching the eyes of the smallfolk who craned their necks, fearful and curious. Her voice steady and clear, carried across the stones. “Yes,” she said softly, almost reluctantly, “my mother is correct. There was danger here, but we are unharmed. You need not fear. The Red Keep stands and I—your princess—stand with it.” Every word was carefully measured, a show of calm and authority though inwardly she held no conviction.

She let the tiniest gestures of vulnerability punctuate her words—a hand lightly pressed to her heart, a nod toward Alicent—enough to convince the crowd of sincerity. Behind the veil of performance, Elaen’s mind was calculating: each glance, each pause, each soft inflection was designed to sway them, to plant the idea that their princess had faced peril and prevailed. Her fear, her doubts, her knowledge of the real danger—none of it touched this carefully crafted façade.

The whispers spread like wildfire. “The princess is brave,” a baker called voice trembling with awe. “She returned with her child!” said another and Elaen allowed herself a faint, fleeting smirk beneath her calm exterior. She gave a subtle nod, as though acknowledging the praise, though it was purely for effect. The smallfolk’s eyes were wide, drinking in the image she presented: a composed, heroic princess.

Elaen’s glance returned briefly to Alicent, who watched with a mixture of relief and maternal pride. Elaen inclined her head, mimicking the humility and respect expected of her, silently signaling agreement with her mother’s proclamations. In truth, she did not share her mother’s fear of Daena—Elaen knew better—but she let Alicent believe it, let the smallfolk believe it, because perception was as powerful as truth And for now, that was enough to hold the tide of panic at bay.

Elaen drew a slow deliberate breath, the tiny weight of Alice pressing against her chest grounding her. “I must attend to other matters,” she said, her tone light but authoritative, bowing slightly to the gathered crowd. The smallfolk blinked, unsure whether to linger in awe or scatter and Elaen allowed their uncertainty to linger just long enough to reinforce her image as composed and unshakable. She stepped back, hands steady, masking every trace of lingering panic.

Each step down the marble corridor toward the raven roost was measured, careful, as if she were performing a ritual of calm. She thought through the message she would send: concise, factual, stripped of emotion. Rhaenyra would be informed of the attack, of Alice’s safety and of the events surrounding Daena—but not of Elaen’s own fear or uncertainty. Every syllable in her mind was already chosen, rehearsed, coldly practical.

Halfway through the halls, she almost collided with Rhaena who rounded the corner in haste, hair catching the late afternoon sunlight and eyes wide with concern. “Elaen! I—” Rhaena began, arms instinctively reaching toward her sister but Elaen’s hand, still cradling Alice, rose in a gentle, controlled gesture.

“Rhaena,” Elaen said softly, inclining her head with practiced grace, her voice calm, warm enough to ease suspicion but betraying nothing of the storm inside. “It is good to see you.” She let her gaze rest on Rhaena for a moment, letting the sisterly connection be felt, then subtly turned her attention forward, signaling that further questions would not be answered.

Rhaena’s brow furrowed, unease flickering in her expression. “I thought—there was news—” she began again but Elaen offered only a faint, polite smile. “All is well for now,” she said, voice light, almost dismissive and with that she stepped past, moving toward the raven roost. Rhaena watched her go, worry lingering but Elaen’s careful composure left no room for explanation. The truth of what had happened with Daena remained tightly sealed behind her controlled exterior, to be revealed—or withheld—at her discretion.

The raven roost rose ahead, a squat stone tower crowned with perches and coops, the scent of feathers and straw thick in the air. Elaen’s steps were deliberate, echoing lightly against the cold stone stairs as she ascended. She reached the top and paused for a moment, letting Alice shift comfortably against her chest. The small, dark eyes of the ravens followed her with uncanny intelligence, as though they could read her intent. She allowed a small, controlled smile, whispering a soft word of greeting to each bird, feeling the familiar, grounding rhythm of the roost settle her nerves.

At the writing table, Elaen laid Alice securely in her swaddled sling beside her, the babe cooing softly. She arranged the parchment, ink and quill before she dipped the pen with a steady hand. Every word was chosen with precision, conveying facts without panic.

Elaen laid Alice carefully beside her and gripped the quill with shaking fingers. Her heart pounded in her chest and for a moment she struggled to form words. She was only fifteen and the weight of what had happened pressed down on her like a stone, but she forced herself to write.

“Your Grace,
I… I left Dragonstone to come back to my mother. I had to see her and make sure my daughter was safe. I know it was my duty but I couldn’t stay away.
I should tell you that Daena followed me. She came back to the Red Keep. Aegon shot her down. I don’t know what will happen next. Everyone inside the Keep is safe and Alice and I are safe. I just wanted you to know.
Elaen”

She paused, staring at the words. Her hand trembled and her throat felt tight but she could not erase them. It was personal, raw, full of the fear she could not speak aloud. With a deep breath she folded the parchment carefully and attached it to a raven. She whispered a soft plea for speed, then watched as the bird rose into the sky, carrying her confession and her guilt toward Dragonstone.

Dragonstone’s cliffs rose like jagged teeth above the Blackwater, waves crashing violently against the rock. The wind tore across the battlements carrying with it the smell of salt, smoke, and fear. Inside the Great Hall Rhaenyra’s pacing was relentless. Each step clattered against the stone floor echoing off the vaulted ceilings, mirroring the tempest in her mind. Her silver hair whipped across her face as she spun, restless, searching for some anchor amid the chaos.

“She’s gone,” a young page stammered, bowing low and avoiding her gaze. “Elaen… and the child… and Daena…” The words barely left his lips before the weight of them settled like stones across the hall. Rhaenyra’s heart stuttered and the tight coil of anger and fear in her chest tightened further. Rhaenyra’s gaze snapped toward the page. Her voice was sharp, commanding, reverberating across the hall. “All three of them? Where? Tell me where they are, now!” Her hand clenched into a fist the knuckles whitening, nails biting into her palm. She fought the panic clawing at her chest, trying to mask the fear beneath the weight of her authority.

The hall offered no answers, only whispers that slithered along the walls, filling every corner with doubt. Servants and knights glanced at one another, their eyes wide, mouths opening and closing without sound. The tension was tangible, a living thing, curling around Rhaenyra like smoke.

Laena pressed her hands against the edge of a chair, trembling. Her chest felt compressed, each heartbeat thudding painfully. “No,” she whispered, voice small and broken, “she wouldn’t… Elaen… she couldn’t…” Her fingers dug into the carved oak, trying to anchor herself but terror clawed its way up her spine. Her eyes flicked to the windows, scanning the gray horizon for any sign of wings or glinting scales.

Aegon moved silently behind Rhaenyra, his jaw tight, eyes dark with anger and confusion. “We have to send riders immediately,” he said, voice low but dangerous. “Every port, every ridge, every cove. Find them before…” He trailed off, unable to complete the thought of what could already be lost.

Rhaenyra’s hands slammed down onto the table where maps and patrol notes lay, scattering them with the force of her frustration. Her fingers traced the marks of sentries and coastal posts, memorized locations of patrols and watchtowers. “All available men,” she barked, voice sharp and clear. “Double the watch And send word to every allied keep. I want them found before something irreparable happens.”

Laena could not remain idle. She fled to the balcony, hair flying, skirts whipping in the wind. She leaned over the edge, eyes straining into the gray horizon where the sea met the sky watching for a glimmer of movement, the flash of silver scales, anything that could hint at her daughter or young Elaen. Her hands gripped the stone railing so tightly that her nails scored the rock but she could not pull away.

Her stomach twisted violently with each thought. What if Elaen had been captured? What if Alice were in danger? And Daena—Daena! The image of the pale dragon, helpless in the sky, tormented her. “They could all be dead,” she whispered, almost inaudibly, a single sob breaking free shaking her body.

Aegon strode past her, mask of composure in place but his jaw clenched so tightly it was white. He checked the positions of the sentries again, barking orders to guards and riders with precision and a rising edge of panic he could not fully suppress. “Search the cliffs. Search the waters. Search everything. Every man, every ship, every crow!” His words cut through the hall like steel leaving no room for hesitation.

The hours stretched like frozen knives. The wind tore at the castle, rattling shutters, lifting the edges of tapestries and the cries of gulls mingled with the pounding surf below. Laena pressed her cheek to the cold stone of the balcony, tears blurring her vision the roar of the storm outside mirroring the turmoil inside her. She rocked slightly on her heels, trying to steady her racing heart.

Then a raven arrived, wings beating frantically against the wind. The handler brought it into the hall and Rhaenyra snatched the parchment, her heart hammering in her chest. Fingers trembling, she broke the seal unfolding the letter with the precision of someone who feared what it might contain.

Her eyes scanned the words aloud, voice tight with emotion: “I left Dragonstone to come back to my mother. I had to see her and make sure my daughter was safe. Daena followed me. Aegon shot her down. No one inside the Keep was harmed. Alice and I are safe and secure.”

Laena froze mid-step, hands clutching at her chest before Her knees gave out, she sank to the floor pressing herself against the stone wall. Her eyes widened in disbelief, the words echoing like thunder in her head. Tears poured freely, streaming down her face as the weight of relief and grief collided violently. “No… no… Daena…” she whispered, voice cracking, caught between mourning and fear for her friends and family.

Aegon’s jaw tightened further, his fists clenched at his sides, his eyes narrowing. Relief for Elaen and Alice mingled with the anger and sorrow at Daena’s death. His mind raced with what could have been avoided and a bitter tension settled between him and his mother, Rhaenyra. who still read the letter with a mix of ice-cold authority and simmering fear. The hall around them buzzed with whispers but the three of them—Rhaenyra, Aegon and Laena—were trapped in a storm of their own, the weight of loss, relief, and uncertainty pressing down like the waves against Dragonstone’s cliffs.

The heavy doors to the hall swung open with a crash that silenced the whispers within. Daemon strode inside, his cloak still damp from the sea winds, boots leaving a trail of water across the stone. His face was grim, cut from shadow and steel and his hand never strayed far from Dark Sister at his hip. He crossed the chamber in a few long strides, eyes fixed on Rhaenyra. “The riders have all returned,” he announced, his voice low and clipped. “They swept the cliffs, the coves, even the far edges of Driftmark. Nothing. No sight of the girls. No sign of Daena or Elaen.”

It was only then that his gaze shifted and found Laena crumpled against the wall, tears streaking down her cheeks, her hands gripping the stone as though it alone kept her upright. Something in him snapped at the sight—his controlled fury giving way to a storm. His jaw tightened, his eyes sharpened and his voice thundered across the hall. “What has happened?” he demanded, striding toward rhaenyra. “What did you allow to befall them?” His words carried both accusation and desperation, his voice echoing against the stone walls like a drawn blade.

Rhaenyra held the letter out to him, her hand shaking just slightly, though her face remained cold and hard. “Elaen has gone back to her mother.” she said her voice even but edged with steel. “Daena followed her And Aegon shot her down.” The words rang like a death bell. For a moment, Daemon stared at her, his expression unreadable and then the fury erupted. His hand slammed against the table, rattling cups and maps, the crack reverberating through the hall. “That useless bastard” he spat. “That usurper’s nothing but a useless prick—he’ll pay for this.” His breath came hard and fast, like a dragon stoking fire in its chest.

Without another word, Daemon turned sharply on his heel, cloak flaring behind him as he started striding toward the doors with a purpose that brooked no pause. The guards shrank back instinctively, the air around him charged with violence. He was heading for the dragonpit, his intent unmistakable. Behind him Aegon shot up from his seat, his face pale but his jaw set as he hurried after his uncle. “Wait!” he called, boots pounding against the stone. “You can’t go charging into King’s Landing like this—you’ll bring war down on us now!” But Daemon did not slow, his fury propelling him forward like a storm unchained.

Daemon turned, Dark Sister’s hilt gleaming in the torchlight and for a heartbeat his face was all fury, as if he might cut Aegon down for daring to stand in his way But then he saw the boy’s shaking hands, the wild grief in his eyes, so like his own. Daemon’s chest heaved, words spilling out like venom, “They killed her, Aegon. Shot her from the sky like a hawk in the hunt. Laena weeps for her, and I—” His voice cracked, just faintly, before he swallowed it. Caraxes hissed, the sound sharp as steel, sensing his rider’s turmoil. Aegon stepped closer, gripping Daemon’s arm with desperate strength. “Then we strike when it matters,” he said, his voice steadier now, hard with resolve. “Not like this. Not tonight. If we waste ourselves on rage, they win twice—once for Daena’s death and once for our folly. You know I’m right.” The words cut through the storm, and for the first time Daemon faltered, caught between vengeance and reason, Caraxes shifting restlessly behind him.

The sound of Caraxes’ growl still reverberated in Daemon’s chest as Aegon guided him out of the Dragonpit. The torches flickered along the tunnel walls, throwing their shadows long and twisted across the stone. Neither man spoke at first. Daemon’s hands flexed restlessly at his sides, as though he still longed to grip the reins, while Aegon walked with his head bowed, jaw tight, each breath shallow. Rage clung to them both like a second skin, but it was tempered now, sharpened into something less wild and more deliberate.

At last, Aegon broke the silence, his voice low and raw. “You think I don’t feel it? Every step away from that saddle feels like betrayal. But if we burn everything now, Alice is lost forever.” His words were flat, stripped bare of softness. Daemon did not look at him but his shoulders sagged, the faintest tremor running through him. For all his iron will, grief had carved deep into him, leaving cracks he would never admit aloud but Daemon’s fury cracked at last, spilling into something far rawer. He dragged a hand over his face, his voice breaking as he forced the words out. “Daena… gods, she looked so much like her mother. Every time I looked at her I saw Laena staring back at me. But she was mine too—she had my fire, my temper, my damned pride. Just like me.” His throat tightened and he turned from them, though his voice carried still. “I loved that about her. I loved it more than I ever said And now she’s gone—ripped from the sky before she ever had her chance to live as we do.” Caraxes hissed low and long, his hot breath filling the chamber, as if even the dragon grieved with him. “That was her first time riding stormcloud too, I just hope before she was shot down that she felt free, she got to experience being a true targaryen.”

The climb back toward the Great Hall was slow, their boots dragging against the worn stone. Aegon kept close, almost as if he feared Daemon might turn back at any moment. His face, though young, had hardened. No trace of a boy remained—only a father robbed of his child, eyes sunken with sleepless rage. “We’ll make them pay,” he muttered. “Not with screaming into the sky. With steel. With fire. When the time is right, we’ll take back what’s ours.” Daemon finally met his gaze then, and for a brief moment, there was understanding between them—an unspoken vow forged in shared loss.

When they re-entered the hall, silence fell. All eyes turned toward them, reading the storm still clinging to their shoulders. Laena no longer wept openly; her face was cold, set like carved marble But her hands twisted slowly in her lap and her knuckles whitened until the skin split. She did not look at Daemon when he entered—her gaze was fixed on the floor, on some unseen point, as if staring too long at anyone would crack the brittle control she had forced upon herself.

Rhaenyra sat tall at the head of the chamber, her expression unreadable but her eyes sharp, calculating. The letter still lay before her like an open wound and her fingers traced its edge. When Daemon took his place at her side, she finally spoke. “If they’ve stolen our blood, then we will steal it back. But we do not march openly, not yet. No banners, no cries for war. A shadow strike.” Her eyes slid to Aegon, then back to Daemon. “You two will go.”

Laena’s head rose at that, her composure snapping just slightly as her lips parted in a breath. Her eyes blazed and though her voice was low, it was as sharp as broken glass. “Bring them home.” She did not scream. She did not weep. Her fury was all the more terrifying for its quietness. Daemon bowed his head slightly to her, a rare show of gentleness in a man built from iron and wrath.

Aegon stepped forward, his fists clenched at his sides, and for the first time he looked every inch his mother’s son—unyielding, ruthless, already half a king in his bearing. “We’ll take back Alice, rhaena and her children” he vowed his voice low but steady, cutting through the heavy air. The hall was hushed, every servant and knight holding their breath as the plan hung in the air. Daemon’s fingers drummed against the hilt of Dark Sister, his mind already racing ahead to shadows and secret ways into the city. “Then it’s settled,” he said, his voice like gravel. “A dragon’s roar draws too much attention. But a knife in the dark? That no king expects.” His gaze flicked to Aegon, measuring him, weighing him. The boy’s jaw was set, his grief forged into resolve and For the first time, Daemon saw not just a grieving father—but an ally.

The hall had grown quieter, though the weight of grief still hung thick in the air, clinging to every stone and every torch flame. Rhaenyra sat rigid in her high-backed chair, her hands clasped so tightly her knuckles blanched. She had not wept, not as Laena had, nor raged as Daemon did but the stillness in her face was a mask hard as iron. Laena stood beside her now, dry-eyed at last, though the fury in her gaze was molten. She rested a hand over her belly, as if to anchor herself, her other hand gripping the chair’s arm as though it might shatter beneath her fingers. When Daemon and Aegon returned, shadows long behind them from the torches of the Dragonpit, both men looked carved from the same stone—haunted, bloodshot, and grimly set. No one spoke for a time; silence itself seemed the only fitting dirge for Daena.

At length, Rhaenyra’s voice cut through the hall, cold and measured, though the words trembled at their edges. “We will not falter. They believe to wound us, to break us with this cruelty. They will learn instead what it means to awaken dragons.” She turned her gaze to Aegon and for the first time softened, if only barely. “Your daughter will be returned to you. She is blood of the dragon. No chains will hold her long.” Aegon bowed his head, swallowing hard, his lips pressing into a thin line to hold back the grief that threatened to choke him. Daemon paced behind them like a caged beast, his hand never straying far from Dark Sister but when his eyes met Laena’s, a silent promise passed between them: their daughter’s death would not go unanswered.

Plans began to form in the hush that followed. Daemon leaned across the war table, his voice low and dangerous. “Aegon and I will fly under the cover of night. Slip into the Keep itself. The babe will be taken back and Rhaena freed if she is held there. Quick, clean, before Hightower knows his walls are already breached.” Aegon nodded sharply, his grief forging into steel resolve. “I will not leave Alice in their clutches. If I die for it, so be it.” Laena’s hand rose sharply, silencing them both. Her face was composed, almost eerily so, but her voice burned beneath the calm. “No deaths. Not yet. Not until the time is right. We take back what is ours—our children, our kin—and we strike when the wound of Daena’s murder cuts them deepest.” Her gaze flicked to Rhaenyra, who held it without flinching. Together they stood as a house scarred but unbroken, and though grief still cloaked them, the fire of vengeance smoldered beneath.

Chapter Text

Chapter 7

The painted table was lit by a forest of candles, their wax pooling like pale rivers across the black stone. Rhaenyra sat at its head, her shoulders draped in black, her crown catching the candlelight like a brand of fire. Though her eyes were rimmed red, her voice carried steady as steel. Around her, the lords of her council leaned close, the map between them alive with flickering shadows — Westeros carved in flame and darkness.

Visenya, her daughter and now Hand of the Queen, stood at her right hand with parchment and quill, recording each word as if every syllable were law. She watched her sister closely, noting the set of her jaw, the clipped cadence of her voice. Rhaenyra spoke not as a grieving cousin or daughter, but as a queen who knew the realm was already sliding toward fire.

“My will is plain,” Rhaenyra said, fingers brushing the carved outline of Dragonstone upon the table. “The crown is mine, by blood and by law. Yet what is law without the love of the smallfolk? We will not drown the realm in fire and corpses if words can win us allies. But—” her gaze sharpened, sweeping the faces of her council “—those who have named me usurper shall feel the weight of my wrath.”

Lord Bartimos Celtigar leaned forward, his narrow face hawkish, jeweled fingers flashing in the candlelight. “Your Grace, coin is as sharp as steel. We must bleed King’s Landing’s purses until the commons cry out against the boy they call king. Ships to strangle the Gullet, tariffs on trade, and bribes where gold turns tongues. That will hurt them more than swords at first.”

Corlys Velaryon rumbled in assent, his sea-weathered hands gripping the table’s edge. “The sea is ours. Blockade their ports and within moons the Red Keep will choke on hunger. But blockades alone will not crown you. A swift strike with dragons—” His eyes flicked up, gauging Rhaenyra’s temper. “—could break their spirit before they muster theirs.”

“Blood spilled in haste is blood we cannot wash away,” Rhaenyra countered sharply, though her eyes softened for a moment toward Lord corlys velaryon. “We will not be remembered as tyrants who set the realm alight. The people must see I have tried every path of peace before steel.”

Harwin Strong, leaning in the shadows with arms folded, let out a low growl. “Peace? Alicent and her brood spat on peace the moment they crowned that drunken boy. Daena lies cold because of them. Elaen is in their grip. Your Grace, they will not stop. Every day we tarry, they grow bolder. You would do better to strike fear into their hearts now, before they stitch their banners together.”

At that, Ser Steffon Darklyn, commander of the Queen’s Guard, placed a mailed fist to his breastplate. “The White Cloaks of the Red Keep are not what they were, Your Grace. Divide them, and you divide Aegon’s spine. Many knights will come to your banner if you show them strength. Yet if you show weakness…” He trailed off, eyes grim. “It will be remembered.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze shifted to the Grand Maester, Gerardys, who had sat silent, his thin lips pursed, rings glinting on wizened fingers. “Your Grace,” he said carefully, “ravens already whisper that the Seven themselves turned against Daena, striking her down as she fled Dragonstone. Lies, yes—but lies move faster than truth. You must answer them swiftly, lest silence crown them fact.”

Visenya stiffened at the blasphemy, her pen pausing. Rhaenyra’s knuckles whitened on the table’s edge. “Then we will answer with words of our own,” she said coldly. “A writ shall be sent to every lord and sept in the realm: Daena was murdered by Aegon’s command. Let the people know who truly spills kin-slaying blood.”

Celtigar sniffed, though he nodded. “Gold and rumor together, my Queen, that is how thrones are won.” Corlys, however, pressed his point. “Words may wound, but fire kills. Do not wait overlong. We have strength now — dragons yet unblooded, men eager for your cause. Delay, and the Iron Throne will harden its defenses.” His voice lowered, almost a plea. “Strike soon, Rhaenyra. Let them feel the power of the sea and sky.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes swept her council, weighing them, measuring each thread of advice. Her body screamed with exhaustion, her heart throbbed with grief, but her crown demanded clarity. “I will strike,” she said at last, “but with care. I will not drench the realm in needless death. Our words shall march before our swords. But traitors will pay the price, one by one.” Visenya dipped her quill, capturing every syllable. In her young face, pride warred with fear. To her, her sister seemed carved of dragon glass— unbreakable, untouchable — but she saw the shadows beneath her eyes, the strain at her mouth.

The candles guttered as a draft swept the chamber, rattling the painted table’s edges. Beyond the walls of Dragonstone, the sea roared and dragons shifted restlessly in their pits. War was coming, not in shouts but in whispers, each word laid upon the painted table like a blade. And at its heart sat Rhaenyra, holding grief in one hand and a crown in the other.

Rhaenyra sat in silence for a long moment after each man’s counsel, her fingers resting lightly on the carved figure of King’s Landing at the table’s heart. She did not dismiss their words with a wave or strike them down in temper. Instead, she let the room steep in quiet until even the crackle of candles seemed too loud. At last she looked up, meeting Celtigar’s sharp gaze. “You are right, Lord Bartimos. Gold is a weapon we cannot afford to leave sheathed. You will see to it that bribes and tariffs are placed where they bite the hardest. Make the usurper bleed from his purse.”

Her eyes turned to Corlys then, softer but no less firm. “And you, Lord Corlys, the seas will be yours to command. Close the Gullet, choke their ports, and starve their city until their tables are bare. But no rash strikes — not yet. Let hunger gnaw them from within while words prepare the way.”

She shifted her gaze toward Harwin, who had bristled at her restraint. “You are not wrong either, my Lord of Whispers. Every day we wait is another they use to tighten their grip. But instead of dragons’ flame, we will send our whispers. Scatter our spies in King’s Landing. Sow division among their knights, their smallfolk, their very court. If Alicent means to paint us as tyrants, let her choke on her own lies when her people turn upon her.”

Then she fixed Ser Steffon with a look that made the knight straighten in his seat. “And you shall see to the loyalty of our swords. Make plain to every White Cloak in the Red Keep that they have a choice: serve the true Queen or stand beside traitors when judgment comes. Remind them what the Kingsguard swore — and that an oathbreaker’s white cloak burns brighter than any torch.”

At last, she drew in a breath and spoke to them all, her voice steady but carrying the weight of iron. “This will be our way: gold and rumor, blockade and whisper, promise and threat. Not a single sword will be drawn until the realm knows the truth of who wears the crown by right. Let them see that I have offered peace, offered mercy, offered law — and when they spurn it, let all the realm know whose hands first drew blood. Then, and only then, shall fire and steel answer them.”

The Painted Table glowed with flickering candlelight, the carved rivers and mountains shimmering as though alive. Rhaenyra laid her hand upon the wooden crown of King’s Landing one last time before she spoke. “So be it. Each of you has your charge. Carry it out with the diligence the realm demands. We will not be remembered as butchers, but as rulers who offered peace before war. Dismissed.” Her voice was iron, but her shoulders sagged faintly as the lords and knights withdrew, cloaks brushing stone, boots thudding hollow against the chamber floor.

When the doors closed, the silence pressed heavy. Alone, she lingered by the map, her thoughts drifting not to the lords she had just commanded, but to Daemon. To Aegon. Two riders gone into the night, their mission unspoken, their purpose unblessed by council. She did not know whether to curse them for recklessness or pray for their swiftness. Her hand brushed her stomach as if to ground herself, though no child grew there. “Seven guide you,” she whispered, to uncle and son alike, before she blew out the candles.

In the dark streets of King’s Landing, two shadows moved where none should. Ratcatchers, to any watching eye — their rough leathers reeking faintly of soot and grease, their hair tied back, their heads bowed. But beneath the grime, violet eyes glinted. Daemon’s stride was measured, purposeful, every step carrying the certainty of one who had walked these passages long before kings and queens had warred for crowns. Beside him, Aegon kept pace, shoulders taut, jaw clenched. His hand hovered near the dagger beneath his tunic, though the boy’s heart hammered so loud he thought it might betray them.

The city slept uneasy. Murmurs of dragons, of war, of crowns stolen and claimed hung in the night air. Daemon led them through backstreets reeking of fish and rot, until they reached the hidden mouth of Maegor’s tunnels — a crumbled wellhouse half-swallowed by weeds. He pressed his palm against the stone, found the latch by touch, and pulled. The wall shuddered, groaned, and swung inward to reveal blackness deeper than night. “Keep close,” he muttered, voice low, “and step where I step. These ways know friend from foe.”

The tunnels yawned before them, damp air carrying the stink of mildew and earth. Rats skittered along the stones, their squeaks echoing like laughter. Aegon suppressed a shiver, though his hand gripped the wall to steady himself. “How do you know these passages?” he whispered. Daemon’s lip curled. “I learned them when I was younger than you. Maegor built them for blood, not escape. But blood runs both ways.” He pressed forward, his torch sputtering, shadows leaping grotesque against the curved ceilings.

For what felt like hours they walked, the Red Keep shifting unseen above their heads. At times the tunnels split into narrow veins, and Daemon always chose without hesitation — down, up, left, a spiral stair, a crawlspace so tight Aegon’s shoulders scraped the stone. Twice they froze when guards’ voices filtered down from grates above, and once they heard the distant growl of a chained dog. But fortune held. At last, Daemon halted, gesturing to a ladder rising toward a trapdoor. “Here,” he breathed. “Her chambers lie just beyond.”

The trapdoor lifted with a soft groan, spilling moonlight across their faces. They emerged into a narrow servants’ corridor, tapestries muffling their movements, the air warm with the faint scent of rhubarb and lavender. Daemon moved like a wraith, pressing his ear to every door they passed until he reached one guarded by silence. He raised a hand and Aegon slid past him, heart pounding so fiercely he thought the sound alone might wake the castle.

The door creaked as it opened. Inside, the chamber lay dim, a single candle guttering on the table. A small cradle stood near the hearth, and there, wrapped in swaddling, lay baby Alice. Her breath rose and fell in tiny sighs, her fists curled like blossoms. Aegon froze at the sight, his chest tightening until it hurt. His daughter. His blood. He had imagined this moment countless nights — and yet now that it was here, he could scarcely move for fear of breaking it.

Daemon’s hand gripped his shoulder. “Take her,” he urged, voice low but insistent. “Swiftly.” Aegon crossed the room on trembling legs, every board seeming to groan in protest beneath his boots. He reached the cradle, bent low, and with hands that shook despite himself, lifted the child. Her warmth seeped into his arms at once, her scent of milk and linen piercing his heart. Tears pricked his eyes as he cradled her close. “Alice,” he whispered, voice cracking. “My sweet girl. I have you now.”

Daemon stood at the window, eyes scanning the darkened courtyards beyond. “We must go,” he said. “Every moment risks discovery.” Aegon nodded, but could not look away from his daughter’s face. He kissed her brow, tucked the blanket more securely about her, then turned — only to freeze at the sound of footsteps in the corridor. Daemon’s sword slid free with a hiss, though he held it low. The latch turned.

The door opened to reveal not guards, but a woman. Silver hair caught the moonlight, her frame proud despite the hour. In her arms she carried a little girl of three, whose curious eyes blinked at the intruders. Rhaena. And Alyssa. The silence stretched thick, broken only by Alice’s faint stirring. Daemon’s face hardened. “Rhaena,” he said flatly, his voice a blade unsheathed. “You will come with us. Gather your child. The Greens are vipers — they slew your sister this very night.”

Rhaena’s breath hitched. Her gaze flicked to Aegon, to the bundle in his arms, then back to Daemon. “Daena…” she whispered, anguish flaring in her eyes before it sharpened to steel. “And you come here, with blood on your boots, demanding I abandon what I have? You cast me aside once, Father. Sent me from your side when I was a girl. Do not think to order me now.” Her voice trembled, yet venom dripped with every word.

Daemon stepped forward, fury trembling in his hands. “I sent you to safety!” he hissed. “To keep you from the rot of this pit! And now you call that betrayal?” His chest rose and fell with ragged breath, but the sight of her daughter in her arms stayed his advance. “Daena was you — your face, your mother’s grace, but my fire. They killed her, Rhaena. Killed her because she bore my blood. Because she tries to follow Elaen. Do you not see what fate awaits you here?”

Rhaena’s jaw clenched, tears brimming but unshed. “Fate? My fate is mine. I have rhaenys and Alyssa. I have Aemond.” Her voice cracked at his name, yet she did not falter. “He does not cast me aside, nor scorn me for being born the wrong child. You say you loved Daena for her fire — yet you never loved me for mine.” The venom landed like a lash. Daemon flinched, though his face did not soften.

Aegon, caught between them, clutched Alice tighter, his throat aching. “We must go,” he whispered. His eyes darted toward the window, the torchlight beyond. Voices carried faintly — a guard patrol. Daemon heard it too. His hand gripped the hilt of Dark Sister, knuckles white, but he did not move to strike. He looked once more at Rhaena, his violet gaze burning with equal parts grief and pride.

“You are your mother’s daughter,” Daemon said at last, voice roughened, broken edges hidden beneath iron. “And mine though you damn me for it. So be it. Choose your path. But know this — the day will come when Aemond’s love is not shield but spear, and you will curse yourself for trusting him.” His voice cracked faintly at the end, but he masked it by sheathing his blade.

The torches outside drew nearer. Shouts echoed, boots clanging against stone. Rhaena’s face paled, but she held her ground. “Go,” she whispered, clutching Alyssa close. “I will not betray you — not tonight. But I will not leave with you either. Take your stolen child and be gone before the Keep swallows you whole.” Her eyes lingered on Alice for a heartbeat, softening just enough to betray the ache beneath her anger.

Daemon’s jaw clenched. For a moment he looked as though he might seize her anyway, sling her over his shoulder as he had done with enemies in battle. But the voices outside swelled louder, torches glowing brighter through the window. They were out of time. He spun toward Aegon. “We go. Now.”

Aegon hesitated, his heart torn — between his cousin who stood defiant and the daughter nestled against his chest. But the choice was no choice at all. He gave Rhaena one last look, his eyes shimmering with helpless sorrow. “I’ll not forget you,” he whispered. Then Daemon seized his arm, dragging him toward the hidden door.

The passage swallowed them again, the stone groaning shut behind. Boots thundered past above, shouts ringing down the halls, but the tunnels embraced them in silence. Alice whimpered faintly, and Aegon soothed her with a trembling kiss. Daemon did not speak as they fled, his face carved from stone, his eyes fixed forward — yet behind that mask, fury and grief waged war. Rhaena’s voice haunted him as surely as Daena’s absence. And still he pressed on.

In the chamber above, Rhaena stood frozen, Alyssa clutched so tightly the girl whimpered. Tears streaked her cheeks at last, silent and hot, falling unchecked. She had not called the guards. She had not raised the cry. Her father was gone, her sister dead, her choice made. But in the silence that followed, she wondered if she had damned herself to a different kind of cage.

The tunnels seemed narrower on the way out, the air thicker with damp and dread. Daemon led without pause, torchlight flaring off slick stone, while behind him Aegon clutched Alice to his chest with both arms, shielding her head from the low arches. Every sound — the drip of water, the squeak of a rat — seemed magnified a hundredfold. His ears strained for pursuit, for the shouts of guards realizing what had been taken. But no alarm yet carried down into the dark.

They surfaced through the wellhouse where they had first entered. Daemon shoved the stone shut behind them with a grunt, sealing the passage as though burying the ghosts it carried. The night air struck Aegon like a blessing, cold and sharp, yet his breath came ragged, half-choked with fear and relief. Alice stirred against him, fussing, and he hushed her with frantic murmurs. “Shh, my little star. We’re free now. We’re free.”

The streets of King’s Landing sprawled ahead, quiet but never silent. Drunks staggered from taverns, dogs barked at unseen threats, and shadows shifted in alleyways. Daemon knew the rhythm of the city even at this hour — when patrols doubled near the septs, when goldcloaks thinned near the fishmongers’ stalls. He moved with uncanny certainty, guiding Aegon along paths that skirted watchfires and sleeping beggars alike. Once, a cloaked man called out, but Daemon’s glare was enough to silence him into the gutter.

By the time the docks came into sight, the eastern horizon was paling faintly with the first gray touch of dawn. The masts loomed like black spears against the sky, and the water lapped with restless urgency. Their small galley waited where Daemon had ordered it, sails furled, crew silent and watchful. At the sight of their prince and his daughter, they leapt to make ready, ropes cast off, oars set.

Aegon clutched Alice even as they boarded, unwilling to hand her over to any nurse or sailor. The planks creaked beneath their weight, and the salt air stung his eyes, but his grip never loosened. Daemon stood beside him at the rail as the galley pushed free, his gaze locked on the looming red walls of the Keep. “This city will bleed before it yields,” he muttered, half to himself. Aegon said nothing — his whole world was swaddled in his arms.

The voyage was short but restless. Daemon paced the deck like a caged dragon, eyes never leaving the horizon. Aegon sat in the stern, rocking Alice gently, humming broken snatches of lullabies he had not known he remembered. The crew kept their distance, their oars rising and falling in silence, as if fearful that a single word might shatter the fragile cloak of secrecy.

When Dragonstone’s jagged cliffs rose from the sea, black against the lightening sky, Aegon’s knees went weak with relief. The fortress loomed like a beast crouched upon its rock, ancient and waiting. Smoke curled faintly from the mountain, the dragons stirring in their lairs as dawn touched the isle. Daemon’s pacing slowed, his shoulders easing fraction by fraction as home drew near.

The galley slid into harbor with barely a splash, sailors leaping to lash ropes to the stone piers. No fanfare greeted them, no horn or banner — only the quiet slap of waves and the caw of gulls. Daemon disembarked first, scanning the walls for any sign of unwanted eyes, then motioned Aegon ashore. The boy’s boots struck the stone unevenly, his whole body trembling with exhaustion, but his arms never faltered around Alice.

Word must have flown ahead somehow, for when they entered the keep, Rhaenyra was waiting. She stood in the great hall, her council dismissed, her hair loose from its pins, her face pale from a sleepless night. When her eyes fell upon Aegon and the bundle in his arms, her lips parted, breath caught. She crossed the floor without sound, her hand rising to his cheek. “You did it,” she whispered, her voice breaking between pride and fear.

Aegon lowered his daughter just enough for his mother to see her face. Alice yawned, tiny mouth opening wide, before settling back into sleep. Tears blurred Rhaenyra’s vision. She stroked the child’s downy hair with trembling fingers, then drew both son and granddaughter into her arms. “She’s home,” she murmured, as much to herself as to them. “She’s home.” For a moment, the war, the crowns, the betrayals — all faded into nothing. There was only family, fragile and fierce, reunited against the storm.

Rhaenyra’s arms tightened around Aegon and Alice, but even as she cradled them, her gaze searched Daemon. The question rose sharp and unbidden, her voice low yet edged with steel. “And Rhaena? Alyssa? Rhaenys?” The names seemed to hang in the air, heavy as chains. Her hand trembled against her son’s back. “You did not leave them behind.”

Daemon’s jaw worked as though the words themselves were ash on his tongue. His gaze did not waver, though his eyes burned with a fury she had seen before — the fury of a man torn between vengeance and regret. “We found her,” he said at last. His voice was hoarse, stripped raw. “But she would not come. She’s chosen her husband. Chosen Aemond. Chosen to stay in that cursed keep with her child.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Even the rush of the sea through the open hall windows seemed to vanish. Aegon bowed his head, shame and grief etched into his face, unable to meet his mother’s eyes. Rhaenyra’s lips parted, but no sound emerged — only the weight of betrayal, and the sting of a daughter lost to her enemies.

It was then that Laena entered, her steps slow, her shoulders squared though her face betrayed nothing. The chamber seemed to shrink around her as she halted within the threshold. Her eyes fixed first on the babe in Aegon’s arms, then rose to her husband’s. No words passed her lips, but her silence screamed louder than any cry. She had known, in her marrow, long before Daemon spoke, what fate awaited Daena.

Laena’s stillness shattered at last. Her voice cut through the chamber, quiet but carrying the weight of iron. “Then you will go,” she said, her eyes fixed on Daemon though her body trembled almost imperceptibly. “You will fetch Aelinor and her husband from Claw Isle, and you will bring Laemond back from Driftmark. I will not sit here and wait for word of more coffins. I will have them beneath my roof, where I can see them.” The steadiness of her tone belied the tremor in her hands, clasped so tightly her nails bit into her palms.

The words spilled not from anger, but from terror dressed in resolve. Laena stood like a bird shielding its nest, desperate to draw the last of her eggs close before the world could snatch them away. She had already lost Daena, and now Rhaena was lost in another, crueler way. The thought of Aelinor or Laemond beyond her sight clawed at her chest until she could scarcely breathe. “Go,” she whispered again, softer this time, eyes shining though no tears fell. “Bring them home to me, Daemon. Before I have nothing left.”

Daemon’s jaw clenched as Laena’s words sank into him. Not a demand — a plea wrapped in steel, born of fear he had not shielded her from. His fists curled at his sides, nails biting into flesh. He had always been the man of action, the sword that cut before danger could strike, but here… here he had been powerless. He had failed to keep Daena safe, failed to bring Rhaena back. Now Laena stood before him, frightened and hollowed, and he had no words to ease her grief. The fury that burned in his eyes was not for himself, but for her.

Without answering, he turned sharply, the scrape of his boots echoing like thunder in the stone hall. His cloak snapped behind him, the only betrayal of his temper, and his face was a mask of storm clouds. Those who saw him move aside knew better than to speak. He did not trust his voice, for if he opened his mouth, it would not be comfort that spilled forth, but rage at his own impotence. Laena had asked him to gather their brood like a mother bird drawing her chicks beneath her wings — and by the gods, he would not fail her again.

The heavy doors of the hall boomed shut in his wake, the sound reverberating through the chamber like a tolling bell. Daemon did not look back. He strode with purpose toward Caraxes’ roost, every step a vow to reclaim what family he still had left. Aelinor, Laemond, Clement — he would bring them home if it cost him blood, bone, or fire. For once, his war was not against crowns or thrones or brothers, but against the gnawing shadow of loss that threatened to consume the woman he loved. And this was a war he refused to lose.

The hall still throbbed with the echo of Daemon’s departure when Aegon stirred. He had been silent, clutching Alice close, his hand shaking every so slightly as he brushed his daughter’s downy hair. The babe whimpered against his chest, hungry and restless, reminding him she was too young to understand the weight pressing upon them all. He looked to Rhaenyra, then to Laena — both women locked in their own grief — and his jaw firmed. “I’ll find a wet nurse,” he said quietly, though his voice carried enough strength to cut through the gloom. “She needs more than my arms.” Without waiting for a reply, he rose and left, holding Alice as though she were both crown and shield.

The door shut gently behind him, and silence returned. Rhaenyra’s gaze lingered on the space Aegon had vacated, her heart aching at the sight of him — still half a boy, now burdened with fatherhood and loss all at once. She turned her eyes back to Laena, who stood near the window, her hands braced against the stone sill, staring out at the sea. The wind played with her hair, but her face was still, carved from grief and fear, her lips pressed together as though to keep herself from breaking.

Rhaenyra approached quietly, her steps measured, until she stood just behind her. For a moment, she did not speak. Instead, she laid a hand gently upon Laena’s shoulder. The muscles there trembled beneath her touch, not from weakness but from the strain of holding too much inside. “He will bring them home,” Rhaenyra murmured, her voice low, steady. “Daemon will not stop until they are safe at your side. He has lost much — but he would sooner cut the world apart stone by stone than fail you again.”

Laena closed her eyes at the words, her throat tightening. She leaned back, just slightly, into Rhaenyra’s hand, the touch like a tether against the tempest that threatened to pull her under. Her breath left her in a shudder. “I am afraid, Rhaenyra,” she confessed, her voice breaking with the words. “Afraid that when he returns, he will not bring them all back. That one by one, they will be taken from me until I am nothing but a mother to graves.”

Rhaenyra moved closer, slipping her arms around Laena’s waist, drawing her against her. Laena resisted at first — too proud, too strong — but then she gave in, pressing her forehead to Rhaenyra’s shoulder. Rhaenyra held her firmly, a pillar against the storm. “You will not be left with only ghosts,” Rhaenyra whispered. “Not while I breathe. You are not alone, Laena. Not in this war. Not in this life.”

Laena lifted her head then, her eyes glistening with unshed tears, her lips trembling as they parted. Without a word, she leaned forward and kissed Rhaenyra — soft at first, a plea more than a passion. Her hands rose to frame the queen’s face, holding her as if that single act could anchor her to the living, to hope, to something other than grief. The kiss deepened for a breath, a spark of desperation within it.

But Rhaenyra gently pulled back, her hands moving to rest over Laena’s, steady and warm. She pressed her forehead to hers, their breath mingling, but her lips curved into the faintest, sorrowful smile. “If there is to be something between us,” she said softly, “let it not be born of grief. Let it not be the shadow of loss that binds us, but the light of life. You deserve that, Laena. We both do.”

Laena’s eyes fluttered closed, her tears slipping free at last. She nodded against Rhaenyra’s touch, though disappointment flickered across her face. Yet beneath it, there was also a quiet gratitude. Rhaenyra had not spurned her — she had offered something better, something lasting. She leaned into her, resting her head once more against Rhaenyra’s shoulder, and let the queen’s arms hold her up where her own strength faltered.

For a long time, they stood together, silent but not alone. The sea crashed against the cliffs below, the wind carried the salt of it into the chamber, and the fire on the hearth crackled, painting the stone in shifting gold. It was not a promise of victory, nor of peace, but it was a promise of presence — of two women who would not let grief devour them wholly.

When Aegon returned, he found them still together, Laena’s head resting against Rhaenyra’s shoulder, both women wrapped in the quiet dignity of shared sorrow. He did not intrude. Instead, he sat nearby with Alice cradled in his arms, and for the first time since the chaos began, a fragile sense of stillness settled over Dragonstone. Not safety, not certainty, but enough. Enough for the night, enough to end the day without breaking. And so the hall, heavy with loss, held also a spark of hope — faint, but real.

Chapter Text

Chapter 8

Rhaegar’s boots clicked sharply on the cold uneven stone floors of the Red Keep. The corridors were deserted, flickering torchlight casting long wavering shadows that seemed to bend toward him as if alive. He moved with a predator’s patience, every step measured, eyes alert for any sign of disturbance—but truly, he was alone with his thoughts, savoring the silence. Each echo seemed to mirror the calculation turning in his mind

Alicent rose from her chair by the hearth, her hands lightly resting on the back of the seat as she curtsied. Candlelight danced across her face, highlighting worry in her eyes. “Rhaegar, you return later than the moon itself,” she said softly, a mixture of admiration and concern in her voice. “The city sleeps, yet you move like a shadow that cannot rest.”

Rhaegar allowed a faint, polite smile, his lips betraying nothing of the storm behind his calm eyes. “Restless, perhaps but some matters do not wait for the comfort of slumber dear mother” he said smoothly, the words carefully neutral but the faint glint in his eye suggested something sharper than routine business.

Alicent took a cautious step closer, noting the rigid precision in his posture and the cold gleam of calculation in his gaze. “And these matters you speak of… are they truly of the council, or do they belong to schemes better left unspoken?”

Rhaegar chuckled softly, a low, almost imperceptible sound that carried more threat than amusement. He leaned lightly against the wall, eyes tracking the flickering shadows. “Council matters bore me. True intrigue, the kind that shifts the world quietly, awakens me,” he murmured, voice smooth as silk but edged with steel. “You my dear mother, may never know until the pieces are in place.” Alicent’s brow furrowed, suspicion and unease lacing her tone. “You speak in riddles, Rhaegar. Am I to be left in darkness, a spectator in my own halls?”

Rhaegar leaned back, hands clasped behind him, the perfect image of relaxed control. “Honesty is precious” he said softly, “but best reserved for those who cannot use it against us. Some truths are gifts only the wise may unwrap.” Inside, his mind raced with schemes of manipulation, imagining how the chaos of the coming days could be turned into advantage.

Finally, he inclined his head with a curt nod, dismissing her politely while his mind stayed alive with plans. “Rest well, my queen. Night is long and the hour to act is closer than you imagine.” He walked toward his chamber, each step deliberate, a faint smirk brushing his lips as he considered how fear and grief could be made to serve him without anyone suspecting.

Dawn crept across King’s Landing, pale light spilling over cold stone and gilded walls But the brightness offered no comfort: Elaen’s scream ripped through the corridors, jagged and raw, the sound so fierce it seemed to shake the very walls. Her small voice carried the authority and cunning of someone far older than her years, demanding attention from every servant and guard within earshot.

Servants froze, half-dressed, startled by the intensity. Some tried to run toward the nursery, others simply stared, unsure how to respond to the princess’s fury. Even the guards, trained for emergencies hesitated. Elaen’s voice was sharp and commanding, the innocence of youth stripped away by terror and rage of a mother.

Elaen’s small fists pounded against doors, overturning chairs in frantic search. “Where is Alice?!” Her voice was at once panicked and cunning, aware that anger could manipulate attention. She pressed herself against the walls, listening for sounds, scenting the corridors for her baby as if she could smell fear itself.

Alicent awakened abruptly by the commotion, stumbled through her chambers, heart hammering. Silk robes tangled around her legs, her breath shallow. Every mother’s dread rose like a tide as she sprinted through corridors she knew by memory. Her mind raced through the possible horrors, each one darker than the last.

She arrived at the nursery doorway just as Elaen swung it open, eyes wide and panicked. The crib was empty. The faint scent of lavender lingered in the air, mocking her as it had always done when she’d sought comfort in small rituals. “She’s… gone,” Elaen whispered, voice breaking. She pressed her small hands against the empty mattress, eyes scanning every corner as if expecting the child to reappear.

Aegon’s boots clanged against the stone, his arrival like a shockwave. His chest was broad, his posture bold and every step radiated both charm and danger. “What happened?!” His voice carried the sharp arrogance of someone who demanded to be at the center of every solution—and the panic of someone already imagining blame falling elsewhere.

Elaen spun, tears streaming down her cheeks, her voice a jagged weapon. “I don’t know! She was here and now she’s… gone! You must—” She broke off, the cunning child behind her panic forcing her to search for clarity in Aegon’s wide, bold eyes.

Aegon’s glare snapped toward the nearest guards, fingers pointing, veins taut with anger. “Answer me! Did you sleep while her child vanished? Did you allow this to happen?!” His charisma sharpened into authority, but his recklessness showed: he demanded answers before understanding the facts, every word loud, every movement dramatic.

Alicent hurried forward, her hands raised, trying to steady the storm. “Aegon! Rage will not find her. Focus. Every second counts. Think or she will be lost to us.” Aegon’s jaw flexed, a flare of frustration escaping him. “Focus? Focus while she’s gone?! Do you not understand the gravity, Mother?”

Elaen’s voice rose again, now sharper and more commanding, almost theatrical: “Search the servants! Question everyone! Someone must know!” Her tiny frame moved like a general directing soldiers, the innocence of childhood masked beneath sheer cunning and determination.

Rhaegar entered then, calm as a lake’s surface in contrast to the chaos. Every step measured, a predator in human guise. His smooth voice cut through the storm: “Brother, calm yourself. Fury without direction achieves nothing. Let us consider our actions carefully.”

Aegon’s chest rose and fell, anger and pride flaring. “Calm? She’s been kidnapped! Are you suggesting calm is appropriate?” His need to prove himself, to be seen as decisive, clashed with his natural recklessness.

Rhaegar’s eyes glinted, calculating. “I am present now. That is what matters. Let your energy be put to use where it can save her, not squandered in shouting at the walls.” Inside, he smiled faintly, imagining the suffering, the fear, the confusion that would soon feed his schemes.

Elaen, despite trembling, barked precise instructions: “Check the servant quarters, the kitchens, the stables! Use every corridor! No one leaves until we know!” Her charm and cunning lent authority even to the panicked adults around her, every command sharp, deliberate, impossible to ignore.

Alicent remained near her daughter, offering quiet guidance, steadying her with a hand on the shoulder. “Elaen, breathe. Focus, think. Lead them, yes, but do not lose yourself.” Her heart ached watching the child forced into such urgency.

Aegon paced, hands flexing, glancing at guards with barely restrained impatience. “Why are you not moving faster?!” He demanded, every word bold and dramatic, tinged with insecurity and desire for recognition.

Rhaegar watched, inwardly savoring the chaos, observing each sibling, each guard, each fearful servant, storing the moments for later advantage. The fury of Aegon, the cunning of Elaen, the guidance of Alicent—they all played into a tapestry only he could manipulate.

Guards bolted through corridors, doors swung open and shut, questions shouted, movements precise yet hurried. The echoes of hurried boots, clattering tools and shouted commands filled the Red Keep with urgency and tension.

Elaen’s sobs cut through the noise, sharp and raw but she never stopped moving, her mind calculating, her heart raging. Each door she opened, each shadow she inspected, fed both panic and cunning determination. Alicent followed, trying to ground her daughter while also guiding the search, her calm a fragile shield against the tidal wave of fear and chaos. Every thought of lost children twisted in her chest like a knife.

Aegon stopped abruptly, chest heaving, realizing that his anger alone could not control the chaos. His reckless energy, though formidable, needed Rhaegar’s calm hand to direct the efforts toward finding the child. Rhaegar’s expression remained neutral, almost serene. But inside, each scream, each accusation, each frantic movement of servants and guards strengthened his private schemes. Every thread of grief and fear was a potential weapon to be wielded in secret.

Elaen’s cries finally began to soften, though despair still clung to her voice like smoke. “Please… please… bring her back,” she whispered through sobs, a fragile plea beneath the fierce command. Her cunning instincts still glimmered, even in tears, knowing her voice could direct actions more than her small body ever could.

As the morning pressed on, the Red Keep was alive with activity: guards moving with renewed purpose, servants running frantic errands and the family caught in a storm of grief, anger and careful calculation. Even amid chaos, Rhaegar’s mind worked in shadows, plotting for the day’s revenge and manipulation, while Elaen, Aegon, and Alicent fought to reclaim what had been stolen—their child, their peace, their control.

After the initial storm of screams and frantic activity subsided, Rhaegar retreated from the chaos with a calm, purposeful stride. While others were consumed by grief or panic, his mind already moved through a web of possibilities, mapping the movements of those capable of such audacity.

He made his way toward the entrance to Maegor’s tunnels, steps measured and silent. Shadows clung to the stone walls like old sins, and the musty air of the passage whispered secrets of those long dead. Rhaegar’s eyes, sharp and calculating, scanned every corner for evidence. Approaching the old iron doorway, he frowned. The mechanism was slightly misaligned, the lock not fully closed. A faint scratch mark on the stone indicated recent passage—too deliberate to be an accident. Rhaegar’s lips curved into a faint, knowing smile.

He ran a hand along the cold stone, his mind connecting threads only he could see. “Daemon,” he murmured under his breath, the name tasting like iron. The evidence was clear: this was no common thief, no lowly servant gone rogue. Only someone with knowledge of these tunnels could have bypassed the locks so cleanly.

Every detail—the angle of the scratches, the faint dust disturbed along the floor—confirmed it. Rhaegar’s eyes glinted with both admiration and contempt; Daemon’s cunning rivaled his own but the lawlessness of Targaryen blood had struck again.

He lingered in the tunnels for a long moment, letting the shadows guide his thoughts. Though cruel by nature, he would never let harm come to his family unchecked. Any chaos he relished in the court had limits: here, in the real world, his loyalty was absolute.

Leaving the tunnels, he took a deliberate route back through the Red Keep, moving past frightened servants and weary guards. Each step was controlled, the calm presence of a predator tempered only by the protective instinct for his family.

He arrived outside Elaen’s chambers, hearing her quiet sobs mingled with soft, trembling commands to the servants still searching. Pushing the door open, he entered with careful grace, the shadow of his authority immediately felt without a word.

Elaen looked up, startled at first, then relieved, her eyes searching his. “You… you came,” she whispered, tears still streaking her cheeks. Her small hands clutched at the empty space where her baby had been, Alice’s blanket in hand to try consol herself.

Rhaegar knelt beside her, voice low but firm, carrying both reassurance and a hint of dangerous knowledge. “It was Daemon,” he said simply, letting the weight of the name settle between them. He did not elaborate, for full truth might frighten but his tone implied the depth of his certainty.

Elaen’s brows furrowed, trying to piece together what he meant. “What… what does that mean?” she asked cautiously, fear mingled with curiosity. Her young mind sought clarity, yet she instinctively knew some truths were better cloaked.

Rhaegar’s lips curved in the faintest, enigmatic smile. “It means… he acts on his own and he is clever. It also means that, should you wish, he may find himself answered.” He left the words hanging, vague enough to offer comfort without revealing his full strategy, yet carrying the weight of unspoken promise.

Elaen blinked, small shoulders trembling and yet the tiniest spark of satisfaction glimmered in her eyes. His words, though veiled, were enough. She understood: vengeance, protection and the might of her family were all aligned—even if she did not grasp the full danger yet.

Rhaegar’s hand rested lightly on her shoulder, firm but not threatening. “You do not need to fear alone. You will be protected,” he said, his voice carrying the authority and warmth of someone who could both destroy and defend without hesitation.

Elaen leaned slightly into the reassurance, the cunning child within her silently weighing the implications. He had not lied but he had not revealed everything either. In her mind this was power, guidance, and protection all folded into one.

Rising, Rhaegar glanced once more toward the door, his eyes narrowing in thought. Daemon’s cleverness would not go unanswered. His mind spun, devising plans that balanced cruelty, retribution and the preservation of his siblings. The threads of vengeance and family loyalty twisted together, a tapestry only he could see clearly.

Elaen’s small voice broke the quiet, barely audible, yet resolute. “Then… you will make it right?” Rhaegar’s gaze softened imperceptibly. “If you desire it, yes,” he replied, leaving the sentence deliberately open-ended. Action would come but only on terms she could understand and hope to control. He lingered for a heartbeat longer, noting her strength beneath the fear, the spark of cunning that mirrored the Targaryen fire in him.

Finally, he rose fully, shadowed in the doorway as a protective figure, simultaneously dangerous and reassuring. “Rest now, Elaen. The world will wait for you, but those who wronged you will not escape.”Elaen nodded, her tears slowly ceasing, replaced by a determination that mirrored the protective fury of her older siblings.

Rhaegar allowed himself a quiet smile as he left the room, the quiet echo of his presence lingering. He would strike in shadows, wield cruelty as a weapon, yet his family would remain untouchable.

In the halls of the Red Keep, he moved silently, each step deliberate, echoing faintly against the cold stone. The shadows seemed to bend around him, recognizing him as predator and protector both. Every whisper of wind through the corridors, every distant clang of armor, sharpened his awareness. His mind replayed the events of the morning, weighing every action, every misstep and every subtle opportunity. He calculated how to strike, who would feel the weight of retribution first and how to ensure that chaos served him and him alone.

Though he loved disorder, he loved his family more. That love, twisted and unyielding, was a shield as much as it was a weapon. He considered each of his siblings, their vulnerabilities and how their enemies might exploit them. His lips curled into a faint, almost imperceptible smile as he realized that the very chaos others feared could be molded into protection for those he truly cared for. The cruel artistry of vengeance was intoxicating, yet beneath it all, the fire of loyalty burned hotter than the thrill of destruction.

Elaen remained in her chamber, small hands clutching the empty crib, tears gone but her mind alive with fear, curiosity and a spark of hope. She sensed the dangerous power swirling just outside the door, the subtle weight of Rhaegar’s presence that promised both protection and punishment. Though she did not fully understand, she felt the threads of influence and it comforted her to know that even in fear, she was not alone—and that the shadows of the Red Keep hid a plan that might yet restore what had been stolen.

As night fell, Rhaegar slipped into the streets of King’s Landing, abandoning the luxury of the Red Keep for the grime and stench of Flea Bottom. His long cloak masked his identity, and his sharp eyes scanned the alleys and side streets with the vigilance of a predator hunting prey. Every shadow was a potential informant, every discarded scrap a message.

The crowded, noisy alleys were alive with fear and superstition, yet he moved as though part of the background, unnoticed and yet fully aware of every whispered conversation. Flea Bottom’s common folk did not recognize the prince in their midst, only seeing a rat-catcher or lowly merchant moving with a peculiar confidence. Rhaegar’s steps led him to a seedy tavern on the edge of the district, the kind of place where whispers were currency and blood debts were settled in silence. He pushed through the door, the smell of sweat, ale and old refuse clinging to the room like a second skin.

Two men, lean and hardened by the streets, eyed him suspiciously. Their knives glinted in the dim candlelight and their expressions carried the certainty that they could take advantage of any fool who underestimated them. Rhaegar welcomed the threat, meeting their gaze with a steady, calm stare that made them hesitate.

“I have work for skilled men,” he said, voice low, measured and commanding respect. He allowed no hesitation, no hint of doubt. “Work that must be done quietly, efficiently… and without witnesses.”

The two men exchanged glances, curiosity and greed warring on their faces. “Names?” one asked, cautious but intrigued. Rhaegar smiled faintly, the kind of smile that promised danger to anyone foolish enough to question him. “Baela and Maegor Targaryen’s daughters. They’re currently residing on dragonstone.” he said evenly, letting the weight of the words sink in.

The men’s expressions hardened, the stakes clear in their eyes. Rhaegar leaned closer, lowering his voice even further, his presence magnetic and terrifying in equal measure. “They must not live to see another day. No mercy. No witnesses. You understand the cost if you fail.”

The silence that followed was heavy, punctuated only by the faint crackling of the hearth and the distant screams of the city. The men nodded, fear and excitement mingling as they recognized both the danger and the promise of reward in Rhaegar’s task.

He handed them a small satchel, heavy with coins and sealed with a wax emblem only he could reproduce convincingly. “This is only the beginning,once you return you get double this each” he said, voice carrying the cold precision of someone who would not be trifled with. “Fail me and your end will be worse than theirs would have been.”

Rhaegar stood slowly, looming over them, every motion controlled, every breath deliberate. The shadow of the prince stretched long across the tavern floor, filling the room with the sense that power was present and it was lethal.

As he slipped back into the darkness of Flea Bottom, leaving the two men behind to contemplate the cost of their new assignment, he allowed himself a private, cruel satisfaction. The web of vengeance had begun, each thread carefully placed, each piece moving in perfect order toward a future only he could see.

The streets were silent in comparison to the Red Keep, yet Rhaegar’s mind thrummed with the thrill of plotting. This was not chaos for its own sake, nor was it mere malice—it was art, execution, and protection all wrapped into one intricate, merciless plan.

High above, the sunlight cast his shadow over the alleys like a herald of doom. He paused for a moment, considering Elaen, his siblings and the morning’s stolen innocence, letting a cold smile curl across his face. The world would soon learn the consequences of defying him.

Rhaegar returned to the Red Keep under the cloak of disguise, his boots silent against the cobblestones. The stink of Flea Bottom clung to his cloak but the weight of his schemes steadied his stride. He moved like a man who had orchestrated the world’s turning, calm and deliberate. By the time he crossed through the towering gates, his expression was composed, the mask of the dutiful prince firmly in place. None of the guards dared question his lateness; the fire in his eyes was explanation enough.

The rain had not stopped since Rhaegar arrived back in the keep . The city was washed silver and grey, its streets empty save for the guards pacing below the Red Keep’s walls. From her chamber window, Elaen watched the drizzle cling to the towers, her reflection ghosting faintly against the glass — pale, tired and older than her years. The cradle in the corner sat empty, a cruel reminder of all she had lost.

Hours had passed in silence since Rhaegar left before the heavy doors groaned open. Rhaegar entered without a word, his cloak soaked through, his hair plastered to his temples. The shadows clung to him like a second skin. Elaen turned, startled and for a heartbeat the years between them fell away.

He said her name like it was something fragile. “Elaen.”

“You’re drenched,” Elaen whispered, her eyes scanning him for injury. “Where were you?”

He didn’t answer at first, closing the door with deliberate quiet. The sound of the latch clicking felt final — like a confession left unsaid. “Out,” he said simply, removing his gloves one by one.

She watched him for a long moment, searching for something in his face — an answer he wasn’t giving. “You always came back quieter,” she said finally. “Like you’ve made a decision and don’t want to tell me.”

He looked up briefly, meeting her eyes for a second “somethings are better done alone”

Elaen’s hands tightened at her sides. “Not when they concern our daughter.” She whispered The word hung between them, heavy and fragile. “I deserve to know what you’re planning for her, Rhaegar.”

He turned then, and for the first time she saw the flicker of hesitation in his eyes. “Planning?” he echoed softly.

“Yes,” she pressed. “You’ve spoken in riddles since you returned — about protection, about safety, about not trusting anyone. And now you leave for hours without a word. If you’re making choices for Alice’s future, I need to know what they are.”

Rhaegar exhaled slowly, walking closer to the fire. The glow caught on the edge of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders. “You think I’d ever make a choice that would harm her?”

“That’s not what I said,” Elaen replied, though her voice trembled. “But you speak of things as if they’re already decided. As if her life is being shaped by hands she’s never even seen. She’s barely a week old, Rhaegar — she deserves more than secrets.”

He closed his eyes briefly, the rain outside deepening to a steady patter. “She deserves to live,” he said at last.

Elaen’s heart stilled. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” he said carefully, turning toward her, “that I’ll do whatever I must to keep her safe. Even if that means you’ll hate me for it.”

“I could never hate you,” she whispered, though the words felt half-believed. “But you’re scaring me.”

Rhaegar’s expression softened, but only slightly. “Then trust that I would never harm what’s mine. Not you. Not her.”

Elaen stepped closer, close enough to feel the damp warmth of him. “You speak as though you already know what will happen. As though something’s coming.”

He didn’t answer. The silence between them was filled by the gentle hiss of rain and the low hum of the fire.

Elaen stepped closer until the space between them was only breath. She lifted a hand, hesitating just long enough for him to meet her eyes. When he didn’t pull away, she rested her palm against his cheek — a quiet, searching touch that spoke more than any plea could. His skin was cool from the rain, and beneath her thumb she could feel the faint tremor of restraint.

For a heartbeat, neither moved. Then, almost against his own resolve, Rhaegar bent toward her. Their foreheads brushed, the air thick with the weight of things unspoken. It was not a kiss of passion but of memory — a brief, aching collision of everything they had lost and all that still bound them. When they parted, her hand lingered at his jaw as if to keep him there, keep him from drifting back into silence.

“You can’t keep shutting me out,” Elaen whispered, her voice trembling but steady. “You tell me to trust you, but you don’t trust me. Not with anything that matters.”

He opened his mouth, but she pressed on before he could speak. “Do you think I don’t know what I’ve risked for you? That I don’t remember the choices I made?” Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “I made certain, Rhaegar — certain that it was you who would father my child, not my husband. I made that choice because I believed in you. Because I thought you saw me as more than a pawn in their game.”

Rhaegar’s breath caught. “Elaen—”

“I am not some frightened girl in my father’s shadow,” she said, her voice growing firmer. “I am the mother of your daughter. I have lived beside you, hidden with you, protected you, and still you treat me as if I must be shielded from the truth, still treat me like a child.”

He looked away, the firelight tracing the sharp line of his profile. “You don’t understand the danger.”

“Then make me understand,” Elaen said, taking his hands. “You speak of danger as though it’s a storm only you can see. But storms can be weathered if you face them together.”

For a long moment, Rhaegar said nothing. Then, softly, “You’ve always been braver than I deserved.”

Elaen shook her head. “Bravery has nothing to do with it. I’m tired of being half-trusted. Whatever’s coming — for you, for me, for Alice — I want to meet it beside you, not behind you.”

The words settled between them, fragile and sincere. Outside, the rain deepened, washing the courtyard in silver light. Rhaegar reached for her hand again, and though he didn’t speak, his grip tightened — the first true answer she’d had from him all day. “I love you so much” he spoke softly as he reached down for a kiss.

Elaen would wrap her arms around him and smile, looking into his eyes and his damp clothing “now let’s get you out of these wet clothes” she smirked as she took his cloak off. A smirk reaching across rhaegars face.

Rhaegar left her chambers with the echo of her words still burning in his mind, he adjusted his belt and his hair as he could hear the rain thickening, drumming against the high windows as he made his way down the silent corridor. The faint scent of her clung to him — warm, faintly floral, a reminder of the closeness they’d shared moments before. It should have steadied him, but instead it only sharpened his unease.

He had not meant to linger, nor to give in to the quiet pull she held over him. Every time he told himself he could keep her at a distance, Elaen found a way to disarm him — a glance, a touch, the way she spoke his name when no one else dared. It was power of a kind he did not understand, perhaps it was because she was a young beautiful girl or perhaps it was a perverted fantasy and that frightened him more than he would ever admit.

As he neared his chambers, his thoughts turned from warmth to calculation. Each move he made in King’s Landing was a thread in a larger weave — one that could either strangle him or crown him. The Greens were too fractured, too confident in their temporary triumph. His brother wore a crown but Rhaegar knew how easily gold could melt. If he played his part well — the loyal brother, the grieving son, the dutiful prince — the game might yet turn in his favor.

But Elaen complicated everything. Her loyalty ran deeper than he’d intended, her heart too earnest to wield. She could love fiercely — that was her danger And love, Rhaegar thought grimly, was the one weapon that could undo every scheme he’d built. Perhaps he’d use her for a few more children before disposing of her.

He reached his door, pausing with his hand on the iron latch. Outside, thunder rolled over the city. Inside his chest, something colder stirred — not doubt, but the faint, growing certainty that when the storm finally broke, he would be the one standing in its eye.

He entered his chambers quietly, the heavy door shutting behind him with a muted thud. His wife sat waiting by the window, her hair spilling over her shoulders like an oozing syrup, the glow of a single candle lighting her features. She had dozed while waiting for him, the faintest crease of worry etched into her brow. At the sound of his arrival, her eyes fluttered open, soft and questioning. You return late again, my Prince ,” she said, her voice gentle but carrying a note of reproach.

Rhaegar allowed himself a rare softness as he crossed to her side. He bent, pressing a kiss to her temple, his hands resting on her shoulders with a firmness that felt protective rather than possessive. “Business,” he murmured smoothly, the word vague enough to silence further questions. He would never share the truth of Flea Bottom or his nature with his sister; she was the one soul he sought to shield from the poison of his schemes and true nature.

She studied his face in the dim candlelight, searching for cracks in the mask he wore for the world. “You always carry shadows back with you,” she whispered, brushing her fingers against his cheek. “Sometimes I fear you love them more than you love me.”

Rhaegar’s lips curved into the faintest smile, though his eyes remained guarded. “Peace is fragile, easily broken. Shadows, however, can protect what peace cannot.” His words, cryptic as ever, were softened by the way he drew her into his arms, tucking her against his chest. In that moment, the cold calculation of the prince gave way to the fierce protector that only she saw.

They sat together by the window, her head resting against him as he stared out at the darkened city. Beyond the walls, assassins carried the weight of his coin and command, but here, within this chamber, he allowed himself the illusion of normalcy. Her warmth, her quiet breathing, anchored him. To her, he was not the predator who whispered death into the alleys—he was her husband, the man who came home late but always returned.

For a long while, they spoke of small things—her family, the state of the gardens, the softness of autumn air beginning to creep into the city. Rhaegar listened with patience, his mind split between the comfort of her voice and the blood-soaked future he had set in motion. He gave her what she needed: presence, attention, reassurance And in return, she gave him what he did not admit to craving—belonging.

When at last she grew tired and leaned fully into him, eyes heavy with sleep, Rhaegar guided her to the bed with uncharacteristic gentleness. He brushed her hair back from her face, studying her as though committing every detail to memory. She would never know what he had ordered that night, never guess the cruelty he unleashed in the shadows. That was the way it must be. His family’s innocence would be guarded, even if he had to drench the realm in blood to preserve it.

As she drifted into slumber, Rhaegar lay awake beside her, one arm resting protectively across her waist. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling, thoughts churning like a storm beneath calm waters. The assassins were already moving toward their prey, blades honed, hearts hungry. Yet here, in this quiet chamber, with the faint scent of lavender in the air and his wife’s steady breathing at his side, he allowed himself a rare moment of stillness. The predator rested, if only for a moment.