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Chapter Text

Daemon POV

Daemon stood off to the side, observing Rhaenyra as she conversed with Ser Simon and Lord Tully. Clad in her riding leathers, she cut an impressive figure, a far cry from the ghostly shadow she had become after scouring the lands for Luke's remains. Now, a newfound resolve shone in her eyes. Tired of unanswered ravens, she had taken matters into her own hands, riding to Harrenhal herself. Fortunately, Daemon had already mustered the host, sparing himself another potential rebuke.

In the cursed walls of Harren the Black, Daemon had come to a hard-earned realization: no crown was worth fighting for if it cost you your peace, and no woman was worth debasing yourself for until you lost all sense of self. He knew he owed apologies for his treatment of Viserys and Rhaenyra, especially when she was but a girl. Yet they often forgot he too had feelings. No one was worth feeling inadequate for. He had been cast aside by Viserys, repeatedly sent away, and he had suffered the same fate with Rhaenyra. He was done trying to temper his nature to placate others. They could accept him as he was, or they could leave him be.

"Did you ask her about the Misery?”

Daemon jolted, closing his eyes as Alys's voice broke through his thoughts.

"Seven Hells, Alys, make some noise next time before you give me a heart attack.”

The peculiar girl tilted her head skyward, pondering for a moment before meeting his gaze again. "You're not going to die of a heart attack." she said with a serene certainty.

"No, you're just going to offer me to the weirwood, yes?" Daemon asked, his voice tinged with irony.

"An offering?" she echoed, her eyes alight with fascination. "It could be seen as such. There is power in king's blood, more so the blood of the dragon.”

He frowned, eyeing her warily. "Are you finally going to slit my throat in my sleep?" he asked.

"I told you, you will not die by my hand. It will be at the hand of your kin.”

He chuckled, a mirthless sound, as if finding amusement in the grim prediction. "Great." he said dryly.

"Ask her about the boys." Alys said suddenly, her abrupt change of topic making Daemon blink.

"What boys?" Daemon inquired, his brow furrowed.

"Your boys." she insisted, as if it were he who was difficult to understand. She nodded at him, her eyes wide, then took a step back. "You will lose two if you don't." she warned.

"What?" he exclaimed. "Alys! Come back here!" he shouted, but the peculiar girl continued to retreat.

"Uncle, I see you’ve found yourself a paramour so quickly." Rhaenyra said, her voice laced with amusement.

He turned to her, seeing the mocking smile on her lips but also the hurt in her eyes. He glanced back, calling for the witch again, but she had vanished. With an exasperated sigh, he faced his niece once more.

"Where are the children?” he asked.  “Aegon and Viserys?" he clarified.

Rhaenyra looked at him, puzzled. "I sent them to the Vale, and from there they will be sent to Pentos for safety." she replied.

He stared at her, his mind reeling. "To Pentos? To Prince Reggio?" he asked, and Rhaenyra nodded.

"He is a good friend of yours, is he not? With all of us needing to be on the field, I do not want to leave the children vulnerable at Dragonstone.’

"So you sent them away? First to a place where people despise me and then to a place near my enemy?" he retorted.

Rhaenyra looked at him, incredulous. "The Vale’s hatred for you is superseded by their loyalty to me.” She said proudly. “And what enemy in Pentos?" she asked.

"The Triarchy!" he exclaimed. "They're but a few days' sail from Pentos, and the prince there is liable to have his throat slit if the people suffer even a minor inconvenience.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting the urge to lash out. He forced himself to remain calm.

"I can send a raven to ask them to stay put in the Vale instead." she offered, her voice tinged with worry.

"No need," he replied, his tone resolute. "I will go there personally to ensure they are delivered to a place where they will be much safer.” With that, he turned and walked away, determination in his stride.

He walked briskly towards Caraxes, his satchel bumping against his hip. Caraxes whistled at him, urging him to hurry, and Daemon wanted to chuckle at his impatient friend.

"Uncle! You can't possibly leave me here!" Rhaenyra shouted, struggling to keep up with him.

"Didn't you want to lead your men? I gathered them for you, now you can lead them." he replied curtly.

"I do not know the very first thing about leading an enormous army like this." she admitted, breathless and stumbling over the uneven ground of the godswood.

"Ser Simon will assist you. His face is annoying, but he's competent. Talk with the other lords, ask them what else we need, and have them arrange it. I had already given you my advised to let the Freys along with the Winterwolves meet with the Tully’s so they can face the threat of the Lannister Army before they can invade the Riverlands but I know you will do as you please. I will be back in three to four days—”

He jolted as Rhaenyra snatched his arm, forcing him to face her. "You can't just do this every time! You cannot run away when things don't go your way!" she exclaimed.

"I left to get you an army and I have them here!" he shouted back. "I'm leaving now to make sure my children are safe! You take and take, and nothing is ever enough for you!" Frustration seeped into his voice. "You're not the only one grieving, Rhaenyra. I am grieving too, in my own way, and I do not have anyone to grieve with because I am constantly reminded of what a bad person I am! So just leave me alone and let me do what I can do!”

She looked at him, horrified and haunted, but she let him go. He nearly ran towards Caraxes, who was mournfully trilling at him.

He held unto Caraxes and laid his head against his, he can feel Syrax bristling at him from under Caraxes’ wings.

“I’m sorry, my friend, you just reunited with your lady but we will have to leave now.” His oldest friend let out a sad thrill but bumped him gently in the chest as if to say that he understood. Syrax on the other hand puffed smoke in his direction clearly displeased.  HE chuckled at the she-dragon. “I will just make sure that the little ones are protected and then we’ll come back.”

Syrax roared at his face but then let Caraxes unfurl his wing that was sheltering her.

He  turned back to his companion. “We’re off to the Vale, my friend.”

Caraxes reared back, whistling low and long as if warning Daemon of the folly of returning to that accursed place. Yet, despite his dragon's reluctance, he prepared himself for flight. With practiced ease, Daemon used Caraxes' wing to climb toward the saddle, his movements fluid and familiar. He knew he would need to go to Dragonstone to change his saddle, making it suitable for three. Even though Viserys was small enough to be strapped to his chest, he needed to bring at least one dragonkeeper to care for Stormcloud. The staff at the manse was more than capable of caring for two princes; he just needed to find four nurses to stay with the children constantly. How hard could it be?

He chained himself into the saddle, and Caraxes immediately took to the skies without needing a command. Daemon could feel every vibration of the dragon beneath him, the way his chest rumbled when he let out a trill, and how he vibrated with each breath. He rode the ultimate power between his legs, the very reason House Targaryen were kings. Yet his brother's damnable children seemed determined to destroy it. Already, three dragons had been killed, and his beloved wife had handed over three of theirs biggest dragons in the world to strangers. Smallfolks, no less.

The reconciliation they had after he apologized for his harsh actions were short-lived. When he told her how utterly foolish her scheme was, they were back to their old problems. Every comment he made was met with rebuke and suspicion, as if he were working to ensure her downfall. Did she not know that her downfall went hand in hand with his own? That if she lost this war, it meant he had already died? There was nothing in this world that would allow him to see a Hightower on the throne but death.

Daemon's frustration was palpable as he soared through the skies. He was constantly reminded of the precariousness of their position and the incompetence he saw in the decisions around him. His thoughts churned as violently as the air beneath Caraxes' wings, a storm of emotions he could scarcely contain.

But his time in Harrenhal had taught him great lessons. His damnable dreams seemed to show him the hurt he had caused his family, but also how they had hurt him in turn. He may be a rogue, but he was not entirely evil, doing nasty things just for the sake of it. Mostly, it was retaliation for some slight done to his person. More often than not, those retaliations far exceeded what his brother would consider proper punishment. No one could say that the Rogue Prince lacked imagination when it came to getting even. Regrettably, some of his actions against his brother's insults often hurt his niece.

Daemon wasn't good at saying sorry, preferring to show his remorse through actions, having never been on the receiving end of an apology himself. His brother, the King, for all his weaknesses, had never seen the importance of apologizing to him. Daemon had tried his best to apologize to Rhaenyra. He probably did not do a convincing job, but he was sincere.

He could not sit idly by as Rhaenyra made decisions that endangered their family and their cause. Yet, he was acutely aware that his voice was not wanted, his opinions dismissed. He had learned the hard way that his attempts to steer the course were met with resistance and suspicion. She does not understand that her giving  dragons and promises of lordship to unknown men can be a boon today but will definitely be their downfall tomorrow.

When the war was done and she sat as Queen, what would they ask for next? A seat on the Council? Would they ask for his children to marry their own? What would stop them from asking for a crown next? Or taking it by force?

He understood, of course, the desperation that drove her to such drastic actions, but her decision was shortsighted. It might remedy the immediate danger, but it was creating a far greater long-term threat.

She hadn't even taken hostages from the new dragonriders. One's family was still in King's Landing—one letter from the Greens threatening his family, and that man would burn Dragonstone down without a second thought. But Daemon knew that his criticism was unwelcome, and it was not a good look among the lords.

He was tired of fighting. He refrained from saying anything unless his opinion was specifically asked. His voice was clearly not welcomed; he would not lend it only to be rebuked and met with mistrustful looks.

He was already an old man, and he refused to live his life trying to please someone who disliked him. He would not make Rhaenyra his second Viserys.

His frustration was a constant companion, simmering just below the surface. His dreams in Harrenhal had been a cruel reminder of his own failings and the slights he had endured. He was no saint, but neither was he a monster. He was a man who felt deeply, who reacted passionately, and who, despite his reputation, yearned for peace.

Daemon sighed deeply, feeling the ache of his years and the burden of his experiences. He had fought long and hard, and the battles had left their mark. He would do his duty as Rhaenyra’s husband, he would lay down his life for her caused but he is done waiting for acceptance that will never come.

As Caraxes soared through the skies, Daemon's thoughts churned with a mixture of determination and resignation. He would protect his children and their House's legacy, even if it meant standing apart from those he once loved. The path ahead was fraught with peril, but he would face it with the same tenacity that had defined his life.

Daemon landed Caraxes in Gulltown with a long high whistle, frustration mounting as he discovered that his children had already been sent down from the Eyrie, bound for Essos. Thankfully, they hadn't departed yet. He dismounted, greeted by Rhaena's puzzled expression.

"Father, I was not aware you would be coming here." she said, her voice tinged with surprise.

He nodded curtly. "I will be taking the children myself. Their belongings and the servants can follow us by boat.”

"Stormcloud cannot be separated from Aegon," Rhaena replied, concern etching her features. "We will have a hard time containing him on the ship without his rider.”

"Stormcloud will come with us, along with one of the Dragonkeepers. Caraxes is ample enough to carry two adults and two children.”

"Will you not be taking Joffrey?" Rhaena asked, confusion evident in her eyes.

Daemon shook his head. "His mother will kill me if I take him with me.”

"I don't understand, Father.”

"The Queen wanted them safe and I intend to do just that. Joffrey can stay in the Vale; it is secure enough. I will bring Aegon and Viserys to one of our manses. I trust our servants more than I trust Prince Regio, no matter how good a friend he still is.” He explained.

"Father, I will have to write to the Queen—”

He glared at her, cutting her off. "These are my children. I do not need your permission or even the Queen's to make decisions for them," he snapped. "The only reason I'm not taking Joffrey is because I know the Queen does not trust me to have his care in the hands of servants unknown to her.”

Rhaena averted her eyes, clearly wanting to say more but wisely holding her tongue.

Viserys was delighted to see him, taking Daemon's face in his little hands and babbling nonsensically while they strapped him to his chest. Aegon was thrilled to ride on Caraxes again.

Daemon glanced back at Rhaena, who was fussing, ensuring that the hoods of their coat were fastened tightly enough to stay on even during the dragon ride. "Do you wish to come? I can simply return for the Dragonkeeper." he offered.

His youngest twin looked at him uncertainly but shook her head. She glanced up at the distant silhouette of the Eyrie. "There's a dragon here. I saw the charred bodies of the sheeps.”

He understood her decision. Having all her siblings bonded to dragons had chipped away at her self-esteem through the years. He knew his little girl had battled with self-confidence and bitterness, being surrounded by dragonriders while being unable to hatch her own dragon or claim one from Dragonstone. A dragon here in the Vale was very unlikely, but if there was a chance to finally claim a dragon, he knew she would seize it.

Grasping her shoulder, he said, "Show the dragon no fear or hesitation. It's probably one of the wild dragons. Do you remember how the Valyrians of old tamed the first dragons?”

"Through blood magic?" she asked, confused.

He shook his head. "Our ancestors were nothing more than shepherds ages ago. I'm sure they used blood magic to form a bond with the first dragons, but they must have used other ways too. More unconventional ways.”

Rhaena was now focusing on him intently. "How do I do it?" she asked in a small voice.

"Find out where the dragon nests first, make it used to your presence. A gift of a sheep or two may not be remiss." he advised.

Rhaena huffed, annoyance etched on her face, but when he continued to look at her seriously, she turned thoughtful and nodded. There were no more words needed. He knew she would take his words to heart.

Daemon stirred from his slumber, greeted by the familiar, melodic trill and low whistle of Caraxes. Momentarily disoriented, he found solace in the soft feather bed and the silk sheets that clung to his form. Blinking against the golden rays streaming through the open balcony door, he slowly regained his bearings.

With a languid stretch, Daemon rose, unabashedly nude, his scars glinting in the sunlight as he moved towards the balcony. The morning air, crisp and invigorating, brushed against his skin as he stepped into the open door, offering a momentary reprieve from the weight of expectation.

Aunt Saera’s Manse is located on one of the highest part behind the Black Walls. From his elevated vantage point, Daemon beheld the awe-inspiring sight of Volantis sprawled beneath him. Dominating the skyline was the Temple of the Lord of Light, an imposing structure made of fused black stone that almost mirrored the ominous grandeur of Dragonstone, with tall, narrow spires resembling dragons reached towards the heavens. The main entrance, flanked by statues of fiery priests, dragons, wyverns, and basilisks, stood as a testament to the city's devotion and power .

A short distance away, the majestic Palace of the Triarchs commanded attention. This grand palace, that was once the seat of governance for Volantis, housed the three elected Triarchs who oversaw the city's affairs. Crafted from a blend of ancient Valyrian fused stone and newer black brick, the palace exuded a timeless elegance. Intricate carvings and reliefs depicting historical events and mythical creatures adorned its façade, blending the legacy of Valyrian craftsmanship with the evolving architectural styles of Volantis. He knows that a newer and bigger building had been built in the Western part of Volantis that serves as center of authority now when they started allowing the merchants to be part of the City's ruling.

He can also see the massive Black Walls that connects and separates the two halves of Volantis, stretching across the Rhoyne River like a massive, unyielding bridge. The walls are made from fused black stone, a material known for its hardness and durability, which was crafted using ancient Valyrian sorcery. The stones are smooth to the touch, with a glass-like sheen that absorbs light, giving the walls a foreboding, almost otherworldly appearance.

Daemon started as the door swung open, admitting a line of attentive servants who busied themselves preparing his bath. His aunt, ever mindful of his comfort, had made sure that no slaves serve him or his children during their stay. It had been years, but the memories of his frequent visits to Volantis in his youth came rushing back. Whenever Viserys exiled him, he would spend a week in the Vale before journeying to various cities of Essos, with Pentos and Volantis being his favored destinations.

In Volantis, Daemon had found a kindred spirit, someone who understood the sting of a king’s disapproval and the bitterness of watching a sovereign heed vile whispers. Saera's open disdain for King Jaehaerys was refreshing to him, a rare voice that dared to call out the absurdities of courtly politics.

“Where are my children?” he asked the head servant as he got into the marbled bath with the water still close to boiling. They had learned these past few days how he takes his bath. The warm, scented water eased his muscles, the tension of recent days melting away.

The servant bowed respectfully. “My prince, they have been playing in the garden since the early morn. They are now being bathed in preparation for a late breakfast.”

Daemon dressed simply, donning a cotton tunic and breeches. His attire, though modest, was comfortable and well-suited to the warm climate.

He made his way to the garden pavilion, a favored spot of Saera and her granddaughter. The lush greenery and vibrant flowering bushes were a stark contrast to the encroaching winter of Westeros. Here, the sun shone brightly but not oppressively so. The intense heat of summer had yet to arrive, and the current warmth was soothing. The stone walls and buildings absorbed and then radiated a gentle heat, making the air pleasantly warm.

Soft breezes wafted through the streets, carrying the scent of exotic flowers and the faint, salty tang of the Summer Sea. These breezes cooled the skin, perfectly balancing the warmth of the sun. In contrast to his cold and wet stay at Harrenhal, the weather within the Black Walls of Volantis felt like a blessed respite. The air was refreshing, the environment alive with vibrant greenery and soothing breezes, making it an ideal refuge after the harsh conditions and war torn country side of the Riverlands.

Daemon heard his children before he saw them. Aegon’s enthusiastic shout of “Dracarys!” rang through the garden, followed by the coughing of Stormcloud’s attempt at breathing fire, as the young prince attempted to make his dragon roast his own food. The laughter and playful chaos that followed were a sweet melody to Daemon’s ears.

Viserys was the first to spot him, his small face lighting up with pure joy. With a delighted squeal, he ran toward his father, his little legs carrying him as fast as they could. Daemon swept him up into his arms, his heart swelling with affection. He showered Viserys’s face with a flurry of kisses, each one met with delighted giggles from his son.

“Plith, plith, plith!” Viserys implored, his voice a soft lisp. “We ride on Carateth again, plith?”

Daemon chuckled, his heart aching with the tenderness of the moment. “If you’re good and eat all of your vegetables for breakfast, we might.”

It had indeed taken longer to reach Volantis than Daemon had anticipated. They had to make landfall every four hours for the children were not accustomed to such lengthy journeys. Daemon had first made a stop at Dragonstone to change the saddle and outfit the children in proper riding leathers. He had also arranged for a special cradle for Viserys, designed to ensure the comfort of young riders during extended flights.

During his brief stay at Dragonstone, Jace and Baela had scrutinized his choice to travel with only Aegon and Viserys, questioning him persistently. He had told them he had left Rhaena and Joffrey behind with the same reasoning he had previously informed Rhaena of but unlike Rhaena, Baela’s probing questions were more insistent. No doubt she had sent a raven to Harrenhal about it too. though he had only allowed himself a single night’s rest before departing once more.

Upon reaching Pentos, in the opulent confines of Prince Regio’s palace, Daemon had sent a grave message warning of a large fleet sailing towards Dragonstone. The fleet, numbering a little less than a hundred ships, included formidable war galleys. Had the children been aboard Gay Abandon, they would have undoubtedly encountered this fleet. The mere thought of such a threat sent shivers down his spine.

Daemon had utilized Regio’s prized messenger albatross to dispatch the urgent warning. He could only hope that the message reached its destination in time. His instructions were clear: if the fleet proved to be an enemy, all available dragons were to be mobilized to intercept and destroy it. Such a massive fleet would not be sent merely for reconnaissance but with intentions far more sinister, possibly aiming to assault both Dragonstone and Driftmark and to destroy the Velaryon fleet.

Though he was uncertain of how the new dragon riders would fare, particularly given their inexperience with extended flights, Daemon had penned his advice as succinctly as possible on the small piece of parchment affixed to the messenger bird.

He instructed them to fly high, swoop down, burn as many ships as they could, and then ascend swiftly. He cautioned them about the scorpion bolts that could fell dragons from the skies, as well as the arrows that might strike down dragon riders if they flew too low. Hopefully, Jace and Baela could guide the new riders through their first battle, even though it would be their own inaugural combat experience as well. He longed to be there himself, but his presence might only exacerbate Rhaenyra’s irritation. She had grown increasingly resistant to his advises in recent times preferring him not to be in command at all.

After a brief respite in Pentos and deftly deflecting Regio’s insistent offers to shelter the children, just as Rhaena's letter had suggested, they set off towards Qohor. Aegon and Viserys relished the frequent stops along the way, where they could play freely and explore their surroundings. They took great delight in sleeping in inns and even humble huts in the middle of nowhere, especially enjoying the refreshing baths in rivers.

The journey to Volantis took longer than expected, and upon arrival, Daemon found himself utterly exhausted. He had crashed for two days, regaining his strength, after briefly explaining to Aunt Saera the purpose of his visit.

Now, as he observed his children’s joyous play, he felt a sense of peace that had been elusive during their arduous travels. The vibrant city of Volantis, with its lush gardens and gentle breezes, offered a welcome respite for his children amidst war in Weseros. Should he fall in battle and should the Greens succeed in their usurpation of the Throne he had no doubt that the little ones will be cherished and protected here with their kin.

Daemon observed his children at play, their laughter echoing through the garden as they frolicked in the warm morning sun. Aegon was exploring every crook and crannies of the garden sometimes dipping his toes in the fountain, with Stormcloud following closely at his heels. They were accompanied by a vigilant female dragon keeper, ready to intervene if necessary. The children had shed their thick silks and brocades, opting instead for simple cotton and wool garments that allowed them greater freedom to move and play.

Seated nearby, Saera Targaryen exuded an air of timeless elegance and formidable presence at two-and-sixty years old. The morning sun filtered through the silken canopy, casting a warm, golden glow on her silver-gold hair, now streaked with dignified threads of white. Her violet eyes, still sharp and commanding, took in the scene before her.

This was the woman who had fled Westeros as a disgraced princess, only to rise as the ultimate power in Volantis. It was whispered that she was the true ruler of the city, having borne children with one of the wealthiest Old Bloods, and now boasting numerous sons and grandsons who had been elected as Triarchs of Volantis.

“Are you certain you do not wish to stay here instead of returning to war?” Saera’s voice held a note of genuine concern, her gaze unwavering as she looked at Daemon.

Daemon sighed, a familiar heaviness settling in his chest, he tried his best to smile at his aunt. “Where are your numerous great-grandchildren? I thought the boys would have plenty of companions, yet it is only you and Aelle here.” he replied, deftly changing the subject.

Saera rolled her eyes at his deflection. “My children and grandchildren have their own manses or have traveled and settled outside of Volantis. The place is relatively quiet nowadays.” she responded, her tone tinged with a mix of pride and wistfulness.

Her eyes softened as she watched Aelle, her remaining grandchild, who was only a little younger than Rhaenyra herself. Aelle’s countenance, usually somber and withdrawn, now radiated genuine happiness as she danced with the giggling Viserys in her arms while Aegon jumped and circled around them.

“This is the first time in so many years I have seen her smile this genuinely.” Saera whispered, her gaze still fixed on Aelle. The joy on her face was unmistakable, a stark contrast to the sadness that usually shadowed her features.

The last time Daemon had seen Aelle was before his marriage to Laena. Back then, she had been a vibrant young lady, full of excitement for her upcoming wedding to a son of a very wealthy emerging merchant in the City. It was jarring now to see her so withdrawn and sad.

“If you haven’t yet killed that cursed man who tried to use Aelle as a political stepping stone while constantly cheating and hurting her, I would have ended him myself.” he said dryly.

Saera’s expression darkened. “We would have supported his rise, even if he was only the son of a newly rich merchant. But he repeatedly hurt Aelle. The last time, it cost her the babe in her belly. She was so damaged she will never have children again.”

Daemon averted his eyes, his mind drifting back to the time when his own wife, had lost their daughter. She had screamed for him, but he had been paralyzed by fear, having just lost his brother. Terrified of losing her too, he had chosen to leave. Instead of offering comfort, he had decided to fortify the island and ensure the loyalty of the Kingsguard—now Queensguard—to Rhaenyra, fearing they might betray them upon hearing of a new king crowned in King's Landing.

He was not good at comforting others or dealing with emotional matters. He had never been shown how. With his mother dead when he was young and his father too busy aiding the King, Daemon had learned to handle most things on his own, so as not to be a burden. He had hidden bruised ribs from his father by avoiding meals together, concealing his difficulty in breathing. He had learned to act out in anger whenever his brother believed his lickspittles over him, instead of crying. Now, he had learned to shut off everything to avoid Rhaenyra’s wrath.

Saera’s voice broke through his thoughts. “Aelle smiles more genuinely now, thanks to your children. She deserves some happiness, as do you and your children. Think on what I’ve said, Daemon. Volantis could be a place of healing for all of you.”

Daemon sighed deeply. "You know I would never allow the upstart Hightowers to steal the throne our ancestors built themselves," he said with unwavering conviction. "I will see Rhaenyra as the rightful queen, or I will see my death bringing her enemies with me.”

Saera huffed, her eyes flashing with indignation. "There is a reason why the Valyrian Freehold turned to Essos and left Westeros alone. The people there are little more than beasts. Compared to the riches and cultural diversities of Essos, the Seven Kingdoms are little more than a backwater countryside. They still believe a woman showing her collarbone is the epitome of sin, much less a woman wanting to be queen.”

Daemon chuckled, the truth of her words not lost on him. "I will have to go back." he said, his gaze drifting to where Aegon was trying to get Aelle to pet Stormcloud, only for the hatchling to attempt to breathe fire on her. Fortunately, the young dragon couldn't quite manage it yet.

"If I die in this war, I want you to take care of the boys. My girls are self-reliant and can fend for themselves, but the boys..." He trailed off, a rare vulnerability in his voice.

Saera took his hand in hers, a rare show of comfort. "You are the most stubborn man I've ever met, Daemon Targaryen. I'm sure the Fourteen Flames may try to take you from this realm, but you will not allow it. And if the Seven Hells of the Andals successfully claim you, I will ensure the boys are safe. Only one of the dragonriders will be allowed to see them. Even the Old Bloods are unaware of the children staying here. They will be safe.”

Daemon tried to smile at her, but he knew it looked more like a grimace. The weight of his responsibilities and the uncertain future weighed heavily on him, but Saera's words offered a sliver of solace. He squeezed her hand, grateful for her unwavering support, even in the face of such daunting odds.

As Daemon soared above the Gullet, the sight that greeted him was a tapestry of destruction. The once-proud sea was now a graveyard, littered with the wreckage of ships. Burning hulls and half-buried masts stretched as far as the eye could see, a testament to the ferocity of the recent battle. The acrid scent of smoke filled the air, mingling with the salty tang of the sea. Below, the panicked shouts of survivors pierced the chaos, a discordant symphony of desperation and despair.

With a grim smile, Daemon directed Caraxes to unleash another torrent of flame, ensuring that no enemy would rise from the ashes. His laughter echoed through the sky as he spotted a barely floating vessel, a white flag raised in a futile gesture of surrender. As he drew closer, the sight of the crew—Essosi with hair of myriad hues—made his blood boil. Tyroshi. The Triarchy.

He snarled in anger, and Caraxes brought forth another breathe of fire, reducing the ship to a charred skeleton. The thought that the Greens would ally with such treacherous foes to secure their victory disgusted him. Viserys’s children, willing to beggar the Seven Kingdoms for their gain, were spitting on every legacy of House Targaryen.

When he finally landed at Dragonmont, he wasted no time instructing the dragonkeepers to feed Caraxes two extra cows as compensation for the grueling flight. As he dismounted, Baela approached, her expression a mixture of relief and concern.

“Father,” she greeted him, her eyes scanning his form for injuries. He returned her gaze, discreetly checking her for signs of harm. Aside from bandages on her hands, likely from gripping her saddle too tightly, and the exhaustion etched on her face, she seemed unharmed.

“The boys are fine?” she asked.

He nodded, his throat tight with unspoken words.

“It was a particularly long trip for you. You never take this long just going to Pentos.” she remarked, her tone tinged with worry and suspicion.

He almost smiled at her persistence. “I can’t take a few days to rest now, can I?” he retorted lightly, though the tension in his voice was unmistakable.

Her mouth tightened in frustration. Before she could press him further, he changed the subject. “I saw the Gullet. The triarchy?” he asked.

She nodded grimly. “Almost a hundred ships. If you hadn’t warned us, we would have struggled to defend Driftmark and Dragonstone, even with all the dragons here.”

“What are the damages?” he inquired, dreading the answer.

“Lord Corlys lost ten ships and about a hundred men. Spicetown was sacked, but we had already relocated the people to Hightide and Hull. Otherwise, it was a decisive battle.” She said.

Her face remained tense, and he raised an eyebrow in silent question.

 “Jace… he’s wounded. Vermax went down, caught in the waves. Several of the Velaryon men had to jump into the burning sea to pull him to safety.” She whispered as if Jace’s injuries will worsen if she say it out loud.

Daemon clenched his fists, a curse forming on his lips.

What had made the boy fly so low that his dragon was caught in the waves? Daemon fumed inwardly, his worry and frustration mounting. He had left clear instructions that no one was to fly low, yet his orders had been ignored, resulting in yet another casualty of war. “So, we’re down another dragon? The Crown Prince’s no less, and there are no more dragons to claim, save the wild ones.” he said, his tone dripping with disdain. “Great.”

He saw Baela’s mouth open in protest, but he turned away, intent on bathing the grime from his body. He would rest for the day, then return to Harrenhal, to the nightmares made flesh in the form of his wife.

It was night when Daemon returned to Harrenhal. The once formidable army had dwindled, the banners of Tully and Frey no longer visible. He could only hope that Rhaenyra had dispatched them to intercept the Lannister forces before they fully invaded the Riverlands. An army marching to war while burdened with worry for their families would hardly be effective.

A rare smile graced Daemon’s lips as Caraxes was greeted by an enthusiastic Syrax, whose roar echoed through the night. Caraxes nudged him gently in the chest before curling around Syrax, who seemed perfectly content under his wings.

“I envy you, my friend.” Daemon murmured to his dragon, who looked at him with a serene, knowing gaze. While Caraxes was met with excitement and gentle purrs from Syrax, Daemon faced a far less welcoming reception from Rhaenyra, who stood with a distrustful eye.

“Where did you take the children?” she demanded as soon as he entered his new, smaller, and much damper chambers. He had relinquished his own rooms for her comfort, though she was unaware of this sacrifice.

He sighed as Rhaenyra stepped into the room, her arms crossed defensively over her chest. “Somewhere they will be safe.” he replied simply.

“I do not appreciate you taking my children away without even informing me of their whereabouts.” she retorted, her voice brimming with indignation.

Daemon seated himself on one of the water-damaged chairs and began to remove his leather forearm guards. “Do you know of the ship Gay Abandon?” he inquired, watching her expression shift to one of confusion.

“No.” she answered, her frustration evident.

“When I arrived at the Vale, I was informed that the children had already gone to Gulltown to board the ship bound for Pentos. It was called Gay Abandon. Do you know where it is now?”

Rhaenyra huffed, clearly trying to contain her irritation. “Probably still on its way to Pentos.” she replied, her tone laced with annoyance.

“It was one of the ships the Triarchy sank on their way to sack Driftmark and Dragonstone.” Daemon revealed.

Horror washed over Rhaenyra’s face, draining it of color. She pressed her hands to her stomach to steady herself, her eyes wide with shock. Daemon felt a pang of sorrow and wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms, to reassure her that the children were safe, but he knew his comfort would not be welcomed.

She remained silent for an interminable moment as he continued to divest himself of his riding leathers, his mind a tempest of conjecture. They had narrowly averted one catastrophe, yet Jace remained grievously wounded, his dragon irrevocably lost.

“But they are safe?” Rhaenyra whispered, her voice barely audible.

“Yes,” he replied, his tone gentle. “They are in Volantis with Aunt Saera, under the care of one of her granddaughters who lost her own child and can bear no more. They are cherished and protected.”

The Queen sighed in palpable relief, nodding her head.

 There had once been grand plans to visit the Free Cities with their children. They had dreamed of seeing Braavos, Pentos, and even as far as Volantis, but Rhaenyra’s successive pregnancies had thwarted those ambitions. With so many little ones to care for, those plans had been indefinitely postponed.

The six years they spent at Dragonstone, effectively banished by the King, were the happiest of his life. Each morning began with breaking fast with Rhaenyra and the children, followed by visits to the garrison and supervising Jace, Luke, and Baela’s training. He accompanied the children on their visits to the dragons, personally instructing them in High Valyrian and overseeing their lessons in Valyrian history. He explored the Dragonmont looking for dragon eggs, sometimes with Baela, sometimes with Luke.

In his blissful domesticity, he had neglected the crucial task of fortifying Rhaenyra’s claim to the throne, perhaps the very reason the Greens had found it so easy to usurp the throne. Marrying him had been a strategic move to bolster her tenuous claim, yet he had been ensnared by the serenity of family life. He loved Laena and his daughters, but never had he felt such profound peace as he did with Rhaenyra.

For six sun turns, they reveled in an idyllic peace, a rare respite that was abruptly torn from their grasp, plunging Daemon into the depths of resentment and vengeance. He despised how his descent had further undermined his wife’s already tenuous claim to the throne, yet, he remained resolute in his belief that Lucerys and Visenya’s deaths demanded retribution. Though it was not the vengeance he sought, striking a blow to the Greens by depriving the Usurper of his heir was a significant victory.

The death of the Usurper's heir demoralized his supporters, sowing seeds of doubt and fear within their ranks. It proved that they were not as invincible as they believed and that they would face the consequences of their actions.

However, the loss of Rhaenys and Meleys was a grievous waste. If his cousin had heeded his counsel to ambush Vhagar together, she might still be alive. Rhaenys, ever the sanctimonious bitch, clung stubbornly to Uncle Aemon’s teachings, of honor and duty, though they had served her poorly. In times of war, honor was a luxury they could ill afford.

His reverie was interrupted by the entrance of servants, laboring under the weight of steaming buckets of hot water for his bath. Among them was Alys, her eyes glinting with amusement as she carried that bowl of peculiar paste she had been feeding him since his arrival. Initially vile, it had proven invigorating, the only sustenance that kept him energized amidst the nightmares and visions that plagued Harrenhal. Time often slipped away from him, and he barely remembered to eat.

He narrowed his eyes at Alys. “You have changed it.” she said in awe.

“Changed what?” he asked, perplexed.

“Nothing here changes. No one has been able to alter anything before.” she said, her voice laced with wonder.

“I suppose I am just that special.” he replied dryly, resigning himself to the enigma that was Alys.

He heard Rhaenyra huff and turn away, her frustration palpable.

He watched her retreating figure with exasperation. ‘What crimes have I committed now?’ he thought, irritation bubbling within him. The chasm of misunderstanding between them seemed to widen with each passing day, leaving him to grapple with his own turbulent thoughts and unresolved grief.

But he found he had little energy or desire to mend their fractured relationship. He had extended olive branches to Viserys and was met with derision and banishment for his efforts. He would not allow Rhaenyra to become another Viserys in his life.

"You should give her some grace," Alys interjected, feeding more logs into the fire. "She just learned her island was attacked and her heir grievously injured. She’s feeling helpless.”

"I do not care." he retorted, his voice devoid of emotion.

"I think you care... sometimes too much." Alys replied, her tone tinged with quiet conviction.

"Caring has only ever brought me brief respite. It always, ultimately, leads to my destruction." he said.

"Your temper leads to your own destruction, I think." Alys said nonchalantly.

He removed his clothes and lowered himself into the tub, submerging his entire head and holding his breath for a few moments before resurfacing. Alys handed him a bar of soap but made no offer to scrub his body, instead watching him with her large, intense eyes.

"Any important information while I was gone?" he asked as he lathered his hair.

"The wolves have reached the Twins." she replied.

He nodded in approval. “The Lannister army is formidable and well-provisioned; they would need the hard men of the North to teach them a lesson. Even if Jason Lannister is nothing but a peacock." he snarled.

"Their lord may be foolish, but not his commanders." Alys said, which made him think. Old Humfrey Lefford would not let his soldiers die needlessly for his arrogant lord; he would surely have plans.

“The one-eye will want you gone.” She said.

He understood and he was counting on it. Crispy and Aemond will surely be emboldened in their victory at Rook’s Rest to want to confront him.

"The Blacks in the Reach were defeated. Your nephew rides his dragon and will be knighted as 'the Daring." she continued.

He snapped his head toward her. "Why was I not told of this the moment I returned?”

"You will be informed tomorrow night when the raven arrives." Alys said, causing him to frown.

"What?" he asked in confusion, but she had already disappeared. He cursed and continued scrubbing his body. He knows that House Beesbury will not take their Lord’s murder lying down and the Tarlys and Rowans are too honorable to side with Usurpers. He was counting on them to keep the Hightower Army in check but if their defeat is true then he will have to make hasten his own moves.

Lord Hightower would most probably join Crispy’s now smaller army or will be used to bolster the defense in King’s Landing. That’s something they could not afford. He would have to make his own moves now.

Alys’s information had proven true. The Alans were captured, Lord Rowan had fled, and Lord Costayne lay mortally wounded. It was yet another blow to Rhaenyra’s cause. Daemon had hoped that their meager support in the Reach would at least harass Ormund Hightower’s march for a few months, but dragons, indeed, changed everything.

He leaned against one of the castle's windows, his eyes surveying the sprawling army below as Rhaenyra held council. Daemon seldom attended these meetings, preferring to be out in the field with the men. Rhaenyra had specifically requested his presence, though he suspected it was more for appearances than any real desire for his input. He had no formal position on her council, and he rightfully deduced that she did not want him there, fearing he would desire more power.

His musings were interrupted by the Hall’s door suddenly banging open, which struck the mildew-covered walls with a resounding thud. The Lords all got their hands on their swords, most of them already halfway through unsheathing them against any threat but only Alys stood there, her eyes wide and fixed on him. He frowned, having long given up on trying to understand her peculiar ways.

"Speak." he commanded, feeling Rhaenyra’s glare from the corner of his eye.

"Prince Aemond's host has left King's Landing." Alys announced to the surprise of everyone.

Daemon straightened, walking towards the table where the map of the Seven Kingdoms lay spread out. "How many men?" he inquired.

Alys blinked, gazing up at the ceiling as if seeking an answer from the heavens before turning back to him. "Many men." she said, then turned away, ignoring the other lords in the room.

Rhaenyra huffed at the disrespect.

"Forgive her, Your Grace. Our dear Alys is not accustomed to courtly etiquette, having spent much time in solitude. But her information is always accurate." Ser Simon interjected.

Rhaenyra looked visibly annoyed but chose not to pursue the matter further. "I have not received a raven about an army leaving King’s Landing. How would she know?”

"Probably the owls." Daemon replied absentmindedly, tracing his finger from King’s Landing to Harrenhal on the map. "Cole’s army was greatly diminished at Rook’s Rest. They would have at most six thousand men. Such a sizable force will take no fewer than fifteen days to reach Harrenhal.”

Lord Darry was the first to speak, his voice carrying the weight of urgency. "We should meet them in the fields," he declared, his tone resolute.

Lord Smallwood interjected, his practical mind already racing with logistics. "It is imperative that we dictate where the battle takes place. Proper preparation is essential. Trenches need to be dug and artillery constructed." he asserted.

The lords around the table nodded in agreement, their discussions a flurry of tactical considerations and logistical necessities. The air was thick with the gravity of their impending conflict, each lord contributing his expertise to the plan.

"Husband," Rhaenyra's voice called to him, her face a portrait of imploring vulnerability. She did not possess the knowledge of war; her experience was limited to the strategic blunder that had sent Rhaenys to her death.

"My lords," Daemon began, his voice dry and cutting through their deliberations. "No matter how many trebuchets and catapults you build or how large your army is, it will all be ash in the face of Vhagar.”

The room fell silent, the lords fidgeting uneasily at his grim pronouncement.

"What are we to do?" Rhaenyra asked, her wide lilac eyes filled with desperation.

Daemon looked at her, gauging her mood, wondering if she would be generous enough to heed his counsel. Her expression reminded him of her younger self, those wide eyes beseeching him to remove her septa who had flicked her hands for inattention during lessons. Rhaenyra had been delighted when the septa was replaced by a proper governess, but she never knew that he had dragged the woman before Viserys, threatening to kill her for daring to harm the blood of the dragon. Viserys had been furious, banishing the septa from the Red Keep, but not before Daemon had cut off both her hands.

He could never truly refuse his niece.

Daemon turned his gaze back to the map. "With Cole bringing his army here and the Kinslayer surely at its helm, they will leave King's Landing with barely enough force to defend it until reinforcements from the Reach arrive," he said, his finger tracing the path from King’s Landing to Harrenhal. "It's the perfect time to take King’s Landing from the Greens." he declared, looking up to meet Rhaenyra's eyes. They were wide and excited, a spark of hope ignited within them.

"Surely, our armies will meet on our way to the capital." Rhaenyra interjected, her tone betraying her uncertainty.

Daemon shook his head with a sardonic smile. "Cole will take the Kingsroad. I trust these honorable River lords know the Riverlands well enough to find us a discreet path to the capital.”

Ser Simon stepped forward, his eyes gleaming with determination. "We can use the route from Acorn’s Hall," he proposed, his voice steady and confident.

The lords murmured their agreement as Ser Simon began to outline the plan. Daemon, feeling the weight of the council's gaze lift from him, strolled back to the window, leaning against the cool stone. He glanced at young Oscar Tully, who was staring at him with wide eyes. When Daemon raised an eyebrow, the boy quickly averted his gaze, focusing intently on the map spread before them.

As Ser Simon detailed their path to the capital, Daemon’s mind wandered. The council’s discussions, the strategic planning, and the nervous energy that filled the room were all too familiar.

"Your Grace, I must insist that I remain in Harrenhal." Ser Simon implored, struggling to keep up with Daemon's brisk pace. The Prince, usually more considerate of the elderly man's slower gait, did not bother to slow down today.

"I am old," Ser Simon continued, his breath coming in short gasps. "I have spent fifty years of my life in this castle. I cannot abandon it.”

Daemon halted abruptly, turning to regard the man with thinly veiled irritation. "Once Aemond takes Harrenhal and finds the army absent, he will put all the remaining people here to the sword." he said bluntly.

The old man met his gaze, determination etched into his weathered face. "I understand that, and I am prepared for it. I thank you for thinking of my kin and me. Sending the children to Riverrun is already a boon. And you are even bringing my nephews and nieces to King’s Landing. For that, I thank you.”

"I am not taking you with me because I’ve suddenly become fond of you. You’re an annoying old man.” He said which made Ser Simon gasped. “When the Castellan, Lord Caswell, tried to escape the Red Keep, he was hanged. We will need a new castellan, someone loyal to us. And who better than the Castellan of the largest castle in Westeros?”

Ser Simon seemed poised to argue further, but Daemon tapped him good-naturedly on the shoulder. "And I need your expertise on the road to manage the supplies. I am sure all your many nephews will be a great help to you." Without waiting for a response, Daemon strode away, muttering under his breath about the man's insufferable stubbornness.

As he passed Alys's chambers, he noticed her grinding something with a rough stone mortar and pestle. Intrigued, he paused and then turned back noticing that all of her things are still where it was when he was last here. "Why aren't you packed yet? We are leaving at noon.”

Alys glanced up briefly before returning to her task. "I would stay here.”

"No one will be left here, not even the servants." Daemon replied firmly.

"I heard you," she said, her tone as stubborn as her gaze. "But I am still staying.”

Daemon's eyes narrowed. "When Aemond comes here, he will kill you.”

Alys smiled mischievously, not pausing in her work. "I would like to see him try." she said with a defiant glint in her eye.

He watched her for a moment longer, observing the meticulous way she prepared her ingredients. Her movements were precise, almost ritualistic, as she ground a mix of herbs and roots into a fine paste. The rough stone scraped rhythmically against the mortar, the sound strangely soothing amid the tension of impending departure.

He wasn't foolish; he knew that Alys was aware of the nightmares that had plagued him since his arrival at Harrenhal. She had warned him of it—whether it was the curse of Harren the Black or something she mixed into the paste she fed him, those dreams forced him to confront long-buried fears and regrets.

Yet, as unsettling as those dreams were, he had come to appreciate the revelations that followed each one. He was the Rogue Prince, a name that struck fear in the hearts of his enemies but also bred resentment among his allies. His reputation had, in many ways, undermined Rhaenyra’s claim. The Riverlords were not fond of him, and his presence did little to endear them to his niece. If it were just him, he wouldn’t have cared, but now his niece was Queen, and his actions had to be more measured for her sake.

Despite this, Daemon was resolute in his refusal to change his nature to please her. He was who he was, and she would have to accept him as such or they could go their separate ways. He finally understood that his actions had consequences that were detrimental to Rhaenyra’s cause, but he would not allow her to try to change him or discard him whenever it suited her.

He looked up at Alys only to find her smiling at him as if she knows what he was thinking.

"Very well." he muttered, more to himself than to her, before turning on his heel and walking away. The woman was as maddening as she was intriguing, and he had no time to unravel her mysteries now. The path ahead was fraught with peril, and every moment counted.

When Daemon arrived at his chambers, he found Rhaenyra standing inside, her silhouette framed by the sunlight streaming through the windows. The golden rays caught her silver-gold hair, casting an ethereal glow around her. For a fleeting moment, she looked as she did in Dragonstone, when Visenya was still safely cradled in her womb. But the illusion shattered as she turned to him, her face clouded with a deep frown.

"Have you said goodbye to your paramour, or will she be accompanying you back to the capital?" she asked, her tone sharp and accusing.

Daemon sighed deeply and poured himself a goblet of wine. "If you’re talking about Alys, she will be staying here." he replied. "But she’s not my paramour, and even if she was, what do you care? I haven’t even confronted you about your own."

Rhaenyra's eyes widened, guilt flickering in their depths. She opened her mouth to speak, but he turned away, closing his eyes to mask the hurt he felt. The witch had hinted at this multiple times, but he had found it hard to believe. He had always thought their marriage was stronger than this. Perhaps he had been wrong.

"Husband, it wasn’t—" Rhaenyra began, her voice trembling.

"It’s fine," he said, turning back to her. "Wasn’t I the one who taught you that marriage is not a cage? You took your pleasure with someone else in your first marriage; it would not be a surprise if you did the same in your second. Especially since you’ve voiced many times how much you disliked me." He couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice.

Tears welled in Rhaenyra’s eyes, but she refused to let them fall. Daemon smiled at her, trying to reassure her. "And I, most of all, know the allure of Mysaria of Lys. She was my favorite for more than ten years, afterall. I know how gentle her smile can be for someone who feels betrayed by his own kin. How seductive her words of reassurance that you are worth it, no matter what others tell you. How sweet her whispers of admiration whenever you feel small and insignificant."

Rhaenyra's eyes widened in disbelief. Daemon wanted to shake his head at her naivety. Mysaria had no problem manipulating Rhaenyra, and like a naive little girl, she had fallen for Lady Misery's sweet poison.

"Just know that Lady Misery was Otto’s spy in King’s Landing. It was her spies who gave your father the twisted version of the 'Heir for a Day' account. I wasn’t even the one who said it," he chuckled bitterly. "It was also her spies who told the Hand that we were in the Street of Silk that one time and she probably helped the Queen spread rumors about you and your children."

He saw the devastation on Rhaenyra’s face, and it took everything in his power not to take her in his arms. "But I’m sure she’s regretting all of it now. The greens tried to kill her, after all." he added with forced humor.

Daemon's voice was calm, almost nonchalant, but the pain beneath his words was palpable. He tried to maintain his composure, to appear indifferent, but the betrayal cut deep. The hurt he felt was etched in every line of his face, in the tightness of his jaw, in the way he gripped the goblet. He loved Rhaenyra fiercely, but the realization of her infidelity had wounded him more than he cared to admit.

There was a long silence as Daemon busied himself, ensuring that his meager belongings were all packed in his satchel. The squire that Ser Simon had provided was competent, but it wouldn't hurt to make sure everything was in order.

"I do not understand why I need to go back to Dragonstone. I should be marching with the army." Rhaenyra said, her voice steadier now.

"It will be harder to hide two fully grown dragons than just one. And you must inform your council of the plan. Ravens alone are not enough to make sure that Lord Mooton  retake Rook's Rest successfully and Lord Buckwell to take Duskendale. You need to be seen there to boost morale. I suggest bringing at least one other dragon aside from Syrax. It needs to be swift. Cole cannot hear of it, lest they turn back. I assure you, the army will not suddenly turn on you and be loyal to me instead. The Riverlords hate me. You would sooner hear that they butchered me than turn away from their rightful Queen." He said drily.

"That's not what I mean." she said, her voice trembling again.

"Isn't that why you came here in the first place, to make sure I am not building an army for myself?" He smiled at her, trying to lighten the mood.

Rhaenyra let out a sob. "I do not know how we came to be like this." she whispered.

"You gave me six beautiful years in Dragonstone, Rhaenyra. I am content with that. I would not ask for more." he said sincerely.

Rhaenyra had given him something he had never known before—contentment. It was a rare and precious gift, one that he would hold onto, no matter what the future held. And as she fled his room, tears in her eyes, he knew that, despite everything, he would always stand by her side, loyal and steadfast, until the very end.

Daemon looked around his water-stained room, the roof constantly leaking. He was finally leaving these cursed walls, but he was sure he would be back. Alys did say he would die here.

Chapter Text

Daemon POV

Daemon sat by the fire, his fingers absently twirling a lock of braided silver-gold hair around his thumb. Occasionally, he brought it to his nose, trying to catch the faint scent of lavender that lingered there. The lock, discreetly woven into his own hair near his neck, was a secret talisman, a piece of Rhaenyra he kept close. Given that his hair was almost the same silver hue, it did not stand out unless one looked closely.

He remembered the day he had taken it. Rhaenyra had been heavy with child, preparing for the birth of Aegon. She had trimmed her hair, a practical gesture for the ordeal ahead. Daemon had seized the opportunity, taking the discarded lock and braiding it carefully, weaving it into his own hair where it would always be close to him. He did not know if Rhaenyra had noticed, but if she had, she had never mentioned it.

He looked up and saw little Oscar Tully avert his eyes and looked at his Lords who are surrounding him.

Daemon stared back at the fire, his gaze distant as the lords and soldiers milled around, jesting and recounting past glories in battle. He found himself smirking at the lords’ boasts of past glories. They spoke with the bravado of seasoned warriors, yet few among them had seen true battle. The peace of the past eighty years had spared them the horrors of war. They had only skirmished with bandits, while only men like Ser Simon had seen the brutality of real conflict, having fought in the campaign that claimed Uncle Aemon’s life.

Daemon's thoughts drifted to Aemon. He had been but a boy when his uncle died, but he remembered him fondly. Aemon had always been present, watching him train in the yard, teaching him High Valyrian and the histories of their ancestors alongside Baelon. What might have happened if Aemon had become king? If Viserys had remained a prince, would everything have been different? Would his brother have been content with just Rhaenyra and their family, or would he still have sought the company of the likes of Otto Hightower over him?

These musings were futile. The moment Viserys sired a child with Alicent Hightower, the seeds of war had been sown.

Daemon wanted to smirk at the irony. Jaehaerys' chosen heir had weakened their family, and Viserys' children were doing all they could to destroy it. It was the discarded ones who were left to fight and die for their cause.

His thoughts turned to Rhaenys. She had always been strict, adhering rigidly to court protocol, until she defied Jaehaerys’ intent to marry her to Viserys and had chosen Corlys Velaryon instead. It was hard to believe that his seldom-smiling cousin was truly dead. She had been formidable, able to look down on lords and even kings, calling them on their falsehoods. And now, Viserys’ abominable son had killed her.

A surge of anger rose within him, mingling with a sadness he rarely allowed himself to feel. He had not been particularly close to Rhaenys, but her death felt like another cruel twist of fate in a long line of them. She had deserved better than to fall at the hands of a monster. The fire crackled before him, but it did little to warm the cold fury that settled in his heart.

Daemon sighed, casting a sidelong glance at the young Lord Tully who hovered nervously by his side. "What is it?" he asked sharply, causing the young lord to startle visibly and stumble over his apologies, attempting a clumsy bow. Daemon's eyes swept the surrounding lords, noting with satisfaction that they were wisely keeping their distance and avoiding eye contact.

"Sit." he commanded, and the young man hurried to comply, perching on the log beside him but continuing to fidget with his knees and hands.

"Lord Tully, not just a sennight ago, you confronted me before the Riverlords, hurling insults in my direction. And now you act like a blubbering fool," Daemon hissed, his voice low and menacing. "Pull yourself together."

The young lord clenched his hands into fists, trying to steady his trembling. There was a long pause filled with nothing but the sound of Oscar’s uneven breathing.

"They still look at me as if I'm a boy." he finally said, the whine barely concealed in his voice. Daemon almost smiled, for it reminded him of how Luke behaved whenever someone mentioned his future role as Lord of the Tides.

Lucerys’ reluctance was not born of self-doubt; Lord Corlys had seen to that. He had been spoiled by Corlys, receiving daggers, wayfinders, astrolabes, model ships, and more. He was meant to captain his own ship when Vaemond's petition reached Dragonstone. No, Luke's aversion to his inheritance stemmed from the fear of losing loved ones to claim it. Tragically, he had been the first casualty of the war.

“They already respect you when you went toe to toe with me.” Daemon remarked.

The young Lord Tully huffed. “But it was not real,” he replied, glancing around carefully. “And they’re starting to realize it.” His eyes scrutinized the lords who pretended not to be watching them, though it was evident they were trying to eavesdrop

“My son, Luke, was the same,” Daemon said, a note of pity in his voice.

The young Lord Tully looked at him with compassion. “What the One-eye did was monstrous,” he whispered. “Is that why you…” he trailed off, averting his gaze.

“A son for a son. It may not have been the son I intended, but Lucerys was avenged,” Daemon said with conviction. In no universe did he regret avenging Luke. It was regrettable that it had tarnished Rhaenyra’s name but he stood by his decision, regardless of the curses it brought upon him.

“He never truly believed he was worthy of the title,” Daemon continued. “By ten, he had mastered an array of nautical knots. By two and ten, Luke could distinguish a cog from a kogge and a hulc from a barge. He knew a ship with just one look and could navigate using the stars, both on a ship and on dragonback. But he got seasick the moment he stepped onto a boat. The men laughed at him for that at first.”

Young Oscar listened, intrigued. “I heard that when the news of Prince Lucerys’ death reached them, the Velaryon Fleet was ready to sail to war, even with Lord Corlys still abed and sick.” he said.

“They were,” Daemon replied, smiling. “The men loved Luke. He may not have had the steadiest sea legs, but he endeared himself to the crew by playing with their children. He knew the men by name and was familiar with their families. He often sent food when someone had a new child. The Velaryon Fleet loved Luke not because he was becoming a great sailor but because he was good with the men.” He motioned to the lords milling around. “Talk to them, know their stories, ask about their families. They will appreciate it.”

Oscar nodded in understanding. “Is that how the Gold Cloaks remain loyal to you even after years of not being in the capital?” he asked.

Daemon smiled genuinely this time. “The men of the City Watch are easy to please. I armed them, I armored them, I gave them a worthy cause. And most of all, I drank with them.” he said.

“I’m not allowed to drink yet.” the young lord blushed and stared at the fire.

“Young Oscar, it’s not the drink that matters, but the camaraderie. Ask them questions, old men love regaling the young ones with their exploits. Share in their joys and sorrows, and they will stand by you.” Daemon advised, his tone warm and fatherly, a stark contrast to his usual stern demeanor.

The young lord looked up at him with a smile and nodded. Just then, Ser Simon approached with a barn owl perched on his arm.

“Your Grace,” the old man intoned, gesturing to the owl.

Daemon blinked in confusion, then noticed the rolled letter attached to the bird’s foot. The owl was surprisingly docile—not that he knew much about their usual temperament. He retrieved the letter and unrolled it, revealing a message penned in a woman’s loopy handwriting: ‘Red Fork, the lion’s third attempt to cross will shatter the twin towers.’ The message was brief and direct.

He nodded at Ser Simon, who bowed and departed.

The Northerners and the Freys were on their way to meet the Lannister host. They might have already clashed. The Westerlands alone could field at least ten thousand men and perhaps a thousand knights. While he had confidence in the ferocity of their allies, he could not afford further losses. Oldtown still had an intact army marching towards King’s Landing. Storm’s End had not yet joined the war, but it was only a few days’ ride from the capital. He could not risk having three armies threaten them once they took King’s Landing.

He stood and looked at Lord Tully, who promptly stood as well. “I must fly south and assist the Freys and the Starks. Ensure these men reach King’s Landing as scheduled.”

The young lord nodded and bowed deeply.

The night air was thick with the scent of blood and smoke, the aftermath of the Battle at the Red Fork painting a brutal tableau below. Daemon Targaryen, astride Caraxes, soared high above the battlefield. From this vantage, the carnage was a sprawling sea of shadows, flickering with the dim glow of torches and fires that cast long, eerie silhouettes.

The moon, a pale ghost in the sky, struggled to pierce through the veil of smoke, casting an ethereal glow over the scene. Bodies lay strewn across the ground, their armor glinting dully in the faint light. Pools of blood glistened darkly, seeping into the earth, staining the river red. The cries of the wounded and dying echoed, a haunting symphony that rose to meet the dragon’s flight.

Caraxes’ wings beat rhythmically, stirring the air with a sound like distant thunder. Below, the river's waters were murky, swirling with debris and the fallen, their forms barely discernible in the darkness. The once vibrant banks of the Red Fork were now littered with the detritus of war: shattered shields, broken swords, and the remnants of banners that fluttered weakly in the night breeze.

Daemon’s keen eyes scanned the landscape, the devastation stark even from this height. Fires burned sporadically, small islands of light in the vast darkness, casting a lurid glow over the battlefield. He could make out the clusters of survivors, some tending to the wounded, others standing vigil over their dead comrades. The scene was a tapestry of suffering and survival, each moment etched in blood and fire.

The sounds of battle had faded, leaving a grim silence punctuated only by the occasional shout or groan. He urged Caraxes lower, the dragon’s descent slow and deliberate. As they drew closer, the details became sharper, more visceral. The torn earth, the twisted bodies, the anguished faces – all painted a picture of war’s brutal reality.

From across the Red Fork River, Daemon observed the flickering fires of the enemy’s camp, the Lannister host presenting a formidable and organized front. On the opposite side, the fires of their allies mirrored the scene, the Freys and Northerners ready for the impending clash.

Caraxes descended as close to their camp as possible, his landing practiced and near silent from years of covert missions in the Stepstones where stealth was paramount for ambushing the Triarchy corsairs. Yet, despite his efforts, the impact of his landing felled trees and made the earth tremble. Daemon dismounted with a fluid grace, approaching Caraxes’ head to caress his scaled snout gently.

“Thank you, my friend, for flying me here so swiftly.” he murmured. Caraxes responded by blowing a cloud of smoke over him and bumping his chest affectionately. Daemon rested his forehead against the dragon’s, feeling the comforting warmth of his scales and the thrumming of his blood, a silent testament to their unbreakable bond.

A group of horsemen emerged from the woods, Lord Frey rode forward, his expression one of surprise and respect. “Your Grace, we did not expect you.” he said, welcoming him to their camp.

Daemon gave Caraxes an affectionate pat before turning to the men. “How do the Lannisters fare?” he inquired.

One of the greybeards, introducing himself as Lord Rodrik Dustin, stepped forward. “They have attempted to cross the river twice now, but we have managed to repel them each time.”

‘The lion’s third attempt to cross will shatter the twin towers.’ Was Alys’ message.

Daemon nodded thoughtfully, his mind already weaving strategies. “Excellent.  We will shatter them on the morrow.” He said. “I want the army ready to march to King’s Landing in three days time.” He said.

Without giving them time to respond, Daemon took one of the horses offered to him and rode directly to the camp. Upon his arrival, he was promptly directed to the commander’s tent, where a large table was spread with maps and strategic plans.

Daemon strode inside, his presence commanding attention. The tent was filled with murmurs and the soft rustling of parchment, but he had no time for immediate strategizing. He needed rest, for by nightfall on the morrow, he intended to break the Lannister army so thoroughly they would struggle to muster the strength to return to their castles.

“My Lords,” he addressed them briefly, “I only need you to stop the Lannister army from successfully crossing the Red Fork. Kill all man who will be able to cross. I will do the rest.” With that, he left the tent to find his own, his mind already turning towards the decisive actions he would take to ensure their victory.

Rodrik Dustin POV

Lord Rodrik Dustin had seen four and sixty name days, a considerable feat given the harsh life in the North. By all rights, he should have perished years ago. Yet here he was, in the South, embroiled in the Dragon Queen’s war.

Never had he imagined he would one day behold dragons. He knew of their existence, of course, but the Royal Family seldom left their seat in the Capital, and the North had never been inclined to meddle in southern politics. But now, as he gazed across the river snaking through the land, he could scarcely believe his eyes.

The King Consort had flown his dragon to the rear of the enemy camp, scorching a half-circle to prevent any escape. Then, with merciless efficiency, he had set the entire camp ablaze.

From afar, the burning camp was a hellish sight. Thick, acrid smoke billowed into the sky, carrying with it the stench of burning flesh. Ash began to fall like snow, and the agonized screams of the dying filled the air, a cacophony of torment that chilled Lord Dustin to the bone.

Now he understood why Torrhen Stark had bent the knee to the Conqueror.

"Men, push them back into the river!" Lord Dustin commanded, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Spearmen, to the front! Archers, keep those arrows raining down upon them!"

The river became a graveyard as heavy armor dragged men to their watery deaths. By late afternoon, more than half of the Lannister army lay dead.

Surveying the aftermath, Lord Dustin watched as lords, highborns, and commanders were rounded up. Jason Lannister, one of the first to try crossing the river abandoning his burning army, lay dead. Ser Adrian Tarbeck was barely alive, trampled by panicked horses. Lord Humfrey Lefford's right side was scorched, his eyes haunted and unresponsive.

The King Consort approached , ash and soot covering his body, his expression one of grim satisfaction.

"We should take the remaining highborns as prisoners," Lord Dustin urged. "We can use them as leverage."

Daemon shrugged. "Ensure they do not escape, then."

The remaining soldiers, fewer than a thousand, bent the knee and were granted permission to return home with a stark warning: to spread tales of the Battle at the Red Fork and the devastation awaiting those who dared oppose the rightful Queen.

Lord Frey approached, his face determined. "We should incorporate these men into our army."

The King Consort's eyes flashed with disdain. "I do not want traitors in our midst. They will go home and spread our message, nothing more."

Lord Dustin nodded, understanding the logic. "So be it. Let them carry the tales of the Dragon’s might and our Queen’s mercy."

As the sun set, casting a bloody hue over the battlefield, Lord Dustin couldn't help but reflect on the day's events. The North had come to the South, and the dragons had shown their might. It was a day that would be remembered in songs and stories for generations to come.

Alyn of Hull POV

Alyn stood tall and dignified in his Velaryon armor. It was the first time he had been outfitted in such luxurious garments. Even the clothes he wore beneath were silk, a far cry from anything he had ever worn before. He liked to think that this honor had been bestowed upon him for his faithful and capable service, but a nagging voice in the back of his mind whispered that the Sea Snake was merely giving him what should have been his all along. Had his mother not been a common woman, he and his brother might have been raised in Hightide alongside the Lord's children.

He shook his head, dispelling the thought. Rhaenys Velaryon was a fiery woman, a true dragonlord. Even with the kindness she had shown him in their brief meeting, he was certain she would not want her husband's bastards in her castle.

Alyn straightened his back as he saw Lord Corlys approaching, deep in conversation with one of his officers, evidently leaving final instructions. They were finally sailing to King's Landing to reclaim it for the Dragon Queen, and Alyn was ready to do his part.

"Is everything prepared?" Lord Corlys asked.

Alyn bowed respectfully. "We can leave at your command, my Lord."

"Prince Jacaerys will join us on the ship," LordCorlys said, "He is just leaving instructions for the garrison that will remain here in Dragonstone."

Alyn nodded, understanding the weight of the situation. "It must be difficult for the Prince to journey by ship when he is so accustomed to traveling by dragonback."

Lord Corlys sighed, a sadness evident in his eyes. "Indeed, the loss of Vermax is a grievous blow to the Prince and to our cause. But Prince Jacaerys' worth is not merely because he is a dragonrider. He has single-handedly secured the loyalty of the Vale, the North, and the Crossing for the Queen. He is perhaps the finest negotiator and politician we have, and at such a young age too."

Pride swelled in Lord Corlys' voice, and Alyn couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy. He knew the whispers, and he had seen the princes. They might not have Velaryon blood, yet Driftmark would pass to them, Lord Corlys is clearly fond of them. He shook his head, banishing the treacherous thought.

He would do his duty, and he would do it well. Alyn of Hull, the loyal and capable, would prove his worth, no matter the circumstances of his birth.

"Prince Jacaerys has ensured the safety of the dragonriders," Alyn remarked, grateful for the extra protection around his brother. "Addam told me they have been assigned two guards at all times. Our mother was offered a place by the Queen’s side for protection, but she chose to stay on her cog, transporting goods between Dragonstone, Driftmark, and King’s Landing. The other dragonrider’s wife has already been secured in King’s Landing, and she will act as one of the Queen’s ladies. The last rider has no family, but the prince is seeking out his friends."

Lord Corlys’ frowned then with a dawning understanding, he chuckled. "Clever, our Prince of Dragonstone is truly a cunning young man."

Alyn nodded, pretending to grasp the full meaning of Corlys' words.

The Prince of Dragonstone approached with one of his Kingsguard at his back, this one hailing from the Vale, and three more guards. They boarded the longboat that would take them to the Sea Snake, now renamed The Queen Who Never Was.

Despite his best efforts not to eavesdrop, Alyn couldn't help but overhear the conversation between Lord Corlys and Prince Jacaerys.

"Mother has given me control of the security of the Red Keep," the prince said. "Two hundred Velaryon men, the most loyal, two hundred from the Vale, and one hundred from Dragonstone will garrison the Red Keep. Two hundred will be dedicated solely to the safety of the royal family and the council. No fewer than two guards will be assigned to the council at all times, and four if they venture outside the Red Keep. That includes you, Grandfather."

Lord Corlys looked ready to protest, he huffed but nodded. "I understand the importance."

"We must also address the lapses in King’s Landing’s security." Lord Celtigar added.

The prince nodded. "Even my little brother Egg could slip through the security the greens had in the capital."

"They relied too heavily on Vhagar and neglected to properly safeguard the capital," Lord Corlys said. "That is why it was so easy for us to infiltrate. I hope, my prince, you will ensure we do not make the same mistake."

"I intend to make sure we do not repeat the errors of the greens," Prince Jacaerys replied.

Lord Sunglass interjected, "For all the years Alicent and Otto Hightower whispered venom into their children’s ears about being the rightful heirs, they never prepared them to take on the responsibilities."

The prince sighed. "My grandsire, for all that I love him, was the same with my mother. The Queen was never prepared by King Viserys to take on the crown. It was the Daemon who hired Essosi teachers for my mother and for all of us, under the guidance of Maester Gerardys. Otherwise we would be as clueless."

Alyn turned away from the conversation, focusing on the The Queen Who Never Was, the ship he now captained. He would ensure that the trust Lord Corlys had placed in him would not be misplaced. As they reached the ship, he was the first to ascend the rope ladder, followed by Prince Jacaerys. Though the prince tried to mask his struggle, it was evident that the wounds from the Battle of the Gullet still plagued him. Three arrows to the torso were no trifling matter, and it was a miracle he could walk at all. Lord Corlys hovered protectively, clearly wanting to assist the prince but restraining himself to avoid making him appear weak before the men.

Once aboard, Alyn watched as Lord Corlys lingered outside the royal cabin, observing the prince as he lay down on the feather bed, wincing as he elevated his injured arm on a pillow. The prince had already shed his leathers and gambeson, now clad in a simple white tunic and breeches.

Lord Corlys spoke to one of the prince's servants, ensuring all was prepared for the voyage.

"Do you have enough lemons for Jace's lemon water? We will be at sea for three days." he asked.

"Yes, my lord, we have two crates of fresh lemons aboard." the servant replied.

"Good," Lord Corlys said. "Make sure there are coals under the prince's bed to keep him comfortable."

He was about to add more when the prince called for him. Lord Corlys quickly went to his side, sitting on the edge of the bed. Though Alyn could not hear their conversation, he could see the prince rolling his eyes and frowning, while the Sea Snake appeared to be placating him. Alyn felt a pang of bitterness and averted his gaze. When Lord Corlys emerged, he closed the door and nodded for Alyn to follow.

"Young men are full of bravado," Lord Corlys remarked. "He should have stayed in Dragonstone to recover, yet here he is, taking on more responsibilities."

"Does the prince have more instructions for us?" Alyn asked.

"He wants us to prepare for the arrival of new ships within the next few months." Lord Corlys replied. "It seems the Greyjoys have finally acted. After the news of the burning at the Red Fork, they have attacked Lannisport. Apparently, the prince has offered them a third of the Lannister fleet. One-third will come to us, and the rest will be left to the Lannisters."

Alyn felt a surge of excitement. The prospect of additional ships joining their fleet was invigorating. "More ships will certainly strengthen our position." he said.

"Indeed," Lord Corlys agreed, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "Prince Jacaerys is a shrewd negotiator. His strategies will serve us well in the battles to come."

Alyn nodded, feeling a renewed sense of purpose. He would serve loyally and ensure that every command was executed to perfection. The trust placed in him by Lord Corlys was not something he took lightly, and he was determined to prove his worth. As the ship set sail, Alyn felt a mix of anticipation and resolve, ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead.

Addam of Hull POV

Addam sat in the Rider's Retreat, a room attached to the Dragon's Landing where dragons came and went to take and deposit their riders before returning to their own nests. The room was carved within the Dragonmont, its high ceilings adorned with images of dragons. Around the rooms are big parchments and stone tablets with detailed images of different dragons labeled meticulously to detail every part of their majestic anatomy. Tables and padded chairs were scattered about, providing a comfortable setting for the dragonriders to study and converse.

Ulf, seated nearby, grumbled as usual. "Why do we need to memorize every part of a dragon’s body? I though I’ll just need to ride the beast." he complained.

Addam sympathized, nodding. "Aye, it does seem a bit much," he admitted. The diagram detailed every part of a dragon’s body, from the snout and scales to the fire glands that produced their legendary flames. "I thought once Seasmoke claimed me, all we had to do was learn to fly him well. But there’s so much more to it."

The lessons were exhaustive. They had to familiarize themselves with different types of dragon saddles, learn the techniques for saddling a dragon, and master basic dragon commands. For someone like Addam, whose education consisted solely of his mother teaching him letters and sums, the sheer volume of information was overwhelming. He often felt as though his brain was turning to mush.

Every now and then, the Crown Prince would appear on the balcony, observing their progress. Occasionally, he even descended to assist with their lessons. However, it was mostly the Dragonkeepers who supervised them, their expressions revealing a certain disdain. Addam knew these men resented that commoners like him, Hugh and Ulf had bonded with dragons, but they had no choice but to teach them.

Addam glanced at Ulf, who was muttering under his breath, trying to recall the dragon anatomy he had just memorized. "I could use a drink, ei!" Ulf said smiling brightly at the elderly dragon keeper who got burns all over his body only for him to snap the rod he was holding pointing it at the stone tablet.

Ulf glared at the older man, returning his attention to the diagrams. Addam did the same, tracing the lines with his finger and mouthing the words silently to himself. Hugh was the most studious of them, he takes things too seriously in his opinion.

He thought back to the moment Seasmoke had chosen him, a moment of pure fear, exhilaration and disbelief. He would do whatever it took to honor that bond.

The Dragonkeepers moved among the tables, offering corrections and occasionally casting skeptical glances at them. Addam ignored their disdain, focusing instead on his studies. He was determined to master every lesson, no matter how challenging. This was his chance to rise above his low birth, to prove that he was worthy of riding a dragon and serving the Crown.

As the hours passed, the room buzzed with the murmurs of the dragonriders and the occasional roar from a dragon outside. The air was thick with the smell of parchment and ink, mingling with the faint scent of dragonfire.

Addam startled when an unfamiliar whistle pierced the air, prompting all the Dragonkeepers to move in unison towards the landing platform. The strict woman who normally instructed them commanded sharply, "Stand up immediately and stand to the side. Do not make a sound. Do not speak unless you are spoken to."

Ulf, ever curious, leaned in and whispered, "Which dragon is it?"

The Dragonkeeper, with a mix of awe and trepidation, replied, "It is the Consort's dragon, Caraxes."

Addam felt a shiver run down his spine. Daemon Targaryen was infamous for his fiery temper and brutal reprisals. The death of Lucerys Velaryon at the hands of Aemond Targaryen had been answered by the gruesome murder of the boy prince Jaehaerys, a horror still fresh in Addam’s mind. They said the killers sawed off the prince's head off while he was still alive, all witnessed by his mother and twin sister. Whispers of Daemon Targaryen burning the Lannister army at the Red Fork, though unconfirmed, only added to the aura of dread surrounding him.

"When the Prince was younger, he often had a drink with me in the taverns," Ulf said, trying to lighten the mood. "His favorite was the one in Eel Alley.” Turning to Hugh, Ulf asked, "What was the name of the biggest whorehouse in Eel Alley?"

Hugh simply shook his head while Ulf continued to mutter to himself, contemplating inviting the Prince for a drink. Their conversation was abruptly halted as the red dragon, Caraxes, came into view. His body was lithe, with an elongated neck, resembling a monstrous worm from afar.

"That's an ugly dragon." Ulf commented.

"Shut up!" Hugh snapped silently, their attempts to blend into the wall becoming more desperate.

Unlike Seasmoke, who would be swiftly surrounded by Dragonkeepers guiding him back to his nest, everyone simply lined the ramp for Caraxes. Despite witnessing Vermithor's rampage a moon ago, which still haunted Addam’s nightmares, this dragon felt even more dangerous.

Instead of standing passively, waiting for his rider to dismount like Seasmoke and the other dragons, Caraxes slithered up the ramp, his long neck snaking towards them. He released a long, high-pitched trill that made Addam’s knees weaken, his bladder threatening to betray him.

Caraxes was an ominous and terrifying presence, his crimson scales gleaming menacingly in the dim light of the chamber. The dragon's eyes, intelligent and fierce, swept over them, as if weighing their very souls. Addam could feel the tension in the room, every Dragonkeeper standing rigid, their faces masks of professional detachment. Yet, the fear was palpable, an undercurrent that ran through them all. The dragon's breath was hot and smelled of sulfur, a reminder of the deadly fire he could unleash at any moment.

He held his breath as the imposing, armored figure dismounted with an effortless grace, as though he were not sliding down from a colossal, hot mass of raw power while encased in heavy armor. His eyes were fixed on the Consort, who removed his helm and handed it to one of the waiting Dragonkeepers. The tall man stepped forward, murmuring in that foreign tongue—High Valyrian—a language that sounded elegant, melodic, and imbued with a mystical quality.

The Royal Family's pronunciation was distinct, flowing and lyrical, akin to poetry and songs, unlike the more utilitarian tones of the Dragonkeepers.

In awe, Addam watched as the dragon remained still, its fierce eyes almost sofetning by the gentle words of the most dangerous man in the realm. Daemon Targaryen, the King Consort, placed his forehead against the dragon's snout, murmuring what seemed to be words of endearment.

Even though Addam had grown somewhat accustomed to Seasmoke, with whom he had spent considerable time, he could never imagine standing so close to a dragon's mouth willingly. The Consort stepped back as the red dragon nudged him gently in the chest before withdrawing. Without the need for guidance, the dragon took flight once more, soaring out of the Dragonmont.

Addam's eyebrows raised in surprise. It had been drilled into their heads that dragons must not be left to wander freely, lest they become disoriented and fly away. Unlike King's Landing, where dragons were chained to prevent them from terrorizing the smallfolk, the dragons in Dragonstone were usually content to remain in their caves when not with their riders. Perhaps this privilege was extended because Caraxes belonged to a King, not to lowborn men like them. Yet, even Moondancer and the Queen's Syrax were treated similarly to Seasmoke.

He squeaked audibly when Daemon turned to them, his eyes sharp and curious. The Consort began walking toward them slowly, exuding confidence and power despite his armor and face being streaked with soot and dried blood. Each step he took seemed to resonate with an unspoken command, an assertion of dominance that left Addam and his companions feeling both intimidated and awestruck.

Addam straightened his back, trying to suppress his fear and muster the courage to meet the Consort's gaze. Daemon's presence was overwhelming, a blend of regal authority and formidable strength. The stories of his fiery temper and ruthless vengeance echoed in Addam's mind, but so did the undeniable loyalty and fierce protection he offered those he cared for.

As Daemon drew closer, Addam couldn't help but marvel at the man who had tamed the beast, not just in body but in spirit. The Prince's confidence was palpable, his power undeniable, and in that moment, Addam understood the true essence of the Targaryen legacy—a legacy he was now a part of, for better or for worse.

Addam stiffened as Daemon Targaryen's piercing gaze swept over them, taking in every detail. "So, you're the newest riders." the Prince Consort remarked, his voice carrying an air of authority that made Addam's heart pound.

Addam attempted a bow, his words stumbling out. "M-My Grace—Your Grace," he corrected himself hastily.

Hugh followed suit, bowing deeply. "My Prince."

Ever the audacious one, Ulf beamed at Daemon. "My King! Surely you remember me—we drank together in the brothels of King's Landing years ago. My mother always said my father was Baelon Targaryen. We must be brothers!" His eyes widened as Ulf moved as if to embrace Daemon, stopping only when he saw the prince's amused, yet warning look.

"Baelon, the Spring Prince?" Daemon asked, amusement evident. "Me pledging to the Seven is more likely." he chuckled.

Ulf laughed nervously, his bravado faltering. "I wasn't sure until the dragon allowed me on his back. Must be someone else, then." he mumbled.

Daemon turned to Hugh, whose gaze was firmly on the ground. "And you claim to be Aunt Saera's son?" he asked mockingly.

Hugh bowed again but remained silent. "I just met with her a sennight ago, yet she mentioned no son left in Westeros. Curious." Daemon mused before shifting his attention to Addam. "You look like him." was all he said, leaving Addam breathless. Even his own father had never acknowledged him.

Daemon's eyes, sharp and appraising, swept over them again. "You all look robust... healthy," he noted, his tone almost mocking. "Tell me, how is it that the Prince of Dragonstone was felled by three arrows, his dragon claimed by the waves, while you bear no scratches on your bodies?"

They averted their eyes, guilt washing over them. "We are sorry, Your Grace. We were far from the Prince." Addam confessed.

"Too drunk on power, burning ships, I wager?" Daemon's voice was accusatory, conjuring memories of the Battle of the Gullet—the smell of burning flesh, the sounds of anguish. Addam shuddered, bile rising in his throat.

"From now on, your main purpose is to ensure the Queen's protection." Daemon declared. They all nodded, voices unified in agreement.

"Dragons or not, you will die if the Queen falls from the sky while you are there with her. Am I understood?" His words were a stark warning.

"Yes, Your Grace." they answered with conviction, nerves tightening their throats.

Daemon turned to leave, then paused. "Come along, all of you. We have a battle to plan."

They followed him, hearts pounding, the weight of their new responsibilities settling heavily upon their shoulders.

As they reached the Room of the Painted Table, the lords of the council were just departing. They bowed to Prince Daemon, allowing him to pass, before casting curious glances back at the dragonriders. These noblemen had been vocal about their disdain for lowborns, so Addam kept his head lowered.

"My Queen," Prince Daemon said, bowing his head respectfully. He conversed with Queen Rhaenyra in their melodious Valyrian tongue. Addam's attention was drawn to the Painted Table, a marvel of craftsmanship. This was the famous map that Aegon the Conqueror used to plan his conquest of the Seven Kingdoms.

The massive table was a breathtaking sight, carved with meticulous detail to represent every mountain, castle, and river in Westeros. Candles placed strategically underneath cast shadows that brought the carvings to life, giving the impression of a living, breathing land.

Addam's gaze settled on Driftmark. The island was depicted with stunning clarity: Driftmark Castle stood prominently, a grand and imposing structure with its central keep and four stout towers rising from a rectangular edifice of dark, weathered stone. The castle was surrounded by thick sea walls and a wide, water-filled moat. Nearby, the bustling shipyard and harbor of Hull were brimming with vessels of all sizes, reflecting the maritime prowess of House Velaryon.

To the north, the elegant silhouette of Hightide was visible, a newer, more opulent castle with slender towers and large windows overlooking the sea. Along the coastline, the vibrant settlement of Spicetown was marked, its busy markets and docks teeming with life, showcasing the island’s rich trade and commerce. The sight was incredible, leaving Addam in awe.

His reverie was broken when the tone of the King and Queen's conversation changed from cordial to antagonistic. Addam glanced at Hugh, who was staring intently at the table but eyeing the royal couple from the corner of his eye. He quickly averted his gaze when he noticed Lady Baela frowning at him.

The tension in the room was palpable until the argument concluded, and both monarchs walked towards the area depicting King’s Landing. "All of you will descend to King's Landing in two days," Daemon announced. "Do you think you can control your dragons for such a long flight?"

Ulf, ever the braggart, boasted, "The first time I flew on Silverwing, she brought me to King's Landing. It was amusing how small everything looked from above."

"Great," Daemon replied dryly. "So you outed us to our enemies on your first day." Ulf's smile faltered, and he muttered that Silverwing probably just missed the city.

The King repeated his question, "Can you control your dragons for a long flight?"

All of them nodded and answered with a unified, "Yes, Your Grace."

The King spoke decisively, outlining their mission. "You are to fly high and surround the city. No one is allowed to breathe fire unless it is towards Vhagar, should she be there." Addam swallowed hard, recalling the colossal dragon that had once visited Dragonstone. Vhagar could devour Seasmoke in three bites. She had been a constant presence at Driftmark when Lady Laena rode her, and now they would be fighting her.

Prince Daemon continued, "I will descend first to deal with the Scorpions. Caraxes will release a long, low whistle once that is accomplished, and you will then be permitted to descend."

Hugh, nervously but determined, interjected, "We can help with the Scorpions, my Prince—My King. I was one of the blacksmiths who commissioned them, and I helped mount them on the walls. I can tell you exactly where they are located."

The King nodded. "It is good that you know the location of each Scorpion, but unless you can promise that your mount will not burn Flea Bottom or the Red Keep itself, you are to fly around the capital, ensuring that no green army can sneak behind us."

Addam sighed, recalling the raw power of Seasmoke during their battle with the Triarchy. His dragon had incinerated everything in its path, including two of Lord Corlys' ships, before Addam managed to redirect him into the enemy ranks. The thought of unleashing such power within the enclosed city was horrifying. He could see that both Hugh and Ulf had realized the same thing, their faces pale as they nodded in understanding.

Daemon took a small dragon figure from the side and placed it on the Dragonpit. "Baela, you are to descend into the Dragonpit. Ensure no dragonrider can reach their dragons. Command the Dragonkeepers to keep the dome and all gates shut. Do not dismount your dragon; perch yourself on the gate. Be vigilant of arrows and Scorpions alike."

Lady Baela nodded. "Moondancer is small and swift. I can easily evade the arrows."

The King smiled genuinely, probably for the first time since he landed, pride evident in his eyes. "Of course, you can.” he said then turned back to them. "Ulf, you are to command the guards to open the Iron Gate to allow Lord Corlys' troops inside."

Ulf, puzzled, asked, "How can I do that if I am not allowed to use fire?"

The Prince responded, "The presence of the dragon alone will make them open the gate. If they refuse, Vermithor has claws and his tail has horns. Rip that gate apart, then fly to the Gate of the Gods to let the Crownlands troops in."

He then turned to Hugh. "You are to do the same at the River Gate to let the remaining Velaryon and Arryn men in, then proceed to the King's Gate where the Northmen and the Riverlords are waiting."

Hugh murmured to himself, "No fire, claws, and tails."

The King looked at Addam and said, "You are to shadow the Queen. Once Caraxes is perched on the walls of the Red Keep, he will roar once, and you will descend first, followed by the Queen once everything is secured."

Addam nodded, though he would have preferred to destroy gates rather than guard the Queen. If a single scratch befell her, he was certain he would lose his head. Yet, he accepted the task with conviction, determined to prove himself worthy of the trust placed in him.

Two days later, Addam found himself soaring high above King's Landing, his task to ensure the Queen remained far above the reach of any Scorpions. He gripped the saddle with all his might, struggling to prevent Seasmoke from diving down to join the King in dismantling the city’s defenses. He had come to understand that dragons were agents of chaos, Seasmoke especially thrived in violence—a trait fully unleashed during the Battle of the Gullet. But such carnage could not be afforded here in the heart of the capital.

From his vantage point, he watched wide-eyed as Caraxes unleashed controlled bursts of fire on the city walls, incinerating the Scorpions and then turning his wrath upon the ramparts of the castle. If Seasmoke had been wielding the flames, the walls would have already crumbled, and the Keep would be a raging inferno.

A long, terrible whistle echoed through the sky, signaling Lady Baela’s descent. Moondancer dove rapidly, and for a heart-stopping moment, Addam feared she would crash, but her wings unfurled at the last moment, allowing her to hover gracefully around the Dragonpit before perching atop its walls. Hugh and Ulf followed, heading to their assigned gates. Addam saw Hugh tearing at one of the gates, but otherwise, the gates opened without resistance.

Below, the city teemed with chaos. From his high perch, Addam observed the people of King's Landing scurrying like ants, their cries of panic barely audible over the roaring wind in his ears—or was that the pounding of his heart? He saw gold cloaks marching below, uncertain if they would join the fray against them.

The Queen flew towards Visenya's Hill, and Addam turned Seasmoke to follow, ensuring he remained below her. Prince Jacaerys had commanded that the Queen must always be above them to intercept any projectiles from below and to remind her to stay aloft if she ventured too low.

From his vantage point, the city below was a scene of utter bedlam. Fires blazed in several quarters, dark plumes of smoke rising into the sky. The sounds of shouting, the clashing of swords, and the cries of the frightened reached his ears sporadically, mingling with the fierce gusts of wind. Seasmoke strained against Addam’s control, eager to dive into the fray and unleash his fury. It took every ounce of Addam's strength and willpower to keep his dragon in check, his heart racing as he did so.

“Steady, boy.” he murmured, though his voice was lost in the chaos. “We must keep her safe.”

Despite the bedlam, Addam remained focused on his duty. The Queen’s safety was paramount, and he would not falter. Seasmoke bucked beneath him, the dragon’s desire for mayhem barely restrained. Yet Addam held firm, guiding his mount with determined resolve. The sight of the city in flames, the shouts of its people, and the terrifying beauty of the dragons above painted a vivid tableau of chaos, one that would be seared into his memory forever.

It seemed like an eternity before the King's dragon, Caraxes, perched on the walls of the Red Keep and gave the signal to descend. Addam allowed the Queen to go down first, hovering in the air to survey the scene below, ensuring no hidden Scorpions or archers were aiming at them. Below, at the base of Aegon's Hill, four different armies marched toward the Red Keep. Most prominent among them were the Velaryons, the Arryns, the Starks, and the Tullys, alongside many other banners he could not recognize. At the forefront, he could see Lord Corlys and Prince Jacaerys riding with determined resolve.

Turning his gaze back to the courtyard, he saw men and women on their knees before the Queen, two women clad in green among them. He sneered at the sight of the Green Queens. The tales of their cruelty were well-known; the children who played with the young princes in Driftmark often whispered about how the princes were terrified of the Green Queen. She would sneer at them, snapping at them not to play with Princess Helaena. This was why the princes found solace in the company of common-born children in Dragonstone and Driftmark.

Prince Lucerys had been especially kind-hearted. Addam recalled how the young prince once bought a bucket of clams for him with gold dragon, far more than what the clam was priced. That generous act had sustained his family for an entire year and allowed his mother to repair their boat, the Mouse. The memory of Prince Lucerys’ kindness was bittersweet, made all the more poignant by the horror of his tragic death.

He sighed as he watched the Green Queens kneel before the Dragon Queen. The weight of history and justice seemed to press down upon them. Finally, Addam loosened his grip on the saddle, feeling a sense of triumph and vindication.

Jace POV

Prince Jacaerys emerged from the small council chamber with a heavy sigh, the weight of the day’s deliberations pressing down upon him. The chamber had been a hive of urgent discussions, each task more pressing than the last as they sought to consolidate control over the city.

Deploying search parties to hunt down Aegon and Princess Jaehaera was paramount. Trusted commanders had to be assigned to lead these efforts, ensuring efficiency and loyalty. Next, an immediate inventory of the city's food supplies was necessary. The stores of the Red Keep were overflowing, while the smallfolk outside its walls were left to starve. It was an injustice that needed rectifying, and quickly. Trade routes and supply lines into the city had to be secured and opened, potentially negotiating with nearby regions to support the city's burgeoning needs.

Loyal and competent officials were required in key positions— the City Watch, the treasury, and other vital offices needed steady hands at their helms. The damage inflicted during the sack had to be assessed and repairs prioritized, especially to critical infrastructure such as city walls, gates, and key buildings.

To win the hearts of the people, public celebrations and feasts had to be organized. Queen Rhaenyra’s victory must be celebrated in grand style, to ensure that the smallfolk remained loyal and that they will not turn against them as they had the Greens.

Baela had returned to Dragonstone to ensure the castle’s security, while Rhaena was at the Vale, mastering her new dragon. Jace couldn’t even seek solace in the nursery, playing with the little ones to ease his burdens. The absence of his brother, Luke, weighed heavily on him. Luke had always been the one he could confide in, his steadfast presence a comfort. But Luke is gone, their family scattered to the winds, Jace felt an acute loneliness. He was surrounded by advisors and warriors, yet the one person he truly needed to talk to was gone.

His mother already have too much on her plate that he did not want to add his own worries to hers.

His steps led him to the Gallery, where he found Daemon slumped on the floor amidst a mess of broken stones. Jace approached cautiously, mindful of his stepfather's tense posture. His eyes widened as he recognized the remnants scattered before them: the Valyrian model his grandfather had meticulously crafted throughout his life, now reduced to large, disjointed chunks and smaller fragments strewn across the floor.

Jace halted beside Daemon, who was cradling a tower with a dragon atop it. "This was the Temple of Draco," Daemon murmured, his voice tinged with sorrow. "Said to be the first dragon ever tamed by the Valyrians. It was the first carving Viserys made when he was just ten. I tried to help, but I only made a mess of things. I was six."

"Who did this?" Jace asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"The usurper," Daemon replied bitterly. "Viserys loved this model, more than he loved his family at times, and they destroyed it."

Jace sighed and lowered himself to the floor beside him. His grandsire had not been an active presence in their lives, but he had been a constant one. He always celebrated their name days with grand feasts and balls. They always had the finest presents and were reminded of their worth. Though Viserys was sickly and not particularly close to them, he had always been kind. He did not deserve what had been done to him. The Greens hadn't even given him a proper funeral, too engrossed in their planned usurpation to accord the dead king the respect he was due.

"You never attend the Council Meetings." Jace said, striving to keep the accusation from his tone.

"I'm not part of the Council." Daemon huffed.

"Of course you are. You're the Queen's husband!" he protested.

Daemon chuckled softly. "And what does my position entail? Am I to organize feasts and balls? I don't even know if I'm a King Consort or a Prince Consort."

Jace winced at that. The Queen was too preoccupied with urgent matters to address less important issues like this. Daemon should have been named Protector of the Realm the moment his mother ascended the Iron Throne. But here they were, surrounded by the remnants of a shattered legacy, uncertain of their places in a world fractured by war and ambition.

“You are doing an excellent job taking control of the castle and ensuring the security of King's Landing.” Daemon said.

Jace smiled. Praises from Daemon was rare, an acknowledgment so seldom given that he could count on one hand the number of times it had been offered. Usually, a proud look or a nod sufficed. Baela worked twice as hard as him on the training yard, eager to earn her father's approval and prove herself a warrior. Her slight frame and limited strength had not afforded her the ability to wield a sword but she had become an excellent markswoman, taking many enemies with her crossbow atop Moondancer when they took the city. Rhaena's almost obsessive drive to claim a dragon was fueled by the same desire to make their father proud. Hearing Daemon’s praise now warmed Jace’s heart.

“I have to do something,” Jace said bitterly, unconsciously caressing the part of his chest that felt cold and empty. “I do not have a dragon anymore.” Vermax had been a literal part of him, hatching in his cradle and always being a constant warm presence. But then, suddenly, he was gone, felled by a scorpion bolt meant for Moondancer. Jace had felt Vermax’s death as he plummeted into the icy grips of the Gullet. It was as if his heart had been torn in two, and he was convinced he had died with his dragon until five Velaryon soldiers jumped on the burning sea to rescue him.

“You will have a dragon again,” Daemon said firmly. Jace looked up in protest, but Daemon’s sharp glare silenced him. “I can only imagine the pain you are enduring with the severance of your bond, but we have already seen the reign of a king without a dragon. Balerion’s loss weakened Viserys, both in his mind and his body. There is truth in the belief that our bond with our dragons makes us almost indomitable. That’s why you children barely suffered a sniffle, no matter how long you stayed in the cold waters of Dragonstone or atop your dragons.”

Jace nodded reluctantly, recalling the stories written in Valyrian glyphs about Targaryens who went mad without dragons to bond with. Daemon’s suggestion that King Viserys’ illness might have been due to his lack of a dragon weighed heavily on his mind. His grandsire was only four name days older than Daemon, yet Daemon looked just a few years older than his mother. But Vermax’s loss was still fresh, and Jace did not know if he was ready to claim another dragon.

“I can personally get an egg for you to hatch, or I could kill that Ulf guy, and you could claim Silverwing. She is gentle enough.” Daemon suggested.

Jace sputtered, looking at his stepfather incredulously. Daemon simply raised an eyebrow. “What? It’s not as if you like the man.”

Jace sighed heavily. "I find myself compelled to tolerate them, for they possess some of the mightiest dragons in existence. If only I had silver hair, we wouldn't be facing this predicament," he said harshly. "My mother wouldn't have been usurped!"

Daemon regarded him with a melancholy expression. "Even if you bore the likeness of Aegon the Conqueror himself, your mother would still have faced usurpation," he said. "War was declared the moment the Hightower harlot gave birth to a son."

"But they wouldn't have had such an easy time of it if I didn't look as I do!" Jace exclaimed.

"Have you discussed this with your mother?" Daemon inquired.

"I have." he answered. "She insists it does not matter, that I am a Targaryen and her chosen heir." Jace replied bitterly.

Daemon sighed deeply and flung the miniature dragon temple onto a heap of broken stones. "Your mother did what she could with the hand she was dealt. King Viserys was neglectful and ailing; he was not there for her. And you know Laenor's disposition; he was also mourning the loss of the love of his life."

Jace looked at him in confusion, prompting Daemon to recount the brutal tale of how Criston Cole murdered Joffrey Lonmouth at Rhaenyra's wedding. "They wed with the blood of his lover still upon him."

Jace felt a wave of revulsion. "Criston Cole is truly one of the vilest individuals I know, and the Hightower Queen protected him."

"Rhaenyra needed to have heirs, or she would have been seen as barren."

"She should have chosen someone who resembled Laenor, at the very least!" Jace protested.

"Whom should she have chosen? Vaemond Velaryon? A man who would hold that secret over her head for the rest of his life? Lord Corlys, perhaps?” Daemon asked mockingly as Jace blanched. “Harwin Strong was the only man your mother trusted, the only one who would not use her secret to undermine her claim."

"Where were you? Why did you leave? You should have—" Jace stopped himself, looking up and taking a deep breath. It would not do for the Prince of Dragonstone to appear hysterical.

Daemon looked down at his dusty hands. "Your mother once asked me to take her away on her wedding day. She said to cut through her father's men and bring her to Dragonstone to wed her there." he said wistfully.

Jace felt a surge of frustration at this revelation. He could have been true-born! Those ten years of enduring insults, both behind their backs and to their faces, could have been prevented. "Why didn't you?" he asked.

"Because your mother was young. She did not deserve to have a rogue as her husband, and my brother's derision of me was stronger than his love for Rhaenyra."

Jace snorted at that. Everyone knew that King Viserys loved his mother more than anything in the world. He had crawled to the Throne a day before his death just to protect her claim.

"Viserys would not have allowed me near his daughter. He would have disinherited her just to spite me." Daemon said.

"Grandsire would not have done that."

"You do not know my brother. He was convinced I was a plague sent to torment him, and more often than not, I tried my hardest to prove him right. Rhaenyra would have resented herself. The Crown was her birthright; she was born to it. So I had to leave."

"But you came back and still ended up getting married." Jace pointed out.

"And what a scandal that was!" his stepfather said. "Your grandfather essentially banished us from the capital, only sending letters of congratulations when Aegon and Viserys were born. He was already at the end of his life, but he was still a resentful fool."

Daemon stood up, and Jace followed suit. "Your mother is besieged on all sides, even by her allies.” Daemon said, motioning to playfully to himself. “You need to be there for her. She is right that it does not matter who sired you; you are of her blood. You need to be her strength when she falters, the steel to her gentleness, the cunning to her benevolence."

"You are already all that to Mother." Jace said, but his stepfather only smiled at him sadly. HE gulped his throat burning at the resignation on his stepfather’s once stubborn face.

A Gold cloak arrived and whispered something to him. Daemon's eyes darkened, but he nodded, squeezed Jace's shoulder, and left.

Jace stood there long after his stepfather had gone, only to startle when he saw Lady Mysaria walking briskly past the still-open door. He followed her quietly, signaling his guard to remain silent. He spotted her on a balcony overlooking the lower bailey, where two gold cloaks were dragging an old man in armor, his white cloak turned brown by mud and blood. One of the gold cloaks was carrying a small child with unmistakable silver hair.

Daemon looked at the White Cloak and the child before walking away with his men following. When Jace looked up from the scene, Lady Mysaria was nowhere to be found.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra POV

Rhaenyra paced her solar, her eyes darting to the windows as the shadows lengthened. She had summoned Daemon at sunset, and now it was the hour of the bat, yet her guards had not been able to locate him. Lady Mysaria placed a steaming cup of tea on the table, and Rhaenyra nodded at her  gratefully.

"My Queen, you might want to retire. I'm sure your men are searching diligently for Daemon and will inform you the moment he is found." Lady Mysaria suggested gently.

Rhaenyra shook her head. "Daemon has Jaehaera Targaryen, and I cannot rest until I know the girl is safe. She may be an unfortunate product of my brother’s loins, but she is also Helaena’s daughter and an innocent besides. I will no longer allow any child to die on my watch. “

She straightened her back as Ser Lorent knocked loudly, announcing Daemon's arrival. She motioned for Lady Mysaria to open the door, and there stood her husband, clad in a black tunic with his laces loosened, not even wearing a cloak. He raised his eyebrows as Lady Mysaria let him in and then left, closing the door behind her.

"Jaehaera, where is she?" Rhaenyra demanded directly.

"Taken care of." he said dryly, as he sank into one of the padded chairs in front of her table.

Rhaenyra closed her eyes in anger, resisting the urge to strike him. "Another dead child, Daemon?"

"Our daughter was a babe without a breathe on her lips when she was born. Why should the usurper's daughter be allowed to live when our daughter is dead?" he retorted.

She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. "Do not speak to me of our daughter when you were not even there while I was pushing her out."

"So, you are the only one allowed to grieve, is that it?" Daemon said, his voice sharp. "While you were pushing out our dead babe, I was ensuring that the children we do have would not die by knives in the dark by fortifying Dragonstone. Forgive me for focusing on what I could control instead of watching you suffer."

Rhaenyra closed her eyes, her breath trembling with exasperation and pain. Her grief was a storm within her, a torrent of sorrow and rage that threatened to consume her. She had lost so much—her father, her position, her children—and now, her husband seemed to be slipping away as well. The weight of her crown pressed heavily upon her, and the faces of her enemies loomed in her mind, a constant reminder of the treacheries she had endured.

“Daemon, I do not want Aegon’s child unharmed simply for sentimentality. My reputation barely survived the first one. I cannot afford another stain in my name while we are in the midst of King's Landing, especially with the smallfolk who have proven they will turn on their rulers given enough incentive."

"No one knows except your Lady Misery. And if anyone asks, tell them the truth: it was me. This is why you married me, Rhaenyra. You wanted the fear the Rogue Prince invokes in your enemies. I can be the monster when you cannot."

"This is a child, Daemon! An innocent child!" Rhaenyra’s voice quivered with both anger and sorrow.

"The usurper was once a child too!" Daemon snapped back. "A girl can be sold for alliances, and in thirty years, when she has a son of her own, it will be our sons who will have to go to war again. We need the Greens so defeated they will not even think of revenge."

"We cannot let this happen, Daemon! We are fighting for the Throne, yes, but we must draw a line that should never be crossed! Otherwise, we will doom ourselves!" Rhaenyra cried, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

"That's why it is I who acts! I will doom myself to ensure that you not only sit on your Iron Throne but that you keep it!"

"And you would have me climb it upon the bodies of dead babes?" Rhaenyra's voice was a whisper, laden with heartbreak.

"Yes!" Daemon exclaimed, standing up in frustration. "I would line the Throne Room with dead men, women, and their children too, Rhaenyra. I would burn this world to the ground for you, because otherwise, it will be you and our children who will burn. I won't let that happen."

She closed her eyes, trying to steady herself. "I wouldn’t care if you kill the actual monsters, but babes, Daemon? Innocent babes? I know how fiercely you will protect our family, but what you did was cruel." She took a deep breath, her voice trembling. "Is there no limit to what you would do? When you have killed all our enemies, will your sword then be pointed at some unsatisfied ally? How long until Dark Sister is pointed at me?"

Rhaenyra immediately regretted her words as she saw Daemon’s face crumble before he quickly masked his pain. She stepped closer, reaching out to him. "Daemon... I’m sorry—"

Daemon held her face gently, as if she were made of glass. HE was looking at her as if memorizing her face. "You look just like your father." he whispered, then turned and left the room.

Rhaenyra sank heavily into a chair, her hands covering her mouth as she tried to stifle a sob. The room felt cold and empty, the weight of her crown heavier than ever. She was fighting for her birthright, but at what cost? The tears she had held back finally spilled over, each drop a testament to the agony and isolation that came with power.

As the first light of dawn crept into her solar, Rhaenyra remained where Daemon had left her hours before. She had heard the mournful roar of Caraxes as he took to the skies, the sound fading into the distance. Their fierce argument still lingered in the air, heavy and unresolved. Their tempers, like dragonfire, often clashed with an intensity that could not be quelled, but this time felt different. There was a chilling finality to their words that she could not ignore. An inexplicable unease settled over her, though she could not quite name it.

When her ladies arrived, she allowed them to tidy her chamber. Elinda, ever watchful, selected a gown for her with a worried glance. Rhaenyra felt a pang of gratitude for the gentle lady-in-waiting who had bravely volunteered to be their eyes and ears into the heart of the capital, risking her life for the cause. Elinda, daughter of the Noble House of Massey, had left the safety of her home to aid Rhaenyra, organizing resistance within the city with quiet determination. Her loyalty was a beacon in these dark times. She will never forget her loyalty.

Lady Mysaria approached her, whispering with urgency. "The King was seen flying with a satchel on his back. He may not return for some time, Your Grace."

Rhaenyra closed her eyes in disappointment and nodded.

Mysaria hovered closer, her voice dropping to a murmur. "Did he hurt you, my Queen?"

Rhaenyra’s eyes snapped open in confusion. "Daemon would never hurt me." she said firmly.

Mysaria sighed in relief. "Not physically, at least," she conceded and moved to prepared her morning tea. "I only worry for you, Your Grace. Daemon's temper is like a volcano; its eruption burns everything in his path."

Rhaenyra smiled at her but shook her head. "Daemon would sooner fall on his sword than hurt me," she said. Daemon's response to any perceived threat was always violence and destruction. But it was never directed at their family. She regrets what she said to him in the heat of the moment. 

The morning stretched ahead of her with no pressing engagements. Her council, though competent and diligent, often struggled with her more unconventional methods. They might grumble and resist, but ultimately, they followed her will. Lord Corlys, in particular, ensured that no issue, no matter how small, went unaddressed. And dear Jace had taken on so much of the work himself, easing her burdens. Her reliable boy.

Elinda, ever gentle and persuasive, convinced her to seek a few more hours of fitful sleep. With a weary nod, Rhaenyra allowed herself to be led back to her bed chambers. The early morning sun cast a soft, golden glow through the windows, promising a new day, yet the heaviness in her heart remained. She closed her eyes, hoping that the solace of sleep might grant her a brief respite from her troubles.

As she drifted off, the words of Lady Mysaria lingered in her mind. Daemon's fire was a turbulent force, and while it had not yet consumed their family, the threat was ever-present. She feared the day when his own flames might turn inward, destroying the very man she loved so fiercely. Until then, she would stand as his anchor, as he was hers, determined to protect him from the inferno that raged within.

Rhaenyra woke up feeling somewhat refreshed, though her heart remained heavy. She looked at the empty right side of her bed, a stark reminder that Daemon had not joined her in the Royal Apartment since they had taken the Capital. Instead, he had opted to stay in his childhood rooms, eschewing even the Heir’s apartments they had used on their previous visits to the Red Keep.

Just a few moons ago, her family had been happy. Her babe had been safe in her womb, her husband’s hand always tenderly caressing her belly, and her children never far from her sight. But then her father died, she bled her daughter, and they murdered her son. Nothing had been the same since. Even her marriage, which she had believed strong enough to weather any storm, was on the verge of collapse. She longed to recall Daemon, to mend the rift between them, but he needed to understand that senseless violence against the innocent was not the solution to their problems.

She had so desperately wanted to settle things between them. She had hoped that everything would return to how it had been before when he knelt to her at Harrenhal, offering his army. But the moment he learned of her trip to King's Landing and the business with the dragonseeds, they were once again at odds.

She understood his anger, especially regarding her going to King's Landing, but she had felt compelled to do everything in her power to sue for peace before unleashing the dragons. More than anyone, she understood the devastation dragons could cause—a fact lost on her brothers, who seems to only ever see the dragons as weapons used to enforce their will.

Dragons were not mere swords to be wielded with precision or arrows to be aimed at a target; they were forces of nature, obliterating everything in their path with unbridled fury and fire. She had seen firsthand the charred remains and the scorched earth left in their wake. The devastation was indiscriminate, and she could not in good conscience unleash such destruction unless all other options were exhausted.

She had just finished her noonday meal when Ser Lorent announced Jace. She smiled as her son entered and sat beside her. His normally soft curls were tighter and a tad drier due to the cold air. She combed the strands that had fallen across his forehead and tucked them behind his ear. Day by day, Jace resembled Harwin more, though his build was lean like most Targaryens. His mannerisms, however, he had inherited from Daemon—the way he rolled his eyes, the way his hand rested on the pommel of his sword, and the way he glared at anyone who displeased her.

In truth, all her boys had inherited Daemon's streak of insolence. She was fortunate that Jace, as the Heir, had learned to temper his impulses with a measure of restraint. Luke, despite being the sweetest of her children, had a habit of blurting out the first thought that crossed his mind without thinking of the consequences, often landing him in trouble. Luke's impetuousness, while endearing, required constant vigilance to prevent him from causing unintended offense. Joffrey, on the other hand, was thoroughly convinced that Targaryens were closer to gods than men, and his pride in their Valyrian heritage often led him to look down on those not of their blood. Joffrey's haughty demeanor was a source of concern, his youthful arrogance needing to be tempered with the understanding that respect was earned, not inherited.

All these traits they had gotten from Daemon.

Rhaenyra looked up at her son with a gentle smile. "Have you taken your noonday meal yet, Jace?" she asked, noticing the way he cradled his left arm with subtle discomfort.

Jace returned her smile, though it was tempered with a hint of fatigue. "I was here earlier, Mother, but you were still resting, so I ate with Lord Corlys instead." he replied, his tone light, though his movement betrayed a twinge of pain as he settled into the chair.

Her gaze narrowed as she noticed the grimace he tried to conceal. Without a word, she reached for a pillow, offering it to him with a look that brooked no argument. Jace, ever the dutiful son, glared at the offending cushion but allowed her to place it beneath his injured arm.

"You ought to have listened to Grand Maester Gerardys and kept your arm in a sling." she chided softly.

Jace's grin was boyish, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Mother, I was only shot by three arrows. I hardly think I need coddling."

Rhaenyra inhaled sharply at his jest, the humor doing little to ease the memory of the raven that had nearly undone her. The words had been burned into her mind—Jace had been struck by arrows in the gullet, Vermax dying by a scorpion bolt meant for Moondancer. The room had spun, and she had barely managed to keep her footing as Ser Simon read the grim news aloud. Only the witch's brew had calmed her enough to prevent her from flying to Dragonstone herself, leaving the army leaderless in her desperate need to see her son.

The thought of losing him—of losing any of her children—was more than she could bear. She had vomited and shaken throughout the night when she learned that her youngest sons had narrowly escaped death at sea, the ship that should have carried them caught in the crossfire between the Triarchy and the dragons. Once again, it had been Alys who remained by her side, coaxing her to drink her tea and gently wiping the sweat from her brow.

If anything else were to happen to her children, Rhaenyra feared she would not survive it.

Jace, sensing her distress, changed the subject with a slight frown. "Lord Corlys told me that two knights were sent to escort Lady Kat to Tumbleton. Why did you let her leave, Mother?"

Rhaenyra blinked, the name momentarily escaping her until she recalled the quiet, jittery wife of Hugh Hammer. For their services to the Realm, she had knighted all the dragonseeds and invited their families to the Keep. "The poor woman wished to live with her brother," she replied softly, "and I did not want to keep families apart in these dark times."

Jace took a deep breath, visibly restraining his temper. "Mother, the reason I had men scour Flea Bottom for the dragonseeds' families was so that we could have hostages," he said, his voice measured but firm. "Addam's brother is currently the captain of Lord Corlys' ship, surrounded by men loyal to us. Ulf may have no family, but he has friends. We need them close to ensure these men remain true to our cause."

Rhaenyra looked at her son in surprise, the weight of his words sinking in. The boy she had raised, now a man bearing the burden of strategy and survival, was thinking like a leader.

Rhaenyra’s gaze softened as she considered her son’s words, but she shook her head gently. “There is history between Lady Kat and Hugh,” she explained. “Her daughter died but instead of sharing her grief, Hugh left her to claim a dragon. I will not force her to stay with a husband she resents.”

Jace studied her intently, his brow furrowing in thought. “Is that why you let Father leave?” he asked, his voice tinged with concern.

Rhaenyra sighed deeply, her heart aching at the realization that her children were becoming entangled in the uneasy limbo she and Daemon found themselves in. Jace already bore the weight of the Crown’s responsibilities; he should not have to carry the burden of their discord as well.

“Your father is angry,” she said carefully, choosing her words with deliberate care. “And when he’s like this, he tends to lash out. It is better that he’s away, to cool his temper, so that no more innocent people are caught in the crossfire of his wrath.”

Jace’s eyes darkened with incredulity. “By ‘innocent,’ you mean Alicent and Helaena,” he replied sharply. “You think them blameless?”

Rhaenyra hesitated, taken aback by the intensity of her son’s emotions. “Alicent Hightower is a victim of her father’s manipulations, my son.”

Jace’s voice was laced with bitter anger. “Otto Hightower was absent for a decade, Mother, and yet Alicent made you walk the entirety of the Red Keep minutes after you birthed Joffrey, just so she could gloat that he had brown hair and brown eyes. Her father didn’t command her to do that. Her father didn’t instruct her to let Ser Criston turn us into training dummies for her older children in the yard. You’re underestimating Alicent Hightower’s influence in this war.”

Rhaenyra reached out, caressing her son’s face in a calming gesture, trying to soothe the storm brewing within him. “You cannot understand what it is like to be a woman in our world, Jace. Alicent believed she was fulfilling her duty to her family and the realm, and by the time she realized the dire consequences of her actions, it was already too late.”

Jace let out a bitter snort. “It only cost us our family and four dragons. What a steep price to pay for Alicent Hightower’s folly.”

Rhaenyra sighed, the weight of the war and its toll pressing down on her shoulders. “Helaena is the one truly innocent in all of this. No mother should have to bury her children. It is unnatural, and I will not let Daemon hurt her more.”

Jace’s expression hardened. “She is not as innocent as you think, Mother. She stood by while they crowned her husband as King; she became Queen alongside him.”

“And what choice did she have?” Rhaenyra asked softly. “She is but a girl.”

“She has a dragon,” Jace countered, his voice rising with frustration. “Anything is possible for a dragonlord. She could have taken her children and fled to Essos if she truly wanted nothing to do with the Greens, but instead, she relished being elevated as the most powerful woman in the Realm.”

Rhaenyra shook her head, her heart heavy with the knowledge that her son’s anger was fueled by the pain of loss and betrayal. “It is your anger speaking, Jace. We may be at war, but there are those whose choices were made for them. It cannot simply be us against them. We must listen to their explanations too. When you become King, you will need to be cunning but also compassionate, even to our enemies. Otherwise, you will rule over a graveyard.”

Jace’s expression softened, though his resolve remained firm. “I can be a compassionate King when we are at peace, Mother. But we are at war now.”

Rhaenyra’s heart ached with the weight of his words, the reality of their circumstances pressing down on her. “Oh, my sweet.” she murmured, pulling her son into a warm embrace, holding him tightly as if she could shield him from the horrors of the world outside.

A soft knock on the door interrupted their conversation, prompting both Rhaenyra and Jace to sit up a little straighter. Ser Lorent entered, ushering in Lady Mysaria, who carried a silver tray of tea with her usual poised grace. She offered them a quiet smile before setting the tray on the table and slipping out of the room.

“I wasn’t aware you’d taken her on as a handmaiden.” Jace remarked, his tone cool and laced with disapproval.

“She isn’t,” Rhaenyra replied, pouring the tea on two cups. “Lady Mysaria serves in a different capacity—more as a mistress of whispers.”

Jace’s gaze remained steady, his expression unyielding. “Is she the one who whispered to you, convincing you to send Father away?”

Rhaenyra paused, startled by the sharpness of his question. “Your father left of his own accord,” she said, passing him a cup of tea while carefully avoiding his eyes. “Lady Mysaria had no hand in it.”

Jace wasn’t so easily convinced. “So, you didn’t quarrel because of some venomous words she whispered in your ear?”

Rhaenyra sighed, meeting her son’s gaze with a heavy heart. “I assure you, no such venom was involved. Your father… had Jaehaera killed,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, laden with sorrow.

Jace’s expression hardened. “Did he tell you that himself? Did you see her body? Or is this just more of Lady Mysaria’s whispers?”

Rhaenyra stared at him, her eyes wide with a mixture of disbelief and confusion.

“You’ve always said that Daemon never defended himself against Otto Hightower’s accusations, but instead stoked the flames out of spite.” Jace continued. “It is curious to me why you have more grace for Alicent Hightower, who tormented you for ten years and crowned her son King a day after telling you that you would be a good Queen, than the man who raised an army for you. That you would trust a stranger who, just months ago, was working for the Greens, instead of your own husband.”

Rhaenyra reached out, holding Jace’s hand tightly, trying to soothe the doubt and anger on his voice. “Daemon and I… our relationship is tumultuous. I love him, with all my heart I do. But there are things that cannot be forgiven. Even in war, we must hold fast to some measure of morality and decency, or else this kingdom will spiral into chaos. And if we win this war but abandon all virtue in the process, our people will turn against us, and we’ll find ourselves dethroned and despised.”

Jace nodded slowly, though the stubborn set of his jaw betrayed his lingering unease. “I understand, Mother, but please, be cautious in where you place your trust. Do not let a prettier Otto Hightower worm her way into your confidence, leading you away from those who would truly stand by you.”

Rhaenyra sighed, the weight of his words pressing heavily on her heart. “I will, my son. But know that every choice I make, every trust I extend or withhold, is for the sake of our family and our future. I will not allow anyone to drag us into ruin.”

Jace nodded again, though a flicker of defiance remained in his eyes.

Jace POV

Jace sat at the small council table, absentmindedly spinning his Orb of Office. The young Lord Tully was pacing, his agitation palpable as he relayed the latest reports from the Riverlands. The fall of the capital had sparked Aemond Targaryen's wrath, and now he was unleashing his dragon's fury upon the countryside.

"Aemond has unleashed his fury at the Riverlands," Lord Tully declared, his voice tinged with a mix of anger and fear. "He's reduced Darry and Lord Harroway's Town to ash."

Lord Corlys, seated with his usual stoic composure, took a raven from a the pile and scanned the message. His expression darkened as he read aloud, "Lord's Mill, Blackbuckle, Buckle, Claypool, Swynford, and Spiderwood—all burned. The Freys fear he’ll turn his dragon on the Crossing next, and Lord Tully, I understand your concern for Riverrun."

Jace leaned forward, his face a mask of determination. "The King Consort is already hunting Aemond. A raven from Maidenpool reported that Daemon spends his days scouring the skies for Vhagar, returning only under the cover of night."

Lord Sunglass, always quick to question, raised an eyebrow. "How is it possible that Vhagar, a beast of such size, continues to elude him?"

Lord Bartimos snort with disdain and remark, "We have all heard the accounts from Rook’s Rest. Meleys, in her might, was able to ground Vhagar, and the only reason she fell was because Vhagar used the castle’s shadow to conceal herself and catch Princess Rhaenys unawares. Now, she skulks in the shadows, using her coloring to hide in the surrounding forest, striking only at villages and hamlets when it is safe."

Lord Stauton, his voice measured and cautious, suggested, "Would it not be wise to send another dragon to aid the King Consort in his hunt?"

Lord Corlys, ever the voice of reason, shook his head. "The dragonseeds are... uncultured. They are commonborn, untrained in the ways of diplomacy. A careless word or action could inflame Daemon's temper. We might lose a dragonrider instead of providing the assistance we intend."

Jace frowned, not liking that Daemon is alone in hunting a beast such as Vhagar. "Addam is sensible," he argued. "He knows when to keep his head down. I would suggest sending him."

But Lord Corlys remained firm. "Addam may have sense, but he’s still young and untested in the kind of battle that awaits him. And Daemon… Daemon is no ordinary man. He walks a fine line between control and chaos. Sending Addam could be seen as an insult to Daemon’s pride, a suggestion that we believe he cannot handle this on his own. We cannot afford to undermine his authority, not when he’s the only one capable of matching Aemond’s ruthlessness.”

Jace glanced at his mother, expecting her to insist on sending additional support to Daemon. Instead, she merely sighed and averted her eyes.

If he still had Vermax, he would have flown to Maidenpool himself, if only to annoy Daemon into returning to the Red Keep. Jace had let their differences simmer before, but he couldn’t allow this rift between his parents to continue. With Joffrey returning from the Vale and his mother likely recalling Egg and Serys back, he couldn’t bear the thought of them witnessing the cracks in their family. If necessary, he would lock his parents in a room until they confronted each other. He would gladly let the kingdom burn, but he would never let his family fall to ashes.

He considered suggesting to his mother that Baela accompany Daemon, but he knew how crucial her presence was at Dragonstone. Rhaena could go, but she was still a new dragonrider, her dragon was wild and untamed. She needed more time to strengthen their bond. He will have to stay behind to talk to his mother.

As he pressed a hand to his chest, fighting the cold ache within, he caught his mother's worried gaze and quickly dropped his hand, offering her a reassuring smile, which she returned.

Lord Corlys leaned forward, his voice low with concern. “There has been another sighting of Princess Jaehaera,” he announced. “A silver-haired girl accompanied by a grey-bearded man was seen near Bitterbridge.”

The Queen’ eyes narrowed. “Bitterbridge?” she repeated, her voice tinged with both hope and frustration. “Are we certain it’s her this time?”

Lord Corlys shook his head. “There have been many false reports, Your Grace, but this one seems credible.”

“Dispatch a raven immediately. Command Lady Caswell to search for the Princess at once. I want her found.” The Queen said steadily.

“And if she is?” Lord Corlys asked, his tone cautious.

“Gold dragons,” Rhaenyra replied, her voice firm. “A handsome reward to anyone who can safely deliver her back to the capital.”

Lord Corlys nodded. “It will be done.”

Jace, who had been listening quietly, spoke up. “Mother, are you certain this isn’t another wild goose chase? We’ve had too many false leads already.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze softened as she looked at her son. “I promised Helaena I would find her daughter, Jace. I cannot rest until I know the truth.”

Jace regretted not clarifying with Daemon what had truly become of Aegon’s only surviving child. His mother’s near-obsessive search for the girl wasn’t solely because of her promise to Helaena; it was also a desperate need to prove that Daemon hadn’t knowingly disregarded her wishes.

In the end, Jace had to leave without his mother, who remained behind to confer with Lord Corlys about a man called the Shepherd. The fanatic was agitating the smallfolk, giving sermons that rallied King’s Landing against the Targaryens and their dragons, laying the blame for the war's destruction and suffering at their feet. The dragons would have been content to stay curled in their nests on Dragonstone if not for their riders urging them to venture out.

As Jace walked toward the Heir's apartments, his thoughts turned to the steps he had already taken. He had spoken with Elinda and the Strong sisters, ensuring that Lady Mysaria was never left alone with his mother for too long. He did not trust her whispered words, fearing they were filled with poison.

Lady Anella had brought to his attention the need for more Ladies-in-Waiting for the Queen, and he had acted on it. Lord Celtigar's granddaughter would soon arrive in the capital, and Lady Amanda Arryn, the mother of the Lord of Ironoaks, would accompany Joffrey on his return. Lady Amanda was his grandmother Aemma’s half-sister, and Jace thought it wise to have another family member near his mother, someone who could care for her as kin should. He had noticed how his mother had begun to isolate herself, and he was reminded of the tales of King Viserys, whose loneliness had allowed Otto Hightower to manipulate him so easily. Viserys had no kin near him, no true friends, and had become solely dependent on Otto—a fate Jace was determined his mother would not share.

She already felt alone without Daemon and the younger children by her side, and her council of stubborn lords often made her doubt her decisions. It would be good for her to have more family and female friends around, to bolster her spirits and offer companionship.

Jace had also spoken with Lords Frey, Blackwood, and Tully about sending boys of his brothers’ age to the capital once the war was done. His mother and father would be preoccupied with rebuilding the realm, and he wanted to ensure his brothers had suitable companions, so they would not feel neglected. Though it was a matter for the future, Jace was intent on planting the seeds now, with the lords already present and trying to curry more favor

Jace noticed Lady Elinda approaching, her usually calm demeanor replaced by visible agitation. "Is something amiss, Lady Elinda?" he asked, concern evident in his voice.

"My Prince," she began, her tone betraying her unease, "there is something deeply troubling about Princess Helaena. I’ve tried to manage it, but the poor girl is severely distressed. And... there is another matter."

Jace's brow furrowed. "What is it?"

"The former Queen," Lady Elinda continued, "Alicent Hightower. She has been requesting an audience with Queen Rhaenyra for days now. I have done my best to delay her, but I fear I can only stall for so long."

Jace sighed, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. "Thank you, Lady Elinda. I will look into it." He paused, then added with a hint of frustration, "It irks me to no end that Alicent Hightower believes she has the right to demand an audience with my mother, and so frequently at that."

"I understand, my prince. But the former Queen is... persistent." Lady Elinda replied, her voice softening as she saw Jace's irritation.

"Her persistence is precisely the problem." Jace muttered, then straightened, his voice firmer. With a sigh of annoyance, Jace thanked his mother’s lady-in-waiting and reassured her that he would attend to the matter. It irked him to no end that Alicent Hightower had the audacity to request an audience with his mother, often no less than once a week. He had promptly put an end to that, speaking to his mother about the inappropriateness of the former Queen’s demands. Such allowances only served to undermine her authority. Rhaenyra had understood and agreed that Alicent would henceforth speak only with her ladies, and even then, only when absolutely necessary. Lady Mina Strong, with her steady composure, was less affected by Alicent's persistent attempts to play the victim.

Ser Adrian Redfort passed him as they headed towards the chamber that housed the former Queen, ensuring all was secure before allowing Jace to enter. The room was spacious, with two beds—one for Alicent and the other for Helaena—and a small seating area where they could contemplate their fate. There had been calls from the council to throw them into the Black Cells; he had even heard whispers that Lady Mysaria suggested sending them to the brothels, to bear bastards of their own—a cruel irony considering how often they had mocked his mother. Yet, Rhaenyra’s mercy prevailed. The former Queen and her daughter were kept in Maegor’s Holdfast under heavy guard.

Jace had taken care to ensure that their guards and servants were changed daily, preventing any chance of them gaining sympathy or forming alliances within the Red Keep.

As Jace entered the chamber, a heavy sense of confinement pressed upon him. The windows were barred, their iron grates casting grim shadows on the stone walls. Ser Lorent, the Lord Commander of the Queensguard, had personally ensured there would be no means of escape. Jace had taken great care to make sure that they are put in a corridor with no entrance to the hidden passages.

The secret passages, known only to a few, had been sealed with iron bars by Daemon himself before his departure. His stepfather did not want anyone else to know of the passages so it was him Daemon roped to help with the task. It had taken two exhausting weeks to secure every entrance and opening, and Jace was relieved to leave the grueling task behind, knowing he'd never have to endure the life of a builder.

The absence of fresh air was palpable. The hearth, once a source of warmth and comfort, now belched out a dense, acrid smoke, mingling with the cloying scent of incense. The candles, scattered throughout the room, did little to dispel the oppressive atmosphere. Their flickering flames cast eerie shadows that danced on the walls, adding to the room’s stifling, almost sepulchral feel. It reminded Jace of the cold, echoing halls of a sept, where the weight of silence was only broken by whispered prayers but unlike the Sept this room offers no solace.

His gaze fell to the floor, where numerous parchments lay strewn in disarray. They were filled with dark, foreboding sketches—most depicting an inky black void, punctuated by two haunting lilac swirls that seemed to stare out from the darkness. The drawings were unsettling, a glimpse into the tortured mind of the room's occupants.

As he stepped further into the room, the former Queen Alicent rose to her feet. Her movements were slow, deliberate, and when she bowed, it was a shallow, almost reluctant gesture. "I was expecting the Queen." she murmured, her voice tinged with disappointment.

Jace’s expression hardened. "The Queen has more important matters to attend to than speaking with traitors." he replied coldly.

Alicent's mouth tightened, her eyes narrowing with a flash of defiance. "You will speak more softly to me, bastard. I gave Rhaenyra this city—"

Jace cut her off with a mocking laugh. "You gave us this city? Was it you who commanded the Gold Cloaks to lower the portcullis of the Red Keep? Was it your dragons that shattered the gates of King’s Landing?" His voice dripped with contempt. "Everything you promised my mother was left unfulfilled. You even let Aegon and his child escape. You are as useless as ever, Alicent. Perhaps I should heed the Council's advice and deliver both you and your daughter to the brothels so that you can have bastards of your own. You can become the Brothel Queens."

Alicent’s face drained of color, her hands trembling as she clasped them together. "Forgive me, Prince Jacaerys. I did not mean—"

"You did not mean it?" Jace sneered, stepping closer, his voice low and venomous. "You did not mean to make my mother’s life a living hell in her own Keep? You did not mean to usurp her Crown? You did not mean for countless people to die because of your ambition and lies? For once in your life, Alicent, take accountability for the misery you've caused. You can lie to others, but at least admit to yourself what a horrible human being you are."

He could see the retort forming on her lips, but before she could speak, Helaena crawled towards him.

The heat in the chamber was oppressive, a stifling warmth that clung to the skin, yet Helaena Targaryen sat swathed in layers of velvet robes, her frail form almost hidden beneath their weight. Her nightgown peeked out from beneath the rich fabric, a stark contrast to the thick cloak draped around her narrow shoulders. She was a pale shadow of the woman Jace remembered, her once-pudgy cheeks now hollow, her eyes—too large for her gaunt face—sunken and glassy, as if she teetered on the edge of fevered delirium.

Her hair, once a crown of silver, hung in disarray, strands escaping from a loose braid to cling to her clammy skin. She was weak, so weak that she could not even muster the strength to stand. Instead, she crawled towards him, her movements slow and pained, a pitiful sight that tugged at Jace’s heart.

“My Prince,” Ser Adrian murmured, his voice heavy with concern as he unsheathed his sword, ready to protect his prince. But Jace raised a hand, calming the knight. Helaena Targaryen was no threat.

He crouched down, bringing himself to her level, his gaze soft as he took in her desperate, haunted expression.

“Please, save her,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “She is cold and alone, she is hurt... she is afraid of the dark. Please, save her.”

Jace frowned, confusion knitting his brow. “Who?” he asked gently.

“My daughter,” Helaena answered, her voice rising in desperation. “She needs me. She’s not supposed to die this early. She’s hungry and cold, and she is scared.”

Jace glanced over at Queen Alicent, who stood nearby, her teeth gnawing at the sides of her nails in silent anxiety. “Where is Jaehaera? Where did you send her?” Jace asked, his voice cautious.

Helaena’s eyes darted around the room, wild and frantic. “She’s here,” she insisted, her voice cracking. “She’s cold and hungry, and she’s afraid of the dark. Please, please, please…”

Pity welled up in Jace as he looked down at his aunt, her mind fractured by grief. “She’s not here,” he said softly. “You sent her away.”

“No,” Helaena whimpered, shaking her head vehemently. “She’s here. She’s here, she’s here, and she’s cold and hungry! Please…”

Jace exchanged a glance with Ser Adrian, who grimaced, his expression hardened by the sight before him. “She has gone mad.” the older knight muttered.

“No.” Alicent interjected, her voice trembling as she reached out to take Helaena’s hand, this time with a gentleness that belied her earlier tension. “She is not mad. She is grieving, her daughter is missing and she watched her son be killed in front of her.”

Jace’s eyes darkened as he looked at Alicent. “My mother lost two children,” he said, his voice low, yet edged with the weight of bitter truth. “And she is not mumbling nonsense. Helaena is like this because she has been abused by her own family—a husband who rapes her, a genocidal maniac brother who hurts her, and a hypocritical mother who cloaks herself in righteousness while committing the highest crimes in the name of her beloved Seven. Anyone would go mad.”

Alicent’s eyes flashed with anger, but she said nothing, her hand tightening around Helaena’s as if to shield her from the world that had shattered her mind.

As Jace made his way towards the door, the mournful wails of Helaena echoed through the chamber, her pleas for help repeating like a somber litany. Her voice, once so delicate and melodic, now carried the desperation of a woman undone by the cruelties of fate. She had been the gentlest of them, a creature of grace and kindness, now paying for sins that were not her own.

But Jace could not afford to linger on her suffering. His heart, though heavy with pity, had no more space for it. The courtesies that was given to them was all he could afford, a veneer of civility that he knew would not be mirrored if the roles were reversed. His mother, he knew, would receive no such grace. She would be struck down without hesitation, her head paraded through the streets as a grim trophy of victory.

The sympathy he might have once felt for the Greens had long since been drained from him. They had taken too much, inflicted too many wounds, and even now, as they cloaked themselves in the guise of civility, the blood of his family still tainted their hands. The cries that followed him out into the corridor were a lament for what had been lost, but Jace could not allow them to sway him. His resolve had hardened, forged in the fires of grief and loss, and there was no room left for mercy. Not now. Not ever.

He was yet again at the Small Council Chamber, Jace sat at the table, his eyes following the movements of his younger brother, Joffrey, as the boy dutifully refilled the cups of the council members. The sight of Joffrey brought  warmth to the Red Keep that had been missing for far too long. Since his arrival, the Keep had been a livelier place, and most importantly, their mother had been smiling again—a genuine, unguarded smile that Jace had not seen in what felt like an eternity.

He wished their mother would send for Egg and Serys, but she had declined the idea with uncharacteristic vehemence, insisting that she would only summon them once the war was won. The thought of them alone in a foreign place across the continent weighed heavily on Jace, but he understood her decision.

Joffrey, however, had not been as understanding. Upon his return to the Keep, he had been livid when he discovered that Daemon was not there to greet him. His brother’s anger had been fierce, a tempest that took their mother half a day to calm. Joffrey only had Daemon as a father, and it must have stung deeply to be left behind. But Jace knew that Daemon would never take Joffrey away without their mother’s consent. The bond between them was strong, but it remains that Daemon still do not have direct claim over Joffrey, unlike Egg and Serys.

Jace had installed Joffrey as their mother’s cupbearer, a role the boy had taken to with surprising grace. Joffrey had been nothing short of wonderful in his duties, his presence a balm to the weary hearts within the Keep. Lord Corlys’s eyes seemed to twinkle whenever Joffrey was near, a sign that the old Sea Snake had already been won over. Joffrey had endeared himself to their grandsire by regaling him with tales of the knots the sailors had taught him during their travels, proudly demonstrating his newfound skills to the man who had seen more knots than most could ever imagine.

Jace knew that Lord Corlys was angling to have his bastards legitimized, likely to have one of them claim Driftmark as his own. But Driftmark was Luke’s inheritance, something that Ser Laenor had insisted upon even if Luke was not of his blood. Jace would ensure that if it could not be Luke’s, it would be Joffrey’s. They could not afford to have their claims questioned any further. It was clear that Lord Corlys was already half in love his younger brother. It would not be hard to soften him to the idea of Joffrey as his heir.

As Jace watched, Joffrey poured wine into Lord Corlys’s goblet, earning a surreptitious smile from the Sea Snake, who slipped him a candied lemon in return. Joffrey’s face lit up with a wide grin, the boy’s joy infectious. Jace looked down to hide his own smile, bemused by his brother’s effortless charm. There was no one, it seemed, that Joffrey Velaryon could not win over.

A sudden commotion at the door drew Jace’s attention. A runner entered, bearing a raven’s message. Grand Maester Gerardys rose to receive it, his face becoming a mask of grave concern as he read the contents. The atmosphere in the room shifted, tension tightening like a drawn bowstring.

The Grand Maester returned to the council table, his expression somber as he addressed the Queen. “Your Grace, a raven from Lady Caswell has arrived. There are rumors… troubling ones… that Princess Jaehaera was seen in Bitterbridge. When the townspeople learned of the reward you offered for the child, a mob descended upon her, all of them trying to claim her for their own tearing her to pieces in their greed.”

The words hung in the air like a death knell. Jace’s heart clenched as he looked at his mother, whose face had gone pale with horror. He could not allow Joffrey to hear such news.

“Joffrey,” Jace called, his voice steady despite the turmoil within him, “go to Aunt Amanda and ask her for some cake. I’m sure she has something sweet for you.”

Joffrey hesitated, sensing the change in the room, but the promise of sweets was too tempting. With a reluctant nod, he turned and ran off, Ser Lyonel Bentley of the Queensguard following close behind.

As the door closed behind them, Grand Maester Gerardys continued, “Lady Caswell insists that no silver-haired child has been seen, but Daeron Targaryen has been informed. His army is marching on Bitterbridge. She is begging for aid.”

Queen Rhaenyra’s voice cut through the tension in the chamber, resolute and commanding. "Lord Alun Caswell was hanged because he refused to bend the knee to the Usurper. We owe it to his widow to show that her husband’s sacrifice was not in vain. Ulf and Hugh are to fly to Bitterbridge immediately to assist Lady Caswell. Tessarion is younger than Vermax; she’ll have no chance against Vermithor and Silverwing."

Lord Celtigar, ever the cautious one, raised a brow. "Your Grace, is it necessary to send two of our largest dragons?"

Rhaenyra’s gaze was unyielding. "Daeron commands a sizable host, and I will not see our allies left to fend for themselves. The Northern and Riverland armies will follow them. Let it be known that those who stand with the Queen will not be abandoned."

Lord Sunglass nodded approvingly. "Good, Your Grace. If Bitterbridge falls, Tumbleton will be next, and they are but a few days’ march from the capital."

Lord Massey, always wary of the Stormlands, added, "We must also watch for any movement in Storm’s End. We cannot afford to be surrounded by enemies."

With a final nod from the Queen, the council was dismissed. Jace, his thoughts a whirl of strategy and concern, had half a mind to find Joffrey to find comfort with his brother’s childish antics when he spotted Ser Largent at the end of the corridor. The giant of a knight bowed respectfully as Jace approached, his presence a towering shadow against the stone walls.

"Ser Largent." Jace greeted, noting the tension in the knight’s posture.

"Prince Jacaerys," Ser Largent began, his voice low, "The Shepherd was preaching again last night. We arrested five of his men, but all the hideouts they mentioned were empty."

Jace’s frustration was barely concealed as he instructed, "Tell the men to continue their vigilance. I want the Shepherd and all his poor fellows dead."

Ser Largent bowed deeply. "We may have run the Greens out of the city, but they held control for nearly ten years. Not all of their sycophants are gone."

Jace nodded, his expression grim. "It is not just the knights and men-at-arms that concern me. It’s the fanatics of the Faith. We cannot afford conflict with the Seven in the midst of this war."

The knight’s face hardened with resolve. "I understand, my prince. We will ensure that only the Shepherd and his ilk need to face swift justice. We will deal with the Faith with  utmost care."

With a curt nod, Jace continued on his way, the weight of the city’s unrest pressing down on him. As he approached Maegor’s Holdfast, he was met by Grand Maester Gerardys, who stood in the corridor leading to the royal apartments, his aged face lined with worry.

"Another raven, Grand Maester?" Jace inquired, noting the tremor in the old man’s hands.

Gerardys nodded, his fingers trembling as he handed over the message. "Yes, my prince, this one from Harrenhal. " he replied, his voice a whisper of dread. Jace took the message, bracing himself for whatever news might lie within.

Jace hands trembled as he unfurled the parchment, the weight of the words within pressing upon him before he had even read them. His breath hitched, and he braced himself, trying to steel his heart against whatever news had arrived. But no amount of preparation could have shielded him from the blow that followed.

"Daemon Targaryen had killed the monsters, Your Grace. Vhagar and Aemond Targaryen are dead, lost to the waters of the God’s Eye. The King and his dragon have perished too."

The words blurred before his eyes as the world tilted off its axis. Daemon… gone? It seemed an impossibility, a cruel jest by the gods. Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince, had always been an unyielding force, a pillar of strength that had anchored their family through every storm. How could he be gone?

Jace’s mind reeled with disbelief, memories flooding in, each one a testament to Daemon’s indomitable spirit. He recalled the story of how Daemon faced the Crabfeeder on the Stepstones, cutting through the man’s forces with a fury that seemed inhuman, winning the day when all hope had seemed lost. He remembered the day Daemon had arrived at Dragonstone, his mere presence quelling any unrest, a silent promise of protection to his kin. And he could never forget how Daemon had stood by Rhaenyra’s side, unwavering, when their family was torn apart by the Greens’ treachery—his sword, his dragon, his very life, all offered in her defense.

Daemon had been more than just a warrior; he had been the very strength of their resistance, the force that kept them moving forward when all seemed bleak. The thought that such a man could be gone was beyond comprehension. It felt as if the ground beneath Jace’s feet had been ripped away, leaving him adrift in a void of disbelief and grief.

His legs moved of their own accord, carrying him through the corridors of the Holdfast as if he were a ghost, detached from the world around him. Each step was heavier than the last as he approached the Queen’s chambers. When he entered, he found his mother in the midst of a momentary respite. She had already shed her outer gown and was clad in a more comfortable day dress, the soft Arryn blue fabric falling gently around her. The lace surcoat she wore in private gave her an air of serene elegance, but there was no serenity to be found now.

“Jace?” Her voice was laced with concern as she turned to face him. “What is it?”

He opened his mouth to speak, but the words were trapped in his throat. How could he tell her? How could he possibly convey the enormity of the loss they had just suffered? Somehow, he forced the words out, each one feeling like a dagger to his heart. He does not remember how he was able to articulate it but he did.

But he would never forget the way his mother's face crumbled as she heard those words. At first, she simply stared at him, uncomprehending, as if his words were a foreign language she could not decipher. The room seemed to hold its breath along with her, a suffocating silence descending upon them both. Jace could see it in her eyes—the moment when the truth began to sink in, the denial giving way to a grief so profound it defied reason.

Rhaenyra’s breath hitched, her body trembling violently as she took in the full weight of what he had said. Her knees buckled beneath her, and Jace instinctively moved to catch her, pulling her into his arms. She was shaking so fiercely that it seemed her very soul was shattering, and together they sank to the ground, the cold stone pressing against them as they knelt in their shared anguish.

Then the scream came, a raw, piercing sound that echoed through the chamber—a scream filled with pain, disbelief, and unrelenting sorrow. This was no silent mourning like when Visenya and Luke had been lost; this was the sound of a woman’s heart breaking for all the world to hear. Her cries tore through him, each one ripping at the fragile threads of his own composure.

Jace wept as well, his tears mingling with hers as he cradled her trembling form. The grief was overwhelming, a tidal wave that threatened to drown them both. In that moment, he couldn’t help but wonder if this would be the blow that finally broke his mother completely. The thought terrified him—what would become of them, of their family, if she were to fall to this despair?

But for now, all he could do was hold her, offering what little comfort he could as they knelt together in their grief, the once-unbreakable bond of their family now shattered, the pieces scattered around them like the remnants of a broken dream.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra POV

For three days now, Rhaenyra had wandered the corridors of Maegor's Holdfast, not as a queen, but as a ghost, a mere shadow of the woman she had been. Since the news of Daemon’s death reached her, she existed in a state of numb disbelief, moving through the hours with a mechanical precision, as if any deviation might unravel the delicate thread that still tethered her to this world. Life had not abandoned her entirely, but the fire that once fueled her had been extinguished, leaving behind only cold, lifeless embers.

The loss of her children had been a tempest, a storm that raged within her, tearing through her heart with a violence that left her gasping for air. Each of their deaths had ripped away a part of her soul, a wound that could never truly heal. But the pain of losing Daemon was something altogether different. It was not merely a loss; it was the extinguishing of the brightest flame in her life, a light that had guided her, warmed her, and ignited the very core of her being. He was not just her husband, but her partner in every sense, the one who had understood her deepest desires, her fiercest ambitions, and her deep-seated fears. Without him, it was as though the final page of her heart had been turned, the story within it finished, the book closed forever.

Daemon had always returned to her, no matter how far he had roamed or how long he had been gone. She had grown to count on it, as certain as the dragons that always returned to the heat of Dragonmont. The thought of him never coming back, of a world in which he was truly gone, was an agony so profound that it felt like a tear in the very fabric of her existence, unraveling everything she had ever known or loved.

As she continued to walk, her steps heavy and deliberate, she pulled her heavy velvet overdress closer to her body. The chill that seemed to cling to her refused to relent, no matter how fiercely she stoked the fires in her chambers. She could never escape it; it was as if the cold was not in the air, but within her, settling into her bones, an eternal reminder of the warmth she had lost.

Her wandering brought her to Joffrey's room, where her young son had been inconsolable since the news had broken. His cries echoed the pain that she kept hidden beneath the surface, a pain that Jace had tried to soothe with tales of Daemon's bravery and legend. The smallfolk of Harrenhal whispered of a final, fateful battle in the skies, where dragons had torn at each other with claws and teeth. Daemon, ever the warrior, had made a bold and fatal move, leaping from Caraxes’ saddle, Dark Sister in hand, to plunge the Valyrian steel blade through Aemond’s eye—the same eye Aemond had lost so many years before. The moment Daemon leapt, both men were doomed. Caraxes and Vhagar, locked in a death grip, had plummeted from the heavens, crashing into the waters of the Gods Eye.

They are still unable to search for Daemon’s body. The lake had swallowed them whole, the waves still crashing onto the shores, blanketed by a fog as thick as mourning shrouds. The water still boiled, they said, with the blood of dragons. And so, Rhaenyra was left to wander, to grieve, to exist in a world where the fire that had once burned so brightly in her life was no more.

Rhaenyra moved slowly to the edge of Joffrey’s bed, her every step heavy with the weight of sorrow. As she settled herself beside him, her hand reached out instinctively, brushing away the dark curls that had fallen across his tear-streaked face. His eyes, swollen from endless crying, were closed now in a restless slumber, but the anguish was still etched into every line of his young face.

In his small arms, Joffrey clutched a soft doll—one with red scales and a long serpentine neck, a lovingly crafted image of Caraxes. Rhaena had sewn it for him when he was just a babe, her stitches as careful as they were tender. The children’s obsession with Caraxes had always been a source of amusement and pride for Daemon, who had nurtured it with all the enthusiasm of a devoted father. Each of her children possessed their own version of Caraxes—a soft doll to comfort them in the night and a carved wooden toy to inspire their play during the day. Daemon had insisted on it, as though he believed that by surrounding his children with reminders of his dragon, he could pass on some of Caraxes’ strength and spirit to them.

Caraxes was no ordinary dragon. With his long neck, bat-like wings, and a head that was more serpentine than any other, he was a creature of legend, as unique as the man who rode him. And Daemon had delighted in the fact that his children adored the dragon as much as he did. He would sit with them for hours, recounting tales of Caraxes’ bravery, his victories in battle, and the bond they shared. He had always spoken with a gleam in his eye, a passion that had ignited their imaginations and filled their hearts with dreams of dragons.

As Rhaenyra caressed Joffrey's hair, she could almost hear Daemon’s voice, that deep, warm tone that had always comforted and reassured them. The memory of it wrapped around her heart, a bittersweet reminder of all that she had lost. For as much as Daemon had been the fire in her life, he had been the very foundation of their children’s world. And now, that world had been shattered, leaving behind nothing but the fragile remnants of what once was.

Rhaenyra felt a pang of helplessness as she gazed at Joffrey’s tear-streaked face, her heart heavy with the burden of her own despair. How could she possibly comfort her children when she herself was unraveling, a queen in name but a broken woman in truth? Jace had taken on the mantle of her duties, his capable hands steering the realm in her stead, allowing her the time to recover—though she doubted she ever would. What solace could there be when the flame that had once ignited her very soul had been snuffed out, leaving her adrift in a sea of sorrow?

Leaning down, she pressed a tender kiss to Joffrey’s forehead, her lips lingering as if by some small miracle, she could draw strength from his warmth. With a soft sigh, Rhaenyra turned to the two night-nurses who sat quietly in the corner, their needles busy with the embroidery of Joffrey’s many doublets. “See that he is brought to my rooms when he wakes,” she instructed, her voice barely rising above a whisper, yet carrying the weight of a command. “I shall break my fast with him, whenever he chooses to wake, that is. There’s no need to rouse him early.”

The nurses acknowledged her with a quiet understanding, and with that, Rhaenyra turned to leave.

Her feet carried her through the dimly lit halls, the path familiar yet distant, until she found herself standing before Daemon’s old rooms—the ones he had used as a prince and had reclaimed when they took King’s Landing. The door before her was heavy, forged of dark metal and adorned with the sigil of House Targaryen, the three-headed dragon encircled by Dark Sister. It was said that Visenya had once called this chamber hers, and Maegor the Cruel after her. Perhaps that was why the room had remained untouched, even when Alicent had made it her mission to strip the castle of all things Targaryen.

Ser Lorent, ever vigilant, moved to open the heavy door for her, his gaze sweeping the room to ensure that it was empty, a sanctuary for her grief. Once satisfied, he took his post outside, leaving her to the solitude of her thoughts.

As she stepped inside, Rhaenyra’s eyes were immediately drawn to Daemon’s armor, the very one he had worn during the Heir’s Tourney. The sight of it took her breath away, a painful reminder of the day that had altered the course of their lives forever. The armor, black as night and adorned with the fierce imagery of dragons, was a masterpiece of craftsmanship. The pauldrons were shaped like dragon heads, their mouths frozen in eternal roars, while the helm was crowned with a dragon’s crest, its wings poised as if ready to take flight. The scales of the armor glistened in the dim light, each one meticulously designed to catch the eye, to command attention and respect. It is reminiscent of the armors that the Dragonkeepers wear as they guard the Dragonmont and the Dragonpit.

She remembers that Daemon had trained with the Dragonkeepers the first year he claimed Caraxes. He slept on the inner vault below the Dragonpit learning not only his dragon commands but how to care for the dragons, how to feed them, how to saddle them and how to care for them when they are injured.

Beside it stood another set of armor, less grand but no less meaningful. This was the armor he had worn as Lord Commander of the City Watch, a role that had suited him as naturally as the air he breathed. The gold cloak still draped over one shoulder, a vivid contrast against the dark metal, a symbol of the authority he had wielded with such ease.

Rhaenyra stepped further into the room, her movements tentative, as if afraid that the memories contained within might overwhelm her. The scent of leather and metal lingered in the air, mingling with the faint, elusive traces of Daemon’s presence. Most of their possessions had been locked away in the vault at Dragonstone, kept safe until the war’s end, but here, in this room, were the remnants of a time before their union, before the weight of the world had pressed so heavily upon them.

As Rhaenyra moved further into the room, her gaze was drawn to the familiar floor-to-ceiling glass window, a sanctuary from her childhood memories. It was framed by dark ironwood, the same rich wood that dominated the room, and beneath it, a wide, padded ledge—one that Daemon had thoughtfully cushioned just for her. How many times had she hidden away here, curled up on that ledge, seeking solace from the demands of her septa, finding comfort in the knowledge that even when Daemon wasn’t present, he had prepared a place for her, a haven from the world? This was her safe place when she was still not able to escaped duty at the back of Syrax.

The heavy, luxurious curtains that adorned the window were still as she remembered, thick enough to block out the world when drawn. Daemon had insisted on them, ensuring that she could hide away completely, undisturbed by prying eyes. Rhaenyra reached out, her fingers brushing against the soft silk, the fabric cool beneath her touch. There was no trace of dust; everything was impeccably maintained, a testament to the care taken by those who served her uncle.

She could recall the countless hours spent here, hidden away from the world, the heavy curtains drawn tight as she sought refuge from the endless cycle of her mother’s labors and losses. She would cry here, her young heart breaking as she watched her father mourn yet another son. This window had been her solace, the one place where she could be alone with her grief, her fears, and her tears.

Rhaenyra turned her gaze from the window, trailing her fingers along the dark table that dominated the center of the room. It was a massive, imposing piece of furniture, its size and weight almost ludicrous, as if it belonged more in a bustling kitchen than in the private quarters of a prince. Yet it was a relic from Maegor’s time, and Daemon had insisted on keeping it, along with everything else that spoke to the power and history of their house.

Her uncle’s small household had always seen to it that his belongings were kept in perfect order, whether he was present or in one of his frequent exiles. Ser Vaelor Celtigar, his ever-dutiful steward, and Ser Harrion Vance, his groom, had followed him even to Essos when he married Laena, and returned with him to Dragonstone, ensuring that his affairs were always meticulously managed. And then there was Ser Durran Darklyn, his head scribe, who was diligent in keeping Daemon’s letters and messages organized, even now.

Rhaenyra’s hand drifted to one such message, a raven scroll that lay atop the table. She unfolded it with care, her eyes scanning the words, "Put her in the cold and quiet depths, let the darkness cradle her. A life untouched by fire may yet find its end in shadows." The note was signed simply, Alys.

The name stirred a memory, a pretty but peculiar healer from Harrenhal. Lady Mysaria had once hinted at a possible dalliance between Daemon and Alys, but Rhaenyra had never seen any evidence of a lover's connection—there had been a certain tension, perhaps, but more akin to a vexed friendship than anything romantic. Yet the words left her unsettled. Who were they discussing? And what fate had they considered?

She set the note aside and reached for another, her breath catching as she read the ominous words: "The threads have shifted, my prince. What was written is no longer certain—do not leap to meet a fate already unwoven." The warning was chilling, and it brought to mind the tales Jace had spun for Joffrey, weaving the legendary battle above the God’s Eye . How Daemon leaped from his dragon to drive Dark Sister into the Aemond’s missing eye.

Rhaenyra could scarcely fathom why such a thought had come to her mind as she read the letter, and in an instant, the parchment slipped from her fingers as if it had seared her skin. She would have turned to leave, eager to escape the unsettling thoughts that clouded her, when something else caught her eye—a paper, crumpled and then carefully smoothed, resting atop a golden tray as though someone had placed it there with great deliberation.

Her breath hitched as she recognized the handwriting—Daemon’s unmistakable script. His hand was bold and assertive, each stroke strong, with lazy curves and a confident, slightly impatient slant that spoke of a man who rarely took time for anything insignificant. Her heart pounded in her chest as she sat down, her hands trembling as she unfolded the letter.

I’ve seen it, clear as dragonfire. Those damned weirwoods, they—they see everything, don’t they? I swear—by the old gods, they... they know us, know what we are. The roots... twisting through my mind, tangling—thoughts, but in that—madness, yes, I found clarity. We should—no, must, be bound, beneath those bloody red leaves, before those weeping faces, someday. You and me... fire and blood, beneath the eyes that... see all. Let them witness our truth.

Rhaenyra’s eyes widened, a deep confusion settling over her. These were not the words of the Daemon she knew, the man who had always been a master of written eloquence. He had a way with words, a flair for poetry and stories that he would lovingly share with her and their children. This letter, though, was jumbled, incoherent, almost as if he had been in the grip of some fevered delirium. What had happened to him at Harrenhal?

Rhaenyra’s thoughts drifted to the unsettling whispers she had heard during her brief stay at Harrenhal, tales that clung to the air like mist. There were murmurings of voices carried on the wind, of visions that warped the very fabric of time, leaving those who glimpsed them questioning reality itself. Men spoke in hushed tones of dreams that haunted them long after waking, leaving them trembling with a nameless dread that lingered throughout the day.

What is the fabled curse of Harren the Black? Was it the witch?

At the bottom of the scroll, there was another note, scribbled in a hurried hand:

I found a—no, I took it—bark, it’s smooth. Braided it myself. Use it on your hair, instead of those black strings. Looks better, doesn’t it?

Rhaenyra’s heart lurched, a wild panic surging through her veins. Desperation took hold as she frantically searched the room, her hands trembling as she swept papers and objects aside in a near frenzy. Where was the bark? What had he meant by it? She could almost feel the texture of it in her hand, the smoothness he had described, but it eluded her. Her fingers brushed the edges of the table, nearly knocking everything to the ground in her frantic search.

She felt as though she were grasping at the wind, chasing something intangible, something that would slip through her fingers the moment she thought she had it within her grasp. And yet, the desperation drove her on, unwilling to let go of this last tangible connection to Daemon, as if finding that small piece of bark would somehow bring him back to her, even for a fleeting moment.

Rhaenyra’s breath caught in her throat as her fingers finally brushed against the silk pouch tucked away in the depths of the drawer. With trembling hands, she retrieved it, her heart pounding with a mix of anticipation and dread. She opened the delicate pouch to reveal a length of smooth weirwood bark, braided with meticulous care. It was astonishingly thin, yet flexible, as long as her arm and glossy with a sheen that caught the light. At one end, Daemon had carved their initials within a flame, a symbol so deeply personal that it sent a fresh wave of grief crashing over her.

Rhaenyra clutched the braid to her chest, her lips pressing fervent kisses to the carved initials as tears began to flow. The sorrow was overwhelming, a tidal wave that swept her under, leaving her hunched over the string of bark, weeping as though her heart might shatter. The realization that she would never see Daemon again, that he was truly gone, was unbearable. The memories of all the cruel words she had hurled at him in anger tormented her, the regret gnawing at her soul. How could she ever take them back, now that he was lost to her forever?

She did not know how long she had been crying when she felt the comforting warmth of someone’s arms around her. She looked up through tear-blurred eyes to see Jace, his expression etched with worry. Without a word, she collapsed into his embrace, her sobs shaking her entire body as she clung to him. The loss of Daemon was a wound that would never heal, a gaping chasm that left her feeling hollow and bereft. She cried not only for the man she loved but for the life they would never share, for the words left unspoken and the chances forever lost.

When her tears finally began to subside, Rhaenyra gathered herself, wiping her face with unsteady hands. Jace, ever the attentive son, handed her a handkerchief, and she managed a small, awkward smile in thanks. She thumbed the embroidery on the damp cloth, tracing the delicate depiction of Moondancer and Vermax dancing in the skies. The intricacy of the design momentarily distracted her from the heaviness in her heart.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “My guards should not have called for you.”

“They didn’t,” Jace replied gently. “I was just on my way back to my rooms.”

Rhaenyra’s smile held a flicker of gratitude, knowing full well that the heir’s apartments were in an entirely different wing. Jace’s presence was no accident; he had come because he knew she needed him. His eyes fell to the braided bark in her hands, curiosity and sympathy mingling in his gaze.

“Daemon made it for me.” she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion.

“It looks good,” Jace said softly, a gentle smile curving his lips. “It’s almost the same color as his hair. Would you like me to help you put it on?”

Rhaenyra nodded, too choked with emotion to speak. Jace pulled a small mirror, no larger than a plate, and positioned it before her. With careful hands, he untied the black string that bound her braid, slowly unraveling the plaits. She watched as he worked, her eyes never leaving her reflection in the mirror. Jace took the weirwood braid and began to wrap it around the thick hair at the nape of her neck, weaving it in with deliberate care.

The braid was uneven, not as tight as it could have been, but Rhaenyra found herself smiling through her tears. The effort, the tenderness in Jace’s actions, was enough to fill her heart with a bittersweet warmth. When he finished, he looked at her with a tentative smile.

“It’s the perfect length.” he remarked, his voice full of quiet pride.

Rhaenyra’s fingers trailed over the spot where their initials were carved into the bark, the small detail that Daemon had left for her. The touch was both a comfort and a reminder of all that she had lost.

“Thank you.” she whispered, her voice trembling but sincere.

Jace’s smile was soft, understanding the depth of her gratitude without the need for words. Together, they stood in the quiet of the room, the memory of Daemon’s love woven into the very fabric of their shared grief.

At the head of the Small Council table, Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen sat in solemn contemplation, her gaze fixed on the Council Orb before her. The black obsidian sphere was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, its surface polished to a mirror-like shine. Flecks of deep crimson wove through the obsidian, a subtle yet striking reflection of Targaryen colors. The interplay of shadow and flame upon the orb seemed almost alive, mirroring the turmoil that raged within the walls of the council chamber.

The chamber itself was filled with a cacophony of raised voices and heated arguments. The councilors were engaged in a bitter debate over the recent turmoil that had beset their realm.

Lord Merryweather's surrender of Longtable to Ormund Hightower had ignited outrage. Lord Tully, the youngest among them, a mere child of thirteen, spoke with a voice wavering between indignation and youth. “The Hightowers have taken Longtable without hesitation, offering their army much-needed provisions while we are left with the ashes of Tumbleton!” His words carried the weight of a child’s fervent belief in justice, even as they reverberated through the room with an undercurrent of anger.

Lord Stauton, whose face was a mask of restrained fury, added, “And what of the burning of Bitterbridge? Daeron Targaryen’s wrath, fueled solely by gossip that his niece were killed, was a disaster that cost hundreds of lives. The green faction, it seems, required no greater excuse to wreak havoc upon our allies!”

Lord Sunglass was frothing at the mouth his voice dripping with scorn, slammed his hand on the table. “The greens had only been seeking a pretext to ravage our allies in their own strongholds. The town of Bitterbridge, with its innocent townspeople, was mercilessly torn apart. Hundreds died within the sept, others cut down by Ormund’s soldiers, and many forced into the Mander to drown. And Lady Caswell—hanged in the gatehouse as if she were no more than a common criminal!”

Lord Celtigar, tinged with frustration, rose above the din. “We must not forget the brutality inflicted upon Tumbleton. Daeron’s offer of lordship to the drunken commoner who claimed Silverwing was far more generous than the Queen’s meager concession of knighthood and a small Keep in Driftmark, resulted in the city being burned to the ground. Tumbleton’s plight was unimaginable: men were trampled, women were violated, and children were impaled on spears. Buildings turned to ash, and the Mander’s waters ran red with blood. This is why I was vehemently against the decision to give bastards dragons!”

Jace slammed his hand on the table. “You will hold your tongue in front of the Queen!”

“Ser Jon Roxton claimed Lady Sharis Footly as a prize of war!” Ser Thorren bellowed. “And Ser Ulf White’s nightly rapes are the stuff of nightmares!”

Lord Corlys attempted to calm the storm. “We must remember to temper our anger with strategy,” he said, his voice carrying the gravitas of one accustomed to command. “Lamenting our losses without clear purpose will only serve to further our chaos.”

Lord Sunglass, his tone laced with the bitterness of one who had seen too much, added, “We cannot overlook the enormity of our losses. Ser Garibald Grey, commanding six thousand men, fell to the treachery within Tumbleton’s walls. The greens have inflicted wounds that will bleed for years.”

Ser Torrhen, his face grave, enumerated the dead with a mournful precision. “We lost thousands—men of House Caswell, Merryweather, and many more from lands farther south. Our troops were diminished by the treachery of The two betrayers and Garibald’s death by Tessarion’s dragonflame. Betrayers within our ranks turned the tide against us.”

Lord Celtigar’s voice cut through the tumultuous din, his words imbued with a sharp edge of blame. “The dragonseeds have grown bolder in the wake of Prince Daemon’s death,” he declared, his gaze fierce and accusing. “Had the King Consort still lived, such audacity would never have been allowed.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the councilors, but Ser Torrhen voice rose in dissent. “Perhaps another dragon rider should have been sent to Prince Daemon,” one councilor suggested. “Had we dispatched further support, Vhagar might have been felled without him resorting to such a desperate, suicidal act.”

Rhaenyra’s head snapped up at that remark, her eyes flashing with a mixture of fury and pain. The memory of the letter she had read, urging Daemon not to leap to his doom, haunted her. Was his grief so overwhelming, his despair so profound, that he had lost sight of all hope and meaning? The thought twisted in her mind, turning anger inward. Her fists clenched tightly on the table, knuckles white as she fought to keep her composure. The anger she felt was a turbulent storm—directed at herself, at the treacherous betrayers, and, in a dark twist of emotion, at Daemon for his final, surrendering act.

Lord Corlys’ voice emerged, steady and authoritative, offering a semblance of order amidst the chaos. “The remaining Riverlords and northmen who managed to escape have been properly lodged along the Rose Road. Tumbleton lies but a few days ride ahead, and we must act swiftly to fortify the city.”

Jace, ever the strategist, interjected with a note of caution. “We must be wary of the information circulating within the city. Word of a large army approaching could incite panic and unrest.”

Lord Manderly, with the resolute air of a seasoned commander, spoke next. “The North remains strong, with five thousand troops ready and another ten thousand that can be mustered if needed. I shall send a raven to Lord Cregan to summon the northern army south.”

Lord Cobray, representing the Vale, added his own assurances. “The Vale’s cavalry stands ready and formidable. We shall defend our Queen with all the might at our disposal, all fifteen thousand of us Valemen.”

Yet Lord Celtigar’s frustration spilled forth once more. “What are armies compared to dragonfire? The enemy commands two fully-grown dragons!”

It was then that Rhaenyra, breaking her silence for the first time since entering the Small Council, spoke with a voice as calm and cold as ice. “Recall Baela and Rhaena to the capital.” she commanded, her tone brooking no argument.

The room fell silent, every eye turning towards her in surprise. Grand Maester Gerardys, ever prompt, hurried to the table where the scribes were diligently recording the proceedings, his quill poised to capture the Queen’s latest decree.

Lord Corlys, though skeptical, understood the necessity of bolstering their forces. “Baela may have a smaller dragon but she is trained better and Rhaena’s dragon is formidabl, some would say Sheepstealer is as old as Vermithor.” he conceded, acknowledging the potential strength they could bring to the capital.

Rhaenyra stood, her regal bearing restored despite the turmoil that raged within. “And summon Alicent Hightower to the Throne Room.” she ordered with unwavering resolve.

The councilors exchanged glances, their debate momentarily stilled by the Queen’s command. Rhaenyra’s eyes, though heavy with sorrow, were sharp with determination as she prepared to face the next phase of the crisis, knowing that every decision made now could alter the fate of her realm.

Word was sent throughout the Red Keep, and the court was swiftly summoned. Instructions were given to escort Alicent Hightower from Maegor’s Holdfast to the Throne Room, a directive that caused more than a few hushed whispers to ripple through the corridors. Meanwhile, Rhaenyra prepared herself in the chamber behind the Iron Throne, where Daenys’ ceremonial robe was kept—a relic of a time long past, when Valyria stood unchallenged in its might.

The robe was crafted from Scalesilk, a fabric whispered of in ancient tales, renowned for its unmatched strength and elegance. Woven from fibers enchanted to mimic the unyielding resilience of dragon scales, it was said to be as strong as steel, yet flowed with the grace of the finest silk. In the days of Old Valyria, only the most powerful dragonlords had the privilege of wearing Scalesilk, donning it as both protection and a symbol of their elevated status. Its black scales glinted like polished dragonglass, shifting subtly in the light as Rhaenyra’s ladies carefully draped it over her gown.

Daemon had discovered this robe deep within one of the vaults of Dragonmont, hidden away in the ancient stronghold. He had marveled at its craftsmanship, likening it to Valyrian steel in fabric form, and had often wondered how the Targaryens, a family of lesser influence in Old Valyria despite their dragons, had come into possession of such a prized garment. The robe was not a perfect fit for Rhaenyra; its sleeves trailed slightly, the fabric pooling at her wrists, but it would serve its purpose—to protect her from the sharp edges of the Iron Throne.

Lady Mina stepped forward with a pair of vambraces, each adorned with the image of Dark Sister. The vambraces, taken from one of Visenya’s lighter armors, were fastened securely around Rhaenyra’s wrist and forearms, ensuring that even if the Scalesilk slipped, she would remain protected. As Lady Mina adjusted the final clasp, Rhaenyra’s fingers lingered over the etched image of Dark Sister, her thoughts drifting to Daemon.

With her preparations complete, Rhaenyra stood, her expression a mask of determination. Jace stepped forward to escort her to the Iron Throne when she was made aware that the men she sent to get Alicent was near. The weight of the Scalesilk robe was both a comfort and a burden as Rhaenyra made her way to the throne, her every step deliberate.

As she ascended the throne, Rhaenyra’s movements were careful and measured, each step a reminder of the sharp edges that had cut so many before her. When she finally seated herself, she did so with regal grace, overlooking her gathered subjects from the formidable height of the Iron Throne. Jace stood at the bottom of the Throne, at her right, a steady presence, while Lord Corlys took his place on her left, flanked by the other members of the Small Council. The room was silent, the air thick with anticipation as they awaited the arrival of Alicent Hightower.

As the heavy iron doors creaked open, the queen's gaze fell upon Alicent Hightower, who entered with a measured grace that scarcely masked the pallor of her complexion and the lifelessness of her once-vibrant hair. Though she endeavored to project an air of regal dignity, her appearance was a study in subdued and dreary hues. Her gown, though of fine fabric, hung upon her frame with an air of desolation, its once-rich colors now muted and wan. The regal bearing she attempted was marred by the weariness that etched deep lines upon her face.

Alicent curtsied deeply, her movements lacking the elegance of former days. “Thank you, Your Grace,” she said with a voice that trembled slightly, “for granting me this audience.”

Rhaenyra’s expression remained as steely as the Iron Throne upon which she sat, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “You sought refuge on Dragonstone, offering to open the City’s gates and the head of Aegon Targaryen in exchange for your life and that of your daughter, Helaena. Yet, it was not your entreaties that secured the City, but rather the intervention of my dragons who opened the gates and the Gold Cloaks loyalty to my husband who lowered the portcullis of the Red Keep. Your treachery allowed Aegon to escape. Explain, why should I spare your life when my Council advises otherwise?”

Alicent’s eyes widened in a mixture of fear and earnestness. “Your Grace, you are far stronger and more capable than I could ever be. I was unaware that Aegon had departed the capital. I beg your pardon most sincerely.” Her voice, though strained, held a desperate note of contrition. “With Aemond and Daemon now dead—the principal instigators of the war’s atrocities—I plead for peace.”

Rhaenyra’s anger was palpable, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Do not dare sully Daemon’s name by comparing him to your devilspawn.” she retorted with a biting edge. “Daemon was maligned by Otto Hightower for years, labeled a whoremonger, yet it was your son, Aegon, who indulged in the vile act of raping maids and Ladies-in-Waiting within the Red Keep. Moontea was freely administered to the victims by your hand yourself.”

The room was soon abuzz with shocked whispers, As the whispers grew, one Lord’ voice cut through the din, his tone laden with incredulity.

“It is true!” he murmured loudly, ensuring his words reached several ears. “The Usurper’s excesses are so infamous that he even keeps his own bastards in the fighting pits. Children fighting to death for a loaf of bread! This is the man they tried to put on the Throne!”

Alicent’s face turned ashen, her hands trembling uncontrollably as she tried to maintain her composure.

“Otto Hightower painted Daemon as violent and reckless,” Rhaenyra continued, her voice rising in intensity, “yet it was Aemond who burned his own brother, as those who witnessed the battle at Rook’s Rest can attest, a kinslayer twice over.  He torched hamlets and towns across the Riverlands in a fit of rage over his perceived incompetence. And Daeron, the son you claim to be kind, allowed his men to ravage Bitterbridge, hanging Lady Caswell from the gatehouse. He permitted the burning of Tumblestone, your cherished sept desecrated, with septas, women, and even children as young as eight subjected to unspeakable horror even until now.”

Alicent’s eyes widened in horror, her hands now clenched in a desperate bid for composure.

“Everything the Hightowers accused my husband of possessing—those very traits you have attributed to him—are embodied in your own progeny.” Rhaenyra declared coldly.

Alicent’s voice, though trembling, was imbued with a note of resolute desperation. “Your Grace,” she began, her tone a fragile veneer over her unease, “Daeron is young and greatly misguided. He will listen to his mother’s plea.”

“You think the child you sent away when he was still a babe will listen to you?” Rhaenyra couldn’t help but mock her. “Your children turned out the way they did because they are the products of your greed and ambition. They were never conceived in love, so they know nothing of it themselves—only the cold, dark void of your desires."

Alicent’s face hardened, a glimpse of the woman who tortured her and her children for ten years standing again in front of her.

“If this is truly what you believe, then you must understand that Daeron will never abandon his cause. Therefore, I propose a division of the Kingdom: the Westerlands, the Stormlands, and the Reach will be governed by Aegon upon his return, while the remainder shall fall under your rule.” Alicent proposed.

The chamber erupted into an uproar of incredulous outrage. Lord Cobray’s voice rose above the clamor. “The Seven Kingdoms bowed to the Dragons, not to some Hightower! No matter how rich you are we are not to be ruled by petty kings!”

Lord Blackwood added sharply, “Such an absurd notion! To suggest that we should be partitioned like a game board, divided by the whims of the Hightowers, is an affront to our very sovereignty.”

“if the Hightowers can be Kings again why not the Lannisters and the Baratheons too?” Lord Frey said. “Why would they bow down to Oldtown when their Kingdoms are mightier than you?"

“As if the Tyrells will accept this absurdity!” Lord Bracken spat.

The Queen’s laughter rang out, sharp and unrestrained, cutting through the room’s tumult. “The audacity of your proposal is astounding,” she declared. “The Hightowers never cared for the Seven Kingdoms. Your foray into war was driven by your own ambition. You have treated your subjects as petulant children not your own, offering them toys to distract them from their discontent, rather than embracing the true responsibilities of leadership. You are a ruler in name only, lacking the qualities of true sovereign—understanding, compassion, and the ability to unite and nurture the realm. Your approach is one of manipulation and self-serving power, which ultimately fails to address the kingdom’s deeper needs.”

Jace looked on with a mixture of awe and concern, his admiration for his mother palpable. Rhaenyra, her gaze flickering with resolve, knew that the next words she spoke might shatter that admiration, but they were necessary.

“Ser Adrian,” she called turning to her newest Queensguard, her voice firm and unyielding. “Bring me one of the hands of Alicent Hightower—the one that’s bleeding.”

Her cousin, the fourth son of Aunt Elys, moved swiftly, his obedience to the Queen unquestioning. The Throne Room was a tableau of shock, every gaze fixed on Rhaenyra, jaws slack with disbelief. In one harrowing instant, the room went from stunned silence to brutal action. Alicent was forced to her knees, her right hand seized and laid bare before her. The blade descended with merciless precision, severing flesh and bone. Alicent’s scream, piercing and raw, echoed off the ancient stone walls, reverberating through the Throne Room.

Jace, standing tall beside his mother, watched with a mixture of horror and resignation, his once-adoring gaze now shadowed by the harsh realities of power.

Lord Corlys, seasoned and stoic, looked on with a grim set to his jaw, the weight of his thoughts hidden behind a mask of composure.

Young Lord Tully, new to the horrors of war, turned pale, his wide eyes betraying the innocence that still clung to him.

Lord Bracken and Lord Blackwood, long-time rivals, exchanged glances, their expressions a mixture of dark amusement and grim satisfaction, pleased to see the downfall of a former queen who had caused so much turmoil before going back to glaring at each other.

Lord Celtigar, always disdainful, sneered openly, his contempt for Alicent’s fall barely concealed.

Grand Maester Gerardys rushed forward, his hands steady as he swiftly cauterized the bleeding stump, the sizzle of burnt flesh mingling with Alicent’s ragged sobs.

Alicent, her face ashen, looked up at Rhaenyra with eyes wide in disbelief and horror. The proud woman who had once wielded so much power was reduced to a pathetic figure, crumpled and broken before the throne. Her lips quivered as she tried to form words, her mind struggling to grasp the finality of what had just occurred. But no words came, only a soft, pitiful whimper as she gazed at Rhaenyra, pleading for understanding, for mercy that would never come.

Rhaenyra, for the first time in what felt like an eternity, met Alicent’s gaze with clear, unwavering eyes. She saw her now for what she truly was: not the friend of her youth, but a woman who had been lost to her the moment she bore her silver-haired sons, each a testament to the divide that had torn them apart. How foolish it had been to cling to that old bond when time and again, Alicent had revealed her true nature—ambitious, calculating, and ruthless. Jace had been right; Rhaenyra had shown more grace to her enemies than to her allies, and it had cost her dearly. But no longer.

Rhaenyra unfurled her hand from the hilt of the Iron Throne, feeling the bite of the swords embedded in the seat of power, the sharp edges pressing into her skin but not drawing blood. The pain was a reminder of the steel she needed now more than ever. “I sought peace with you and your children, Alicent,” she said, her voice low but firm, each word a pronouncement of judgment. “I offered olive branches time and again, against the counsel of my lords, my sons, and my husband. But now I see that those attempts were folly. I did not wish to plunge the realm into war after eighty years of peace. I sought to avoid unleashing the fury of dragons upon the realm, but you forced my hand.”

She rose from the throne, her presence commanding, her words filled with the weight of history. “Aegon the Conqueror made the Seven Kingdoms kneel to three dragons and less than three thousand men. He brought peace to a fractured land of a hundred petty kings who constantly warred against each other, binding the realm together under one crown. He created a unified kingdom where chaos once reigned. And now, as his blood, I am ready to do the same. I hold the loyalty of more than half the Kingdoms, and I command more dragons than any Targaryen before me. I will not allow this realm to be torn asunder by the greed and ambition of lesser men and women. The Seven Kingdoms were forged in fire and blood, and if need be, I shall wield that fire to hold them together. All who stand in my way will burn.”

Her voice echoed through the chamber, a clarion call to all who would dare oppose her. The room fell into a tense, reverent silence, the weight of her words sinking deep into the hearts of those present. Rhaenyra, the Queen in truth, had spoken. The war was no longer just for a crown, but for the very soul of the realm. And in this war, there would be no mercy for those who defied her.

She turned to Lord Corlys, her voice clear and commanding. “You will send a rider to Daeron Targaryen with a message: He is to turn his men back to Oldtown, or every week, pieces of his mother will be sent to him.” The words hung in the air, cold and unyielding, as the Lord of the Tides bowed deeply in acknowledgment.

Rhaenyra descended the throne, leaving the lords and ladies of the court to grapple with the gravity of her actions. As she made her way through the hall, she caught Lady Mysaria’s heated gaze and quickly averted her eyes. The weight of judgment from a woman who knew too much was something she did not wish to face at that moment.

Jace was quick to follow her, his steps hurried as he called out, urgency lacing his voice. Rhaenyra quickened her pace, hoping to avoid the disappointment she feared she might see in her son’s eyes.

“Mother!” Jace called out

When she slowed down and allowed him to catch up, she was met not with judgment, but with unwavering support. “Mother,” he began, his tone earnest, “do you remember Ulf’s friends that I spoke to you about?”

Rhaenyra paused, her brow furrowing in confusion. She vaguely remembered Jace mentioning that Ulf had no family to hold as hostages, only friends.

“I heard a rumor,” Jace continued, “that the only reason Ulf went to Dragonstone to try to claim a dragon was because his friends jeered him into doing it. I want them to be the ones to deliver Alicent Hightower’s hand to Daeron.”

She stopped fully, turning to face her son. “Why does it need to be them?” she asked, her voice tinged with curiosity and concern.

Jace glanced around, ensuring they were alone save for the Queensguard and their additional guards who remained a few steps away. “The Greens won over those traitors by dangling the lordship of Tumbleton before Ulf. His companions may be impressed, but why settle for such a modest prize when grander castles await his grasp? Highgarden, perhaps... or even the Red Keep itself?"

“You want them to convinced him to vie to be King?” she whispered.

“Why not? He has the bigger dragon, Daeron’s dragon is smaller than even Vermax.”

Her eyes widened in shock. “And if he agrees? If he fills his head with the delusion that he can be King it will be a disaster for us!” she exclaimed, her voice betraying her alarm.

Jace shook his head, his expression resolute. “It will be a disaster for Daeron before it becomes our problem. Let him handle the betrayers; it will teach him a lesson not to ally with disloyal men. Let them destroy each other.”

“There is still Hugh, and his dragon is more formidable.” she countered, her mind racing with the potential consequences.

Jace nodded, but his gaze remained steady. “His wife is in Tumbleton, probably held hostage by the Greens.”

Rhaenyra’s breath caught. “You mean to save her so Hugh will come back to us?”

Jace shook his head, his tone firm. “I wouldn’t take him back even if he crawls on his knees and asked for forgiveness.” Jace snorted. “She will be killed by the Greens. That will be enough to turn him away from them.”

Her eyes widened further in horror. “She is innocent!” she protested, the weight of what Jace was suggesting pressing heavily upon her.

Jace’s expression softened, though his resolve did not waver. “It is out of our hands, Mother. We need to sow seeds of discontent in Daeron’s camp. It is the only way.”

Rhaenyra stared at her son, the depth of his strategic mind both impressing and unsettling her. She had always known that war demanded sacrifices, but the cold calculation in Jace’s voice reminded her just how heavy the burden of leadership truly was.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra POV

Rhaenyra sat in the Holdfast library, the air filled with the soft, rhythmic rustling of parchment as Joffrey conversed with young Lord Oscar Tully and Lord Benjicot Blackwood at the center of the room. She glanced up from her reading, her gaze drifting over the room's ebonywoods shelves, heavy with tomes and scrolls, each row bathed in the golden light filtering through the tall, narrow windows. The light danced across the polished floor, creating a warm, inviting atmosphere despite the tedious discussions taking place.

The two lordlings, though initially reluctant to join Joffrey's lessons, had found themselves intrigued by the education of a prince, which was more complex and advanced than that of even a Lord Paramount. But even when they are at war Rhaenyra refused to let her Lords’ education suffer. They attend lessons three times a week for half a day and spend the rest of their time in Court or with their men. Their attention was focused on the Grand Maester Gerardys, who encouraged them to speak loudly enough for their ideas to be heard and debated.

As Joffrey drew on a scroll—a crude yet charming depiction of Caraxes with its elongated neck and fiery coloring—Lord Oscar Tully leaned forward, his voice clear and curious. "But if we maintain the blockade too long, won’t the enemy just find another route to supply their forces? How do we ensure they are truly cut off?"

Joffrey, still focused on his drawing, responded confidently. “A blockade isn't just about stopping supplies by sea, but by land as well. We must control the key roads and passes, force them into bottlenecks where our men hold the advantage. And if they try to break through, our dragons can scorch any attempt.”

Lord Benjicot Blackwood, intrigued, added, “But what if they hide their movements? Use secret paths?”

Without looking up, Joffrey answered, “That’s why we have scouts and spies. Information is just as powerful as swords. If we know where they’re going before they do, we can cut them off at every turn.”

Rhaenyra smiled faintly, hearing the confidence in her son's voice. Her gaze drifted to the large windows, through which the waning sunlight cast an amber hue across the room. The shadows of the intricate iron latticework danced upon the ancient tapestries that adorned the walls, depicting tales of conquest and dragon fire.

She turned back to her own reading, a detailed inventory of the Red Keep’s stores that Lord Simon had compiled. The Greens had kept the larders relatively intact, ensuring that the Keep could withstand a siege of three years and a winter of five. Ser Simon’s penny-pinching, while perhaps irksome in times of peace, proved invaluable in war. His many nieces and nephews, placed in key positions throughout the castle, ran their offices with commendable efficiency, much to the delight of Ladies Mina and Anella Strong.

Lord Beesbury would have gotten along well with Ser Simon, she hates that they murdered the gentle Lord in cold blood and that she couldn’t help his grandson who is still being held prisoner by the Greens.

From across the room, the Grand Maester's voice carried once more. “Prince Joffrey, if the enemy attempts to lure our forces into a trap, what is the best course of action?”

Joffrey paused, his quill hovering over the parchment. He answered with a calm authority beyond his years. “We should never follow them blindly. Draw them out instead, make them think they have the upper hand, then strike when they’re overextended.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes flickered with pride. Her son was growing into a leader, even as he clung to the innocence of childhood through his drawings.

Rhaenyra looked up from her reading as the soft creak of the door to her side caught her attention. Jace stood there, his brow furrowed in concern. She raised an eyebrow in silent question, sensing the unease in his expression. He approached, planting a gentle kiss on her cheek before pulling a chair beside her rather than across. The apprehension in his manner set her on edge, a feeling she did not often associate with her eldest son, who had become her pillar of strength throughout the war.

It was not supposed to be this way, she mused—the child supporting the mother. Yet she had found herself leaning on him more than she had ever anticipated. His steady presence had been her anchor, his wisdom beyond his years a comfort in times of turmoil. To make up for the burden she knew he carried, she had ensured that his education was impeccable, his household filled with trustworthy people who would serve him faithfully. But now, seeing the nervous tension in his frame, she felt her heart tighten with worry.

Taking his hand in hers, she held it tightly, her eyes wide with concern. “Tell me.” she whispered, her voice a gentle plea.

Jace glanced toward Joffrey, who had smiled and waved at his brother’s entrance but was now engrossed in his exercises under Grand Maester Gerardys’ watchful eye. With a deep breath, Jace turned back to her and asked quietly, “Mother, why is Lord Corlys in the Blackcells?”

Rhaenyra’s eyes flashed with anger, though she kept her voice low, mindful of the children nearby. “Lord Corlys disobeyed my command,” she whispered fiercely. “I ordered Addam of Hull to be imprisoned, yet he let him escape. I cannot afford to wait for Addam to betray us as well. Seasmoke is a large dragon, and we cannot lose him. Lord Corlys took it upon himself to personally warn Addam to flee, and now we are down another dragon.”

She huffed in frustration, closing her eyes for a moment to compose herself. The betrayal cut deep, and the loss of another dragon was a blow she had not been prepared to face. Jace squeezed her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

“Mother,” he whispered, his voice calm yet insistent, “We also need the Velaryon fleet. What will his men do if they discover he is imprisoned?”

Rhaenyra’s gaze softened slightly, her logical mind sifting through the tangled emotions. She took a deep breath, her voice steady as she answered. “I understand the risk, Jace, but the realm cannot stand if we allow insubordination to go unpunished. Lord Corlys defied a direct order, and the consequences must be faced.”

Jace's exasperation was palpable, and Rhaenyra felt a familiar urge to roll her eyes at him. He was the one who had urged her to be more decisive in her rulings, yet here he was, questioning her actions.

“Have you asked for the reason why Lord Corlys did what he did?” Jace inquired, his tone calm but insistent.

“I will, after he spends a night in the Black cells,” she replied with a measured voice. Jace nodded in reluctant acceptance. “I don’t even know why he would do something so foolish for a common shipwright.” Rhaenyra added, a hint of frustration coloring her words.

Jace glanced around the library, ensuring that no one was paying them any undue attention. One of the scribes was hunched over a table beneath a large window, dutifully transcribing notes from one of the council meetings. Another acolyte busied himself with sorting scrolls just a few shelves away. With a subtle lean, Jace whispered in her ear, “I believe Addam and Alyn of Hull are Lord Corlys’ bastards.”

Rhaenyra turned to him in shock, her breath catching. “Are you certain?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I’ve heard the rumors,” Jace replied, his voice steady. “Given the attention Lord Corlys has lavished upon them, I’m inclined to think it’s true.”

Her mind raced with the implications. “Do you think he might try to have them legitimized? Remove Joffrey from Driftmark’s succession?” Her voice trembled slightly, betraying her anxiety.

Jace hesitated, then nodded. “I suspect he was considering it, yes. But now, after this defiance, he cannot possibly ask for such a boon.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze hardened, her resolve strengthening. “I will not let this fracture our alliance. His imprisonment will be temporary, a stern rebuke rather than a lasting punishment. We must be seen as just, even in our wrath, and we must ensure that the fleet remains loyal to the crown. Once the point has been made, I will release him—but not before he understands the gravity of his actions.”

Jace studied her for a moment before speaking again, his voice quieter but no less earnest. “Allow me to speak with Lord Corlys, Mother. I will tell him that I shall convince the Queen to pardon him, but he must approach the matter with humility. He did disobey a direct command, after all. The Lord must feel chastised yet grateful for another chance, and in doing so, he would be unable to ask for the legitimization.”

Rhaenyra’s lips curved into a small smile, a rare moment of warmth amidst the tension. “You truly are advocating for Lord Corlys, aren’t you?”

Jace returned her smile, though his eyes remained serious. “Of course I am. Lord Corlys is still my grandsire, and I would see him brought back into the fold, not cast aside.”

Rhaenyra reached out, placing a hand on Jace’s cheek, her voice softening. “You are wise beyond your years, my son. Very well, speak with him. Let us hope he heeds your counsel.”

Rhaenyra sat at her desk, the golden light of the setting sun casting long shadows across the chamber. Scrolls and ledgers lay scattered before her, each one more troubling than the last. The throbbing at the back of her eyes had become a familiar companion, yet the sun had not even set. She carefully unrolled the latest report from Lord Celtigar, dread settling in her stomach as she read the grim details.

Full accounting of the treasury had been finished and only one-third of the royal treasury remained. The Greens had somehow managed to smuggle the rest out of King’s Landing, despite the Velaryon fleet’s vigilant blockade of Blackwater Bay. How they had accomplished such a feat was a mystery, but it could only have been done by land. The gold might have been spirited away to Storm’s End, the Westerlands, or the Reach, all areas where her allies were few and dwindling rapidly.

Tyland Lannister, even under the harshest of interrogations by one of Daemon’s most feared torturers, had refused to divulge the location of the stolen wealth. Rhaenyra’s heart clenched with the bitter reality that she was now deeply indebted to the Velaryons, who were the only ones keeping the city from collapsing into chaos.

Lord Corlys had endured a night in the Black Cells, only to face the Council the following day. Before the gathered lords, he confessed that guilt had long plagued him for his neglect of his bastards, and he felt it his solemn duty to protect his natural son. It was, after all, the first meaningful act he had performed for the boy in his entire life. Lord Celtigar clucked his tongue in disapproval, while Lord Manderly called for the Sea Snake’s immediate removal from the War Council. Yet, Lord Staunton, ever the voice of reason, advocated for clemency, suggesting that Corlys bend the knee once more and renew his vows of fealty to the Queen. The old man complied with little resistance.

Jace, ever shrewd, had insisted that Alyn of Hull be housed within the Holdfast for his protection— no doubt rumors of the boy’s connection to the Sea Snake is already flying. The Lord of Driftmark seemed content, even pleased, to have his son close at hand. They had, in Alyn, another pawn to wield against the indomitable Lord of the Tides.

She maintained the Sea snake as Hand and he had proven to be more loyal than ever making sure that the soldiers are paid and the City is bustling with work and trade again.

But still maintaining the City with the limited resources the Crown has was a constant strain on her. She had once suggested to Lord Corlys that they might need to borrow from the Iron Bank to stabilize their dwindling funds. The Lord Hand, still feeling contrite after spending a night in the blackcells and trying to make amends, he looked at her as though she had lost her senses, his response as cold as the Narrow Sea. “My grandson and granddaughter will be King and Queen after you. I am merely doing my duty for the Kingdom.” he had said, dismissing the notion outright. The idea of relying solely on Lord Corlys made her uneasy, the weight of her dependence on him pressing heavily upon her shoulders.

Daemon had been meticulous in setting aside funds for their children—Baela, Rhaena, Joffrey, Aegon, and Viserys—accounts safely tucked away in the Iron Bank and the Rogare Bank. Jace and Luke had sure inheritance being Heir to the Iron Throne and Driftmark but their other children does not. He does not want them to be beholden on the generosity of their older siblings alone. As their custodian, she has unlimited access, but it felt like a betrayal to Daemon’s memory to even consider touching those funds. Those were for their children to decide upon when the time was right, not for the whims of a kingdom teetering on the brink of collapse.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the soft sound of a cup being placed before her. She looked up to find Lady Mysaria standing by her side, a gentle smile on her lips. “Tea, my quee.,” she said softly, her voice a soothing balm to Rhaenyra’s frayed nerves.

Rhaenyra returned the smile, grateful for the small kindness, and turned back to the scrolls. As she sipped the warm tea, Mysaria’s voice broke the silence again, her tone serious but measured.

“Daeron has begun to pull his armies back despite the protests of his commanders.” she reported, “Lord Unwin Peake is pushing hard for the continued march on the capital, confident in the superiority of their dragons. But their men are dwindling daily, slipping away with their plunder.”

Rhaenyra’s grip on the cup tightened, her mind racing through the implications of this news. “Daeron is a green boy, trained to be a follower not a leader." she said. "And the two Betrayers?” she asked, her voice a strained whisper.

“Hugh is surprisingly proving more troublesome than Ulf.” Mysaria continued. “While Ulf is content with his nightly debaucheries, Hugh grows increasingly demanding, questioning Daeron’s authority with dangerous boldness in front of his men. He loudly boasts of his importance in their victory at Tumbleton, and his disobedience is becoming a matter of concern. They said he’s even commissioning an iron crown for himself.”

Mysaria paused, her expression grim. “As for Lady Kat, my men have yet to get close to her. She is being housed within the castle itself, but we will continue our efforts.”

“Perhaps he’s trying to impress his wife.” Rhaenyra mused, her fingers absentmindedly toying with a loose thread on the hem of her night robe. The soft fabric was a shade of Arryn blue, a color Daemon had insisted upon when he brought bolts of the finest cloth from Volantis. He had mentioned, with a knowing smile, that she ought to have something different to wrap herself in, something other than the constant black and red of Targaryen pride. It was a deliberate choice, she knew, meant to remind her of her mother and the days when life had been simpler. Back then, she had worn golds, lilacs, pastels, and the soothing hue of Arryn blue, before the weight of her heritage demanded she armor herself in darker, fiercer colors. She’d had the fabric made into matching nightclothes and robes for both of them, along with day dresses for the quiet moments they shared away from the world’s demands. Though he had been skeptical, lacking any particular affinity for the color, she had insisted they would look splendid together. The thought of them matching, despite his doubts, filled her with a quiet delight.

Lost in thought, she startled when she felt the faintest brush of breath against the back of her neck. Rhaenyra spun around to find Lady Mysaria standing uncomfortably close, having moved with a ghostly silence.

“Perhaps my queen would like to retire.” Lady Mysaria suggested, her voice low and intimate.

Rhaenyra stood abruptly, creating a deliberate distance between them. By the gods, she thought with a flash of irritation, one kiss, and she overreaches. But then, Lady Mysaria had been a balm to her soul, offering companionship and counsel when others could not. Despite the overfamiliarity, Rhaenyra found she did not have the heart to openly chastise her.

“Have you received any news from the Riverlands?” she asked, steering the conversation toward safer waters.

Lady Mysaria’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “Addam of Hull has been seen flying toward the God’s Eye.”

Rhaenyra frowned in puzzlement. “Why would a man born and raised by the sea seek out such a place?” she wondered aloud. The God’s Eye, even months after the battle, still boiled and smoked ominously. As far as she knew, the men of Driftmark worshipped the Seven or the Merling King—not the strange Old Magic that lingered in that dark, churning lake.

Before she could ponder further, a hurried knock sounded on the door. “Come in.” she called, her voice sharper than she intended. The door opened to reveal Ser Lorent, his expression grim.

“My queen,” he began, bowing deeply, “Orwyle and the Green Queens have tried to escape.”

Rhaenyra's anger flared, her eyes narrowing as she demanded, “How did this happen?”

Ser Lorent, her Lord Commander, bowed his head slightly, his tone measured but grim. “Orwyle slipped something into the guards' drinks, my queen. They fell unconscious before they could raise any alarm.”

Rhaenyra clenched her fists, nearly cursing herself for the decision that had led to this moment. She had not wanted to burden Grand Maester Gerardys with additional duties, so she had released the old Maester from the black cells, permitting him to tend to Alicent. After her hand was severed and the stump became infected, Alicent had been feverish for several nights, but somehow, she clung to life. It seems the Seven Hells are determined to vomit her back, just to torment me further, Rhaenyra thought bitterly.

As they made their way through the cold, dimly lit corridors of Maegor's Holdfast, Ser Lorent walked ahead, his vigilant gaze assessing every bend and shadowed corner for any sign of danger. Ser Harrold Darke guarded her back, his sword already unsheathed, ready to defend her if necessary. The air was thick with tension, each step echoing ominously against the stone walls.

“They tried to use one of the hidden passage entrances,” Ser Lorent continued as they descended a wide staircase. “But they didn’t know that Prince Daemon had already reinforced it. Only those familiar with the new mechanism can open it. Princess Helaena then run towards one of the guards pleading not to be taken away.”

Rhaenyra allowed a cold smile to touch her lips. “At least Helaena still had sense in her head.” she remarked dryly. Perhaps she hasn’t lost her wits entirely, she mused, her mind flickering to the once-gentle queen who had become increasingly fragile in the grip of grief and madness.

Rhaenyra liftted the hems of her night  gown and overrobe to avoid tripping. Here, there were no nobles or courtiers to judge her, no eyes upon her save those of her most trusted guards and servants. Daemon had re-established the rule that only those of Targaryen blood were permitted within the Holdfast, ensuring it remained a sanctuary for the ruling family. All audiences took place in the Keep's rooms and offices, and the lords and courtiers were housed in the main castle—some choosing to stay in their own manse within the city, others in inns.

The Holdfast was now, once again, solely for the royal family, unlike the days when even the Hightowers had been allowed to stay when they visited. Even Alicent's Ladies-in-Waiting had once slept in the Holdfast, but now, Rhaenyra's Ladies had their own tower, guarded by knights dedicated to their safety. It’s good to finally established back all traditions that the Greens had trampled on, Rhaenyra thought.

Rhaenyra’s pace quickened, her heart racing as the sound of shouting echoed down the stone corridors. She could hear Alicent’s voice, pleading desperately, mingled with the sharp commands of guards trying to maintain order. As they rounded a corner, the sight that greeted her made her blood run cold.

Rhaena was standing in the midst of a protective circle of Velaryon men, her riding leathers still on, likely having just returned from tending to Sheepstealer, who stubbornly refused to be housed in the Dragonpit and instead lingered on the beach near the Iron Gate. Her mouth was agape in disbelief as she stared upward, and Rhaenyra, with a mother’s instinct, closed the distance between them in an instant, gathering Rhaena into her arms. She could feel the young girl trembling, her fear palpable.

Rhaenyra’s eyes followed Rhaena’s gaze, and her breath caught in her throat. Helaena stood precariously on the ledge of an open window, her once-luminous beauty now marred by haggard features. Her eyes were sunken, hollow, and filled with a terror that seemed to have no end. Alicent knelt before her daughter, her voice raw from pleading, while the previous Grand Maester lay unconscious on the cold stone floor.

Rhaenyra turned to Rhaena, cupping her stepdaughter’s face in her hands. “Rhaena, my dear,” she whispered, her voice laced with urgency. Rhaena’s wide eyes met hers, filled with both fear and trust. “Go to Joffrey’s room,” Rhaenyra instructed softly, her words spoken in High Valyrian, “and bring him to my solar. Stay there, and do not open the door unless it is I or Jace who comes for you. The hidden door at the side of the large hearth—you know how to open it. If something happens, you stay there, and never come out until it’s safe.”

Rhaena nodded, and Rhaenyra pressed a kiss to her forehead before releasing her, watching as the young girl hurried away with four Velaryon guards in tow.

Turning back to the scene, Rhaenyra took in the sight of Alicent, her once-proud rival now a shadow of the woman she had been. Alicent’s face was etched with desperation, her one remaining hand clasped on her throat as she begged Helaena to come down from the ledge. Her voice was broken, trembling with fear as she promised anything and everything, her words spilling out in a frantic, incoherent stream. “We’ll stay, we won’t leave, I promise—please, please come down, Helaena, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry…”

Alicent’s stump, where her hand had once been, was bleeding, the dark red stain seeping through the bandages, soaking the fabric. She was utterly pathetic, a mother who coveted things not hers to begin with and now and now on the verge of losing her last, precious daughter.

Helaena shook her head, her grip on the window frame weak and precarious. “I need to stay here… near her… near her…” she murmured, her voice distant, as if she were speaking to someone unseen, her gaze unfocused and far away. Her thin arm clutched the frame with a trembling hand, the only thing keeping her from falling.

Rhaenyra took a cautious step forward, her voice calm and soothing, though her heart pounded in her chest. Ser Lorent, ever vigilant, positioned himself between Rhaenyra and Alicent, his hand on his sword, ready to protect his queen from any danger.

“Helaena,” Rhaenyra called gently, her tone laced with sisterly affection. “No one will take you away. You’re safe here, with us. Please, come down. Let me help you.” She extended her hand, her eyes locked onto Helaena’s, trying to convey the warmth and safety that Helaena so desperately needed.

Alicent’s tears fell freely as she looked at Rhaenyra, her once-defiant spirit now crushed under the weight of her suffering. “Please, Helaena,” she whispered again, her voice barely audible. “Please, listen to your sister…”

Helaena’s eyes were wild, unfocused, darting about as if she were searching for something unseen, something just out of reach. “The shadows… they’re drowning her… she was supposed to fly, not be eaten by them…” she rambled, her voice trembling, the words spilling from her lips in a chaotic torrent. “The sky was there, so blue, so wide, but the shadows… they came, they came and they took her…”

Rhaenyra moved to step closer, but Ser Lorent’s arm shot out, barring her way. His stern gaze implored her not to proceed, the concern etched in every line of his face. But Rhaenyra, with a silent command in her eyes, gently pushed his arm down. Her expression, resolute yet tender, assured him that she knew what she was doing. Reluctantly, Ser Lorent nodded, his eyes darkening with worry, yet he stayed by her side, refusing to let her go any further alone.

“Helaena,” Rhaenyra said softly, her voice a gentle caress, as she took another step forward, “I will protect you. I’ll put you in your own rooms, where no one—least of all Alicent—will ever make you do anything you don’t want to do again.”

Behind her, Rhaenyra heard Alicent’s sharp gasp, indignant yet laced with guilt, but she did not turn. Her focus was entirely on Helaena, the fragile, broken girl before her.

“I am so sorry, Helaena,” Rhaenyra continued, her voice thick with sorrow, “that your children paid for the sins of others. No mother should have to bury her child—it’s unnatural, it’s cruel.”

Helaena’s eyes, which had been flitting about the room, finally focused on Rhaenyra. There was a glimmer of recognition in them, a spark of clarity that gave Rhaenyra a small sliver of hope. She took another step, closing the distance between them.

“I should have been there for you,” Rhaenyra whispered, her heart aching with regret. “I should have cared for you as I always wanted to, as a sister should. But I let others come between us, let their venom poison what could have been…”

Helaena’s lips curled into a heartbreaking smile, a ghost of what it once could have been. “I think… I would have loved to be your sister.” she murmured, her voice fragile yet sincere.

“We can still be sisters,” Rhaenyra urged, her voice filled with a desperate plea. “I can protect you, Helaena. I swear it. Just take my hand, and we’ll leave all this behind.”

She extended her hands, willing Helaena to reach out, to take the lifeline she was offering. But Helaena’s eyes drifted away, her gaze sweeping over the room, taking in her surroundings as if she were seeing them for the first time—or perhaps the last.

The sun was setting behind her, casting a golden halo around her disheveled form. She looked like a tragic painting, her silhouette framed against the dying light. Her pale hair, now dull and unkempt, caught the last rays of the sun, giving her an ethereal glow, as if she were a figure of myth or legend, trapped between worlds. The vibrant hues of the sunset clashed with the tragedy of the scene, making it all the more poignant, all the more unbearable.

Helaena’s eyes finally lifted to meet Rhaenyra’s, but there was a distant, sad acceptance in them. “She’s gone…" she whispered brokenly. "She was supposed to fly… but she was consumed by the shadows instead,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

And as the last vestiges of sunlight slipped below the horizon, Helaena stepped off the ledge. There was a fleeting moment, a heartbeat where their eyes met, where Rhaenyra saw all the sorrow, all the despair, all the hopelessness that had consumed her. Then, with a final, sorrowful gaze, Helaena fell, her body plunging downwards, the world moving in slow motion.

Rhaenyra’s breath caught in her throat, a strangled cry that never quite escaped, as she watched Helaena’s form disappear, swallowed by the shadows of the dry moat’s unforgiving spikes. The last light of the sun flickered and died, leaving only darkness in its wake, a darkness that seemed to echo the tragedy that had just unfolded.

Chapter Text

Jace POV

Jacaerys Velaryon stood in the shadows of the abandoned tavern, the dilapidated structure a stark reminder of the chaos that had engulfed King’s Landing. The once-lively establishment, formerly owned by one of the Hightower’s sycophants, now lay in ruins, its windows shattered, its wooden beams sagging with the weight of neglect. Dust coated every surface, mingling with the scent of stale ale and the pungent stench of fear that hung in the air.

The tavern, once a den of greed and disdain, was reduced to a pitiful wreck by the very hands it had long exploited. The smallfolk, emboldened by the Black Army’s successful retaking of the City, tore through the establishment with a fury born of years of resentment, overturning tables and shattering every glass in sight. The proprietors, despised for their cold hearts and grasping ways, were mercilessly dragged from the ruins. In a bitter twist of fate, they were hauled to the Keep as loathed offerings—an appeasement from the smallfolk eager to rid themselves of those who had preyed upon them for so long.

In the center of the tavern, three prisoners were bound, their faces etched with desperation. Two of them, shackled to the walls, were barely conscious, their heads lolling as they struggled to remain upright. The third man, however, was all too aware of his surroundings, his screams echoing through the empty room as one of the Gold Cloaks methodically cut away at his fingers. The blade glinted in the dim light, each slice drawing a fresh wave of agony from the prisoner, who now had only three fingers left on his right hand and two on his left.

Jace’s expression was unreadable as he listened to the man’s broken confessions. The prisoner’s words were disjointed, his voice quivering as he spoke of the Shepherd, a former septon cast out by the Faith for abusing the Septas under his charge. Taken in by Larys Strong at the outset of the war, the Shepherd’s initial purpose had been to malign Jace’s mother, but his mission had since morphed into something far darker. Now, the man preached that the dragons were abominations, the true cause of the war, and the root of all evil in the world.

The Shepherd’s influence had spread through the city like wildfire. The prisoner babbled about cogs of wine distributed when Meleys was paraded through the streets, and of an entire whorehouse bought to celebrate the deaths of Vhagar and Caraxes at the God's Eye. Jace’s heart clenched at the mention of Caraxes, the wound of his stepfather’s loss still fresh and festering within him. Yet he pushed the pain aside, forcing himself to focus on the matter at hand.

He glanced at the other two prisoners, their bodies limp, their spirits crushed. They had offered nothing useful, just like the man currently being tortured.

The city’s spirits were notably lifted as trade resumed following the lifting of the blockade. With Rooks Rest, Duskendale, and Rosby now secured, the flow of supplies to the city was once more unimpeded. The remaining threat, Cole’s army in the Riverlands, posed little obstacle to establishing secure trading routes from the Vale. While the Reach has the most fertile lands in Seven Kingdoms, they largely offer fruits, exquisite wines, and aromatic herbs and spices. It was the Vale that provided the more practical necessities—grains, root vegetables, meat, stone, and iron.

How had the Greens managed to starve the city when the road from the Reach remained largely unscathed before the war’s escalation?

But there are still people vulnerable to the Shepherd’s venomous rhetoric, it had already taken root among some of the people, poisoning their minds against the dragons, against his family. Though the blockade had been lifted and trade routes reopened, the city’s streets were still ripe with tension.

The man screamed again as the torturer this time broke one of his digits and played with the dangling finger. Jace clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms. He did not approve of this torture, the crude and barbaric methods that were being employed in the name of the crown. But what other choice did they have? The Shepherd’s influence was growing, his words inciting hatred against the dragons, and by extension, against Jace’s family. They needed information, and they needed it quickly. If only the Shepherd had slipped up, revealed some weakness, some clue that might lead them to his lair, then perhaps this wretched scene could have been avoided.

A low, guttural roar suddenly reverberated through the warehouse, sending a tremor through the very walls. Jace’s heart leapt into his throat, his first instinct to rush outside and look to the skies. Could it be? Had Vermithor or Silverwing returned to reclaim the city? But as he stepped outside the door, the skies remain empty. Another roar echoed, and this time he knew it for what it was. Dreamfyre, the only creature within King’s Landing capable of such a formidable sound. The other dragons housed in the pit were mere dragonets, not yet of a size to produce such a roar, and Syrax had been kept within the walls of the Red Keep, relegated to a stable in the outer ward that had been emptied of horses to accommodate her.

Rhaena’s Sheepstealer is a fairly quiet dragon, preferring to stay on the beach outside the city. The Dragonkeepers had been unable to guide him inside the dragonpit, the previously wild dragon bucking and roaring at everyone when they tried to get him inside.

The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the city, but there would be no dragon-led assault today. Dreamfyre’s roar pierced the evening air once more, and this time, it tugged at Jace's heart with a profound and unsettling intensity. The sound, rather than bearing the sharp edge of fury, conveyed a deep, sorrowful lament, a cry that seemed to resonate with an aching grief. It reminded him hauntingly of his own mother’s cries during the stillbirth of his sister—a mournful wail that had filled the chamber with the weight of an unbearable loss, the kind of cry that echoed the finality of sorrow.

Jace’s brow furrowed as he tried to reconcile this unexpected display of emotion from Dreamfyre, who had always seemed a creature of cold majesty. From his earliest memories, the dragon had been a figure of fierce pride and stoic dignity, her roars always a display of her formidable nature rather than of deep-seated grief. Yet now, the sound that filled the twilight was not merely a roar but a resonant cry of heartache.

Dreamfyre had been largely isolated from what he can remember in his childhood. Her interactions with others few and far between. Princess Helaena would ride her occasionally, though those moments were rare and fleeting, as Alicent Hightower had disapproved of such activities. Consequently, Dreamfyre’s once-powerful presence had become somewhat muted, her emotions largely concealed from those around her.

As the echoes of the roar faded into the gathering dusk, Jace stood in quiet contemplation, his thoughts consumed by the disquieting realization that even the most majestic and seemingly unyielding beings could harbor such profound sorrow.

He turned back to the scene within the warehouse, his resolve hardening. He might not approve of the methods, but he could not afford to be squeamish. The Shepherd had to be stopped, his poison purged from King’s Landing before it spread any further. And if this was the price to be paid for the safety of his family, of the realm—then so be it.

Ser Luthor Largent, the towering Commander of the City Watch, stood vigilant, his eyes still trained on the skies above. His posture was tense, muscles coiled as if ready to spring into action at the first sign of danger. The roar of Dreamfyre had unsettled more than just Jace; it had sent ripples of concern through all who heard it.

Jace approached him, his own heart still heavy with the echoes of the sorrowful cry. “There is no need to worry, Ser Luthor,” Jace said, his voice calm and reassuring. “It is only Dreamfyre.”

The tension in Ser Luthor’s shoulders eased, and he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Dreamfyre,” he repeated, nodding slowly. “It’s been years since we’ve heard anything like that from the dragons in the pit. The sound was... different.”

Jace nodded in understanding. “Aye, it was. The dragons in Dragonstone are free to roam as they please, to spread their wings and soar through the skies. But the ones here, in King’s Landing—they are chained, grounded, their freedom restricted. Even Tyraxes remains confined to one of the caves due to the Dragonkeepers rules.”

He paused, recalling the recent efforts to give Tyraxes a semblance of freedom. Joffrey managed to convince the Dragonkeepers to lengthen Tyraxes’s chains, allowing him to fly in and out of his nest, but that’s as much as they were willing to compromise.

Ser Luthor nodded thoughtfully. “The Dragonkeepers—fierce men, they are. They’d die to protect the dragons, and to keep them where they belong, no doubt.”

The Dragonkeepers is an order founded by King Jaehaerys himself, after Princess Saera tried to steal a dragon. Their task was to ensure the security and protection of the dragons.. Their main responsibility was to prevent unauthorized individuals, including members of the royal family, from accessing and attempting to claim or steal a dragon. They were charged with the safety and management of the dragons, maintaining strict oversight to ensure that only those with proper permission could interact with the dragons. They also make sure that all dragon not with their riders are in the pit. The Dragonkeepers are big armored men who are used to dealing with fierce and belligerent dragons who will lay down their lives for their charges.

Jace and Ser Luthor Largent stepped back inside the dimly lit tavern, the air thick with tension and the scent of sweat and blood. The muffled cries from the tortured prisoner filled the room, a stark reminder of the grim work being done. As they approached, the man—broken, bloodied, and barely clinging to consciousness—began to speak in halting, desperate gasps.

“There’s a gathering… tonight,” he wheezed, his voice rough and uneven. “The Shepherd… he’s to give a sermon… teach us how to kill dragons.”

Ser Balon Birch, who had been leaning against the wall with arms crossed, merely observing the proceedings until now, let out a guffaw. “Only dragons can kill dragons,” he scoffed, his voice dripping with disdain. “What does that madman think he’ll achieve?”

Another Gold Cloak, standing nearby, chimed in, his tone more measured but no less dark. “The Dornish killed Queen Rhaenys' dragon with a scorpion bolt.” he remarked, as if reciting an unpleasant truth.

Ser Balon waved a dismissive hand. “A lucky shot, nothing more.”

Jace’s jaw tightened at the careless dismissal. He knew better. Vermax had been proof that dragons, young and mighty alike, were not invincible. But the circumstances of his beloved dragon’s death remained largely unknown in the capital, a secret he kept close, buried under layers of grief and guilt.

The prisoner, his voice trembling with a mixture of pain and fear, continued, “The Shepherd… he says… to catch the young ones… with iron nets… hack at their wings and necks… they can’t breathe fire if… if you tear out their throats…”

Jace felt a cold fury wash over him, his blood turning to ice. The vivid imagery of such cruelty toward the dragons—toward his family’s legacy—made his hands clench into fists. His anger was a slow burn, seething beneath the surface, but it was there, unmistakable and powerful.

The man, now nearly lifeless, went on, each word a struggle. “Strike their eyes… with spears… blind them first… then… drive steel… into the soft flesh under their bellies… that’s where… they’re weakest…”

“Enough.” Jace commanded coldly, his voice like steel. He locked eyes with the torturer, a silent communication passing between them. With a nod, the interrogator pressed a knife against the prisoner’s belly, making the man cry out in pain. The prisoner’s legs buckled, and he would have collapsed if not for the chains keeping him upright.

“Where is this gathering?” the torturer demanded, his voice low and menacing.

"Cob--Cobbler... square..."

Ser Luthor Largent was quick to take command, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. “Assemble five hundred men, the ones stationed at the Gates of the Gods.” he ordered, his tone leaving no room for hesitation. The men in the room immediately snapped to attention, ready to carry out his command.

Jace’s mind raced as Ser Luthor turned to him, a concerned look crossing the older man’s face. “Perhaps it’s better that you return to the Keep, my Prince.” Ser Luthor suggested, his tone respectful but firm. “This is dangerous business, and your presence here—”

Jace cut him off with a shake of his head. “No,” he said, his voice resolute. “It is my family being threatened by this man and his followers. I will be there to see him brought to justice.”

A flicker of pride passed through Ser Luthor’s eyes, and he allowed himself a small, approving smile. “As you wish, my Prince.” he replied, bowing slightly. “But you’ll not go without protection.” He signaled to a group of soldiers, ensuring that Jace would be accompanied by six men in addition to Ser Adrian and Ser Loreth.

Jace appreciated the gesture, though he couldn’t help but feel the weight of their protection as a bit much. Yet, he knew better than to argue with the Commander of the City Watch, especially when Ser Luthor might actually insist on sending him back to the Keep if he protested too much.

The tavern was near the Gate of the Gods where one of the headquarters of the Gold Cloaks are located. Jace stood quietly in the background, waiting as the men readied themselves for what was to come. He knew better than to protest being delegated to the rear of the formation. Despite his blood and rank, he would never be permitted to lead this charge—especially not into the heart of a city that seemed to be teetering on the brink of madness.

Ser Adrian and Ser Loreth had shed their white cloaks to avoid drawing attention, though their armor still bore the unmistakable sigil of their order. Jace couldn’t help but wonder how effective their attempt at blending in would be. Yet in moments like this, where discretion was key, he found himself quietly grateful for the coloring he had inherited from his father, Harwin Strong. His common brown hair and the nondescript leathers he wore allowed him to blend into the crowd with ease, a prince in disguise among the masses.

The march to Cobbler’s Square was short, but the tension grew with every step they took. The air seemed to crackle with a sense of impending violence, and as soon as they arrived, Jace could see the gathering of people. These were not the regular smallfolk going about their business. These were brutes, menacing and dirty, with crude weapons clutched in their calloused hands—pitchforks, axes, and rusty blades. Their faces were twisted into expressions of manic fervor, eyes wild with a fanatical gleam that made Jace’s blood run cold.

The seven-pointed star of the Faith was prominent among them, sewn crudely onto their tattered clothes, or drawn with coal and ink on skin and fabric alike. It was a symbol of their twisted righteousness, a perversion of the faith that had once preached peace and justice.

Jace could feel the unease building in the pit of his stomach as he walked, surrounded by his guards. Ser Adrian led the way, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, while Ser Loreth guarded the rear, their presence ensuring Jace moved unhindered through the swelling crowd. Yet, as they pushed forward, Jace could not help but frown at the scene unfolding before him. The tension was palpable, simmering just beneath the surface, waiting to explode.

Something was wrong. There were too many people, too many faces peering at them from the dark alleys, eyes gleaming with malevolent intent. The air was thick with tension, as if the very city itself was holding its breath, waiting for the spark that would ignite the flames of chaos.

And then, it happened.

A sudden commotion broke out up ahead, shouts ringing through the square as the mob surged forward. The crush of bodies was overwhelming, and Jace found himself forced to draw his sword, the cold steel gleaming in the dim light as he prepared to defend himself. The mob had become a writhing, seething mass of violence, indiscriminately attacking anyone in their path.

Jace’s heart pounded in his chest as he fought, his sword cutting through the air with deadly precision. A mother and her daughter were caught in the melee, their terrified screams cutting through the din. Without hesitation, Jace moved to save them, his blade flashing as he cut down the man who threatened them. “Find safety.” he urged, his voice steady despite the chaos surrounding him. The frightened pair looked at him with wide eyes, gratitude etched on their faces before they turned and fled.

The square had become a scene of carnage, bodies littering the ground as the mob descended into madness. Blood soaked the cobblestones, the air thick with the stench of death and fear. It was a sight that would haunt Jace’s dreams for years to come.

And then, through the chaos, a voice rang out, sharp and filled with venom. “Death to the dragons!” The cry came from a brutish man, his face contorted with rage as he hacked at anyone before him. Ser Luthor was quick to put an end to his madness, cutting him down with a single stroke, but the damage had been done. The cry had taken root.

Two more voices joined in the chant, and then a dozen, and then the entire mob. “Death to the dragons! Death to the dragons!” The words echoed through the square, a hateful chorus that filled Jace with a growing sense of dread.

And then he saw it—a wave of torches, held aloft by the frenzied mob, moving towards Rhaenys’ Hill. Towards the Dragonpit.

Horror gripped Jace as he looked up, his breath catching in his throat. The people, driven by their fanatical rage, were marching towards the dragons, intent on destruction. The very heart of his family’s power and legacy was under threat, and all around him, the city seemed to be descending into madness.

The thought struck him like a blow—there was no one left to defend them. The Dragonpit, a symbol of Targaryen power, was a fortress without an army. The Dragonkeepers, formidable as they were, were few in number, no match for a mob that stretched into the thousands. With Dreamfyre as the sole seasoned dragon, the others were still young—Tyraxes and the dragons of the usurper’s children, too young to fight. Rhaena, he knew, would have safely returned to the Keep before nightfall, and reaching Sheepstealer would be impossible. As for his mother, the Council would never allow her to intervene.

Urgency tightened in his chest. Jace turned to the Queensguard, his voice cutting through the clamor, "A horse! Get me a horse!"

Ser Adrian’s face betrayed his concern, ready to protest, but Ser Loreth was quicker, understanding the prince’s determination. Without hesitation, he secured two horses. Jace didn’t wait—he mounted the first horse with practiced ease, spurred on by a single-minded focus. As the guards called after him, their voices were drowned out by the roar in his ears. He was already galloping towards the Dragonpit, the reins taut in his hands, the wind whipping through his hair.

The crowd in the streets, driven by their own fear and fervor, instinctively parted as he rode, the force of his speed and the sight of the prince atop his steed too much for them to challenge. Some dared to reach for him, their hands grasping in vain, but Jace maneuvered with the precision of a rider who had commanded  a dragon since his tenth name day. Behind him, he could hear Ser Loreth shouting, urging him to slow, but the prince only dug his heels into the horse's flanks, driving it faster.

He charged through the Street of Sisters, the narrow alleys blurring past him, until he reached Flea Bottom. It was the first time he had truly seen it—always before, he had passed through in the safety of a carriage. The stark reality of the place was jarring. Dilapidated houses lined the streets, leaning precariously as if the weight of the city’s despair bore down on them. Doors were barred, the inhabitants cowering behind shuttered windows, their shadows flitting like ghosts against the broken glass.

His focus was razor-sharp, his eyes fixed on the path ahead, when suddenly, a man lunged into his path, brandishing a butcher’s knife. The horse reared up, its front legs kicking the air as it neighed in panic. Jace struggled to control the beast, but it bucked wildly as the man’s knife slashed across its neck, blood spraying in a crimson arc. The horse faltered, its legs giving way beneath it. Jace, drawing on years of practice dismounting dragons, leaped clear just in time, avoiding being crushed by the animal’s collapsing weight.

He landed hard on the cobblestones, the impact jarring through him, but before he could regain his footing, another attacker appeared—a brute wielding a large branch, its tip sharpened into a crude spear. Panic flared as Jace scrambled to draw his sword, but the weapon caught in its sheath, time slipping away as the man closed in. Just as the branch swung down, one of his guards intercepted, steel flashing as he struck down the attacker.

Ser Loreth was at Jace’s side in an instant, pulling him to his feet, his own sword drawn and ready. But the danger was far from over. The guards fought valiantly, dispatching two more assailants, but the tide was turning against them. Four more attackers emerged from the shadows, their weapons gleaming with malice. The guards, outnumbered, were quickly overwhelmed.

Jace’s heart twisted with guilt as he watched his men struggle, knowing that their loyalty to him had brought them to this perilous moment. He tried to join the fight, desperate to aid them, but Ser Loreth’s grip on his arm was iron-tight, pulling him away, into the relative safety of a narrow alley. Jace stumbled, glancing back over his shoulder as the clash of steel and the cries of the dying filled the air.

The cobblestone path up the hill seemed steeper than ever, each step a labor against the panic clawing at his chest. Jace and Ser Loreth hurried through the narrow alleys, their breaths coming in quick, ragged bursts. The clamor of the mob grew louder behind them, voices shouting, "The boy went that way!" followed by the thunder of hundreds of feet. Jace’s heart pounded in his ears, drowning out all other sound.

As they rounded a corner, they found themselves at a dead end—a narrow alley blocked by a mound of discarded crates and rotting refuse. The stench was overwhelming, but more pressing was the sheer impossibility of escape. Jace could see the fear in Ser Loreth’s eyes, a fear that was rarely seen in a knight of the Queensguard. The realization that there was no way out was stark and unforgiving.

Ser Loreth stepped in front of him, his sword drawn, ready to defend the prince with his life. Jace, his hands trembling only slightly, drew his own blade. He would not go down without a fight. The shouts of the mob drew closer, echoing off the stone walls, a growing tide of hatred and violence.

Suddenly, a door creaked open to their right, and an old woman’s face appeared in the narrow gap. Her eyes were sharp despite her age, and her voice, though quiet, was commanding. "Get inside, Your Grace."

Jace blinked, startled, frozen for a moment as he stared at her lined face. The urgency of the situation snapped back into focus when Ser Loreth pushed him inside the small, dimly lit hovel. The door shut with a soft thud, and the knight immediately braced his full weight against it, his breathing heavy as he listened to the sounds outside.

Inside, the space was cramped, barely more than a single room. Two children, a boy and a girl, reached out for Jace, pulling him behind a crate that served as a makeshift table. He opened his mouth to protest—he was no babe to cower in hiding—but the girl, no older than Joffrey, fixed him with a glare so fierce that the words died in his throat.

They crouched in tense silence, the air thick with the smell of smoke and fear. Outside, the mob arrived, their voices rising in a chaotic blend of anger and confusion.

"I’m sure the prince came this way!" one man shouted.

"There's no prince here!" another slurred, his words thick with drink.

"Do you think he flew away?" someone else asked, and another voice quickly retorted, "They can’t fly without their dragons, you fool!"

A fresh commotion ensued—someone kicked over a bucket, its clattering noise like thunder in the stillness. Another tried the window, rattling the bars, but found it securely fastened. The tension inside the house was suffocating, the air so thick Jace felt as if he could barely breathe. The mob outside was a storm, threatening to break down the door, but then, mercifully, the tide turned.

"We need to get to the Pit! If we don’t hurry, all the dragons’ll be dead!" someone bellowed, and with that, the mob began to move on, their curses and shouts fading into the distance.

Jace exhaled slowly, standing on unsteady legs. His eyes fell on the old woman, who was crouched beneath a small sink, her frail hands trembling slightly. "Thank you." he said, the words earnest.

The old woman looked up at him, her expression unreadable. "Prince Daemon cut off my husband’s hand twenty years ago," she said in a low voice, "for theft. But he gave us enough coin to buy a boat, and that boat still feeds us today." Her gaze softened just a fraction, and she added, "My son still uses that boat to feed us."

Jace nodded, a small, grateful smile touching his lips. "We owe you a great debt." He turned to Ser Loreth, who had not left his post by the door. "We need to go."

The little girl, her dark eyes wide, shook her head vehemently. "It's dangerous out there! You’ll be killed!"

The old woman sighed, her expression weary. "She’s right, Your Grace. It’s better to stay here until first light. The brutes will be too tired to cause more harm by then."

Jace shook his head, determination hardening his resolve. "They’re going to kill the dragons. I need to protect them, just as they’ve protected my family for centuries."

The old woman looked at him with a mixture of confusion and resignation, then let out a soft sigh. "Stubborn princes," she muttered under her breath, but there was no malice in her words. She moved to the back of the room and opened a small, hidden door. "Go straight ahead. It’ll take you to Rhaenys’ Hill."

Jace bowed his head in gratitude, his heart full of unspoken thanks. He reached down to his doublet, plucking a pearl button from it, and pressed it into the little girl’s hand. "Thank you." he whispered, before slipping through the door, Ser Loreth close behind him.

As they made their escape into the night, Jace couldn’t help but glance back at the small house, the faces of the children and the old woman lingering in his mind. The world outside was dark and dangerous, but the kindness of strangers had given him a fleeting moment of hope. He will repay that kindness with action.

The path, if one could even call it that, was a mere thread of space snaking between shanties, too narrow for Jace and Ser Loreth to walk side by side. The haphazard nature of the settlement forced them into a single file, making their progress slow and tense. From time to time, a door would creak open, or a shadowed figure would lean out of a window, pointing them in the right direction with murmured warnings. Some spoke with kindness, urging Jace to be careful, while others, with a touch of desperation, begged him to stay with them instead, as if sensing the peril ahead.

At last, they reached a small clearing that placed them directly at the foot of Rhaenys' Hill. They pressed on, keeping to the cover of the woods, away from the main road where the mob would soon be surging upward. Jace silently thanked Daemon for the rigorous training he had enforced—training that extended beyond the practice yards. It wasn't just the hours spent sparring; they had been made to trek the rugged paths of Dragonmont three times a week, descending the winding stairs of the Dragon's Tail, and swimming between the small islands surrounding Dragonstone. His thighs burned with the effort as he pushed himself to run towards one of the side entrances of the Dragonpit, but the pain was familiar, almost comforting in its intensity.

The entrance was elevated, with a flight of stairs nearly as tall as Jace himself leading up to the gate. Ser Loreth knelt, boosting Jace up the first few steps, and the rough stone scraped against his hands, leaving them raw by the time he reached the top. He and Luke were told that entrances were situated so high because the smaller dragons used it to fly out of the dragonpit. As he glanced back at the growing flames of torches and heard the rising roar of the mob, he was thankful for it because with only one easily accessible entrance, it was easier to defend the Dragonpit, with a massive iron gate barring the way.

Jace knocked frantically on the much smaller iron gate beside it, the sound echoing in the still night. Ser Loreth banged his steel-plated hand against the door, shouting urgently. The distant mob was closing in, their voices growing louder with each passing moment. Just as panic began to creep into Jace’s heart, the gate creaked open, revealing a scowling dragonkeeper.

The dragonkeeper was a formidable figure, clad in full armor with a helm shaped like a dragon’s wing, reminiscent of the armor Daemon had on Dragonstone. His body bore the marks of his profession, visible even beneath the armor—burns and scars, old and new, crisscrossed his exposed skin, a testament to the perilous duty he performed.

"What in the devil are you doing outside the vault gate?" the dragonkeeper demanded, his voice a low growl.

"The dragons are in danger." Jace replied breathlessly, gesturing towards the mob rapidly advancing on them. Ser Loreth nodded grimly, his eyes fixed on the torches flickering in the distance.

The dragonkeeper hesitated for a heartbeat before stepping aside, allowing them entry. The gate was heavy, and he had to lean his full weight against it to swing it shut. The clang of metal echoed ominously as he sealed it behind them, the sounds of the mob muffled by the thick iron.

The dragonkeeper’s eyes burned with a fierce protectiveness as he surveyed the young prince and his companion. "We’ll keep them safe, my prince." he vowed, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword. "The dragons are our responsibility and we’ll defend them to our last breath."

Jace nodded resolutely, urgency quickening his steps as they descended to the sand pit where the dragonkeepers were gathering, their faces etched with concern. From the vaults where they resided, the dragonkeepers had already glimpsed the advancing mob, and tension hung thick in the air.

“Where is Tyraxes?” Jace demanded, his voice sharp with worry. One of the dragonkeepers stepped forward, nodding silently before leading him to his brother’s dragon’s nest accompanied by two more dragonkeepers. As they approached, Tyraxes, curled like a coiled serpent, lifted his head and hissed, his eyes glinting with wariness. The dragon was the size of a large horse, but his wings stretched out nearly twice the length of his body, a fearsome display of power. Though temperamental, Tyraxes was accustomed to the presence of the dragonkeepers and refrained from lashing out, though his displeasure was clear in the low rumble vibrating through the air.

“Bring Tyraxes to the lower levels.” Jace instructed, his tone brooking no argument.

Ser Loreth, ever practical, frowned and asked, “Will that be enough? There are thousands of people out there.”

Jace paused, his mind racing. “Is there a place that can be barred?” he inquired, glancing at the dragonkeeper.

The man nodded. “The hatchery, my prince. It’s large enough for Tyraxes, and there are only stone eggs there—those that turned cold, placed in the Hightower cradles.”

“Get him there and bar yourselves in.” Jace commanded, his voice firm.

The dragonkeeper nodded again, stepping forward to rouse Tyraxes. The dragon hissed and snapped, temper flaring, but he ultimately followed, albeit reluctantly. His temper was legendary, and he lashed his tail in irritation, the sound echoing off the walls as they began their descent.

Jace trailed behind them, passing the darkened cave where Dreamfyre was nesting. The cave was silent and shrouded in shadows, yet Jace could see her silver eyes glowing in the dark, following his every movement with an eerie stillness. The silence weighed heavily upon him, a stark contrast to the turmoil outside, but there was no time to dwell on it.

They continued downward, the journey long and winding through narrow tunnels lit by countless torches. The flames cast flickering shadows on the walls, which were a rough mixture of soil and stone, giving the passage an ancient, almost forgotten feel. The air was thick and cool, the torches illuminating just enough to guide their way, but the labyrinthine nature of the passageways meant that one could easily become lost if they did not know the way.

At last, they reached the hatchery. Tyraxes roared defiantly at the dragonkeepers, but with coaxing, he entered the chamber, his eyes flashing with displeasure as he settled inside. The space was large, with shelves holding stone eggs that had never hatched, remnants of dreams long abandoned. The air was heavy with the weight of lost hopes.

Ser Loreth turned to Jace, his expression grave. “You should stay in here as well, my prince, until we’re certain the mob is contained.”

“Where are Morghul and Shrykos?” he asked.

“Their caves are on the other side of the pit.” the dragonkeeper replied.

“We need to keep them in the lower caves as well. Stay with Tyraxes and protect him.” Jace ordered.

The dragonkeeper hesitated, his loyalty warring with his sense of duty. “Prince Jacaerys, you should stay with us. It’s too dangerous.”

Jace’s eyes blazed with resolve. “The dragons are the symbol of my family. If even one is killed by the people, it will make us look weak. The city will soon descend into chaos, and I don’t know if we can control a hundred thousand commoners, even with the armies outside King’s Landing. I must try to save them.”

The dragonkeeper stared at him, understanding the weight of the young prince’s words. With a reluctant nod, he turned back to Tyraxes, his expression fierce with the responsibility now resting upon him.

As Jace traced their way back, the air grew thick with the echoes of chaos. The steep tunnels seemed endless, each step more grueling than the last. Tyraxes had been a reluctant charge, resisting the dragonkeepers’ every attempt to guide him to safety, and the time they had spent coaxing the dragon down the winding paths had stretched into an eternity. Jace's chest pounded with each breath, his thoughts consumed by the hope that the Gold Cloaks and dragonkeepers had managed to contain the situation. His mother was surely watching from the Red Keep, her heart gripped by terror, and he could barely fathom the depth of her fear.

The sounds of turmoil reached them before they had even emerged from the lower levels. Shouts, screams, and the unmistakable roar of dragons mingled with the clashing of steel and the crackling of flames. Jace's heart thudded violently in his chest, a drumbeat of dread that quickened with every step.

“My prince, please,” Ser Loreth implored, his voice strained with urgency. “Return to the hatchery. It’s too dangerous.”

But Jace could not heed the plea. The dragons were more than mere creatures; they were symbols of his family’s power, their legacy. The young dragons Morghul and Shrykos were little more than dragonets, just larger than hatchlings, and Dreamfyre was bound by too many chains to count, he could not allow such majestic beings to be butchered by a mob blinded by fear and ignorance. The thought of Dreamfyre, the magnificent dragon who had laid so many clutches of eggs, being torn apart by those who feared what they did not understand was unbearable.

When they finally reached Dreamfyre’s cave, the sight that greeted them was a scene from a nightmare. Bodies littered the ground, twisted and charred beyond recognition. Some were nothing more than blackened husks, burned alive by dragonfire, while others lay in grotesque positions, their limbs crushed and bitten, their deaths violent and brutal. The stench of burnt flesh hung in the air, thick and choking, as groans of the dying mingled with the eerie silence of the dead.

Dreamfyre’s chains had been snapped, the thick links pulled from the floor and walls as if they were mere threads. The dragon herself was nowhere to be seen, and the remnants of those who had dared to attack her were strewn about like broken dolls. The fate of those who had sought to harm a dragon was clear: some had been scorched to death, their bodies reduced to ash and cinders, while others had been torn apart by Dreamfyre’s powerful jaws, their flesh rent from bone in savage bites. Blood soaked the ground, pooling beneath the mangled corpses, and the air was thick with the metallic scent of it.

Jace’s eyes caught sight of the fallen dragonkeepers near Dreamfyre’s cave, their bodies slumped against the rough walls of the tunnels just outside the sand pit. They had fought bravely, their lives sacrificed in a vain attempt to protect the dragons they had sworn to serve. Blood trickled from their wounds, pooling beneath them, their faces serene in death despite the carnage around them.

Jace barely had time to take in the horror before he rushed toward the sand pit, where the scene was even more dire. The dragons had fought valiantly, their dragonflame turning the Dragonpit into a blazing inferno, but the odds had been against them. Shrykos had already been slain, her skull cleaved by crude axes that still jutted grotesquely from her remains. Around her lay the bodies of countless men, their weapons clutched in lifeless hands, their faces frozen in expressions of terror.

Morghul was still alive but grievously wounded, a spear lodged in her eye. She roared in agony, her once-beautiful form now a mass of blood and fire as she lashed out at the attackers, her dragonflame scorching the walls, her claws and tail tearing through flesh and bone. The men who had dared to face her were torn apart, their bodies thrown like ragdolls across the sand, their screams cut short by the vicious fury of the wounded dragon.

Above, Dreamfyre had taken wing, her enormous form circling the cavernous interior of the dome. Her wings beat the air with thunderous force as she swooped down upon the men below, her jaws snapping, her dragonflame incinerating everything in its path. She slew more men than all the other dragons combined, her rage unrelenting as she defended her home with a ferocity that left the ground littered with the dead. Archers and crossbowmen loosed their arrows and quarrels at her, the missiles striking her scales and ricocheting harmlessly off her thick hide. But whenever she landed, men swarmed her, their weapons battering at her flanks, driving her back into the air with vicious tenacity.

Jace pulled Ser Loreth toward the stone benches that ascended the dome structure, the Dragonpit has tiered rows rising steeply toward the arched roof, from time to time the monarch used the pit for tourneys or other celebrations, the dragonpit can seat eighty thousand people. Each step brought them higher, the sounds of chaos reverberating through the cavernous space like the roar of a frenzied crowd. Jace’s heart pounded in his chest as he ran, his eyes scanning the dome for Dreamfyre. The dragon was a storm of fury, swooping down with a vengeance upon the men who dared to harm her, her flame scorching the air as she incinerated her attackers. Yet, above, more men had climbed the steps, raining arrows upon her from the heights.

“Dreamfyre!” Jace shouted, his voice barely audible over the din. “Soves! Soves, Dreamfyre!” He called to her, with a desperate plea. “Soves, Dreamfyre! Fly through the dome! Escape!”

But his words were likely futile. Dreamfyre was lost in her rage, her mind consumed by the need to defend herself and her domain. She could not possibly hear him over the screams of the dying and the crackling of flames. And yet, as if by some miracle, Dreamfyre landed near him, her massive form barely fitting onto the stone benches. Her enormous claws dug into the stone, and Ser Loreth pulled Jace back, fear flickering in his eyes as he saw men scrambling up toward the dragon, axes and spears in hand.

Jace broke free from Ser Loreth’s grip and ran toward Dreamfyre, his voice cracking as he shouted, “Dreamfyre, soves! Fly towards the dome! Escape!”

He understood his mistake the moment her furious eyes turned toward him. The dragon roared, a deafening sound that shook the very foundations of the pit. Jace’s breath caught in his throat as he met her gaze, wide-eyed and trembling. But when he looked back at the men charging toward her, he knew he could not let them have her.

“You have to go,” he whispered, his voice trembling with urgency. “Soves, Dreamfyre.”

Dreamfyre ceased her growling, her enormous head tilting as she sniffed the air around him. Then, to Jace’s astonishment, she lowered her snout, her warm breath washing over him. His heart thundered in his chest as he reached out, laying a trembling hand on her snout. Dreamfyre creened mournfully, a sound filled with such sorrow that it resonated deep within him.

Jace glanced down at the sand pit, where the bodies of two baby dragons lay still and lifeless. “They killed your children,” he said, his voice breaking. “I know how hard it is to lose those you love most.” He said leaning into her warm scales, thinking of baby Visenya, Luke, Vermax and Daemon.  “That’s why you cannot allow them to kill you too. Please, Dreamfyre, soves, fly through the dome!”

His plea was interrupted as the first of the men reached them, but Dreamfyre’s response was swift and merciless. She swiped at them with her horned tail, sending some men hurtling into the air, their bodies impaled on her spikes before they were flung down into the pit. Jace winced at the sight, the brutality of it a stark reminder of the ferocity of dragons.

Dreamfyre turned back to him, her enormous eyes locking onto his with an intensity that made him catch his breath. And then, to his utter astonishment, she lowered her massive shoulder before him, as if inviting him to climb up.

“What?” Jace breathed, his voice barely a whisper. “Do you want me to climb up?” Dreamfyre’s only response was an annoyed puff of smoke from her nostrils, a gesture that was almost impatient.

He hesitated, his mind racing. A dragon could only have one rider, and Dreamfyre’s rider, Helaena, was in the Red Keep. But he knew that Queen Alicent had opposed Helaena staying in the pit, that she rarely flew, and when she did, she was never allowed to linger long. Was Dreamfyre offering him her back now, in his moment of need?

Dreamfyre responded with a low growl, her breath hot against his skin. But instead of resisting, she began to move, her massive wings unfurling as she breathed fire at the charging men behind them. Jace felt Ser Loreth’s hands pulling him into an alcove just as Dreamfyre’s flames engulfed their attackers, the heat scorching the stone walls.

And then Dreamfyre turned back to him, her enormous eyes filled with a fierce determination. To Jace’s astonishment, she lowered her shoulder once more, as if to say, This is your chance.

Jace turned to Ser Loreth, who was staring at the dragon in fear and disbelief. “Go further up,” Jace commanded, his voice steadying with resolve. “There’s another vault that the dragonkeepers used as their quarters. Stay there and barricade the door.”

Ser Loreth looked at him reluctantly, torn between duty and the instinct to flee. But Jace was already ascending Dreamfyre’s back, his hands gripping her rough scales as he climbed. “Go, Ser,” Jace urged, his voice firm. “Save yourself. I have her.”

It was only then that Ser Loreth turned and fled, disappearing into the shadows above as Jace settled himself on Dreamfyre’s back. The chaos below seemed distant now, the screams and roars muffled by the sheer magnitude of the moment. Jace’s heart pounded in his chest, not from fear, but from the gravity of what he was about to do.

Dreamfyre shifted beneath him, her powerful muscles tensing as she prepared to take flight. Jace leaned into her warmth, feeling the rhythmic rise and fall of her breathing. “Soves Dreamfyre, fly through the dome, you are big and strong enough to do so.”

With a final, mighty roar, Dreamfyre leaped into the air, her wings beating furiously as she ascended toward the dome. The men below scattered in fear, their shouts of terror lost in the roar of the wind as Dreamfyre soared higher and higher. Jace held on tightly, his heart racing with a mix of fear and exhilaration as they approached the doomed roof. And then, with a final, earth-shattering blast of dragonflame, Dreamfyre burst through the dome, the shattered stone raining down like ash as they escaped into the open sky.

Jace instinctively raised his arms to shield his head, but it was Dreamfyre who bore the brunt of the falling stones. He closed his eyes tightly, feeling the coarse dust and sharp debris cascade over him, their weight pressing down like the very embodiment of despair. He could sense the cool rush of wind enveloping him, a stark contrast to the searing inferno they had fled. A shiver ran through him, the sudden chill a reminder of the precarious balance between life and death they now navigated.

When he finally dared to open his eyes, the scene below was one of utter devastation. More people struggled to breach the ruined gates of the Dragonpit, their faces twisted in fear and desperation. Jace's mind raced, torn between his innate compassion and the harsh reality before him. It would be effortless to incinerate these misguided souls, to unleash Dreamfyre’s formidable flames upon them. Yet, he hesitated, unwilling to harm those driven by ignorance and fear. But if he did nothing, their wrath might soon turn towards the Red Keep, endangering his mother and the entire realm.

Rhaenys Hill loomed perilously close to Fleabottom, the populous area where most of the chaos was unfolding. he trembled as he remembers the wan face of the old woman who helped him and the gaunt faces of the children with her. Doubt gnawed at him—owuld Dreamfyre even heed his commands now? Was he truly capable of controlling her fiery might in such turmoil? The moral quandary weighed heavily upon his heart, each option laden with its own burden of consequence.

His internal struggle was abruptly interrupted by a long trill, followed by a piercing, high-pitched whistle that sliced through the cacophony of battle. Instinctively, Jace whipped his head around. He beheld a magnificent sight: Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm, descended gracefully from above. His long, lean body bore the scars of previous battles, a testament to his resilience. Despite the holes in his wings and a large gauge affixed to his belly, Caraxes appeared formidable and unbroken.

Atop Caraxes sat Daemon, his presence both startling and exhilarating. The prince had long been presumed dead, four moons since his last sighting, and now here he was—smirking arrogantly as if his survival were the most natural thing in the world. Daemon was clad not in his usual riding leathers and armor, but in a simple tunic and breeches, a shabby cloak draped carelessly over his shoulder. The sight of him ignited a whirlwind of emotions within Jace—relief, joy, and a fierce protective instinct.

Daemon's voice, though barely audible over the roaring wind and the blood rushing in Jace’s ears, carried a clear directive. Pointing towards the Red Keep, his gesture was unambiguous. Without hesitation, Jace nodded, understanding the unspoken command. He turned Dreamfyre towards the castle, not flying far before the first burst of flames erupted from Caraxes. As they flew, he cast one last glance back. Just as he did, the first wave of fire burst from Caraxes’ maw, a blazing inferno that circled the Dragonpit. The flames licked around the perimeter, sealing off any chance of escape. Jace's heart clenched as he saw the smallfolk scrambling, turning back from the hill, only to meet the Blood Wyrm’s deadly fire. But if there was one thing he knew, it was that Daemon had perfect control over his dragon's flame. He trusted him to keep the blaze contained. Still, the weight of the destruction—necessary as it might have been—sat heavily on his shoulders.

Dreamfyre carried him back toward the courtyard, where Syrax awaited. But his thoughts remained with Daemon, with Caraxes, with the searing joy that threatened to spill from his chest. They were alive. Against all odds, Daemon had returned, and for the first time in months, the shadow of loss that had clung to him like a shroud seemed to lift. He had lost so much—Visenya, Lucerys, Vermax—but Daemon, at least, was still here.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra POV

Rhaenyra stood in the Tower of the Hand, her figure framed by the tall, arched window that overlooked the sprawling expanse of King’s Landing. Below, the streets churned with unrest, a frenzied mob surging towards Rhaenys' Hill like a dark tide threatening to consume the city. The sight sent a shiver of unease through her, and her fingers instinctively began to twist the rings she always wore, a gesture born of deep-seated anxiety.

The first was a band of Valyrian steel, the Targaryen sigil etched into its surface with the precision of ancient craftsmanship. It had once belonged to Queen Visenya, a relic of strength and sovereignty passed down to Rhaenyra by her father, King Viserys, on the day he named her his heir. The cool, dark metal felt reassuring against her skin, yet today it seemed to burn with the weight of expectation.

Next, her fingers grazed over the golden Arryn ring, a simple yet elegant piece that had once adorned the hand of her mother. The warmth of the gold, softened by years of wear, brought with it memories of a gentle smile, a whispered word of comfort, a time when the burdens of the crown had been far from her young shoulders. It was a talisman of her mother’s legacy, one she cherished deeply.

Finally, her thumb traced the contours of her wedding ring—a plain gold band, unassuming at first glance, but within it lay the carved figures of Syrax and Caraxes, their dragons entwined in mid-flight. On the inside, hidden from all but her, were the initials "R" and "D," the simple inscription of a bond forged in fire and blood. It was the most personal of her rings, a constant reminder of the man who had stood by her side through love and war, yet its presence now did little to calm the storm brewing within her.

As the mob drew nearer, Rhaenyra continued to twist the rings, the motion as rhythmic as her own anxious thoughts. Each turn of the band seemed to echo the turmoil in her heart, a silent plea for strength in the face of an uncertain future.

This day seemed endless, stretching on with a cruel, unrelenting persistence. Not even two candlestick had passed since she stood atop the Moat, her heart heavy as she watched the guards descend, their solemn task to retrieve the body of her sister. The image was seared into her mind, the bleak landscape, the dry, cracked and unforgiving dry moat, and the distant figures moving with a grim resolve.

The memory of this dreadful day played out in her mind, vivid and unyielding, like a scene from a tragic play that refused to end. Helaena, so delicate and fragile, had not died immediately after she leaped from the window. Instead, fate had dealt a crueler blow—her body impaled upon the iron spikes of the dried moat surrounding the fortress. The spikes had pierced her side, just beneath her ribcage, her womb, her thigh and her arm, injuries that did not grant her the mercy of a swift death but prolonged her suffering in excruciating agony.

Rhaenyra had descended the stairs in a daze, the world around her muted as she reached the courtyard. The guards had been frantic, the Maester beside himself, all doing everything in their power to save the poor girl. They tugged and pulled, tried to lift her gently, but it was no use. Helaena had been trapped, pinned between life and death, her blood staining the ground as they struggled to free her from the spikes’ grasp.

Alicent's wails had echoed through the courtyard, a sound that cut through Rhaenyra's heart like a knife. Had the guards not held her back, Alicent surely would have flung herself into the moat, desperate to reach her daughter. The look on Alicent's face—the sheer devastation, the unbearable grief—was something Rhaenyra could never forget. It was the same look she saw in her own reflection when Visenya had died, when Luke had been lost to the stormy seas, when Daemon had fallen. A look of absolute despair, of a mother's pain that knew no bounds.

And yet, as Rhaenyra looked at Alicent, she could not help but pity her. Once, they had been friends, as close as sisters, until Alicent had turned away from her, choosing instead to marry the King and secure Otto Hightower’s ambitions. All Alicent had ever wanted was to please her father, the Hand of the King, even if it meant sacrificing everything else. Every choice she made, every betrayal, had been driven by fear—fear that Rhaenyra would one day kill her children. And now, as Rhaenyra stood there, watching her former friend break under the weight of her grief, the irony was inescapable.

Alicent had lost everything. Two of her children were dead, her grandchildren gone, her father in his grave, and no allies left at court. All her fears had come true, and it was her own ambition that had led her to this ruin. Rhaenyra knew in her heart that she would have done nothing to harm her siblings if only they had bent the knee. Aegon could have lived out his days in peace, carefree within the Red Keep, with Helaena and her children by his side. Aemond could have joined the Queensguard or sought his destiny elsewhere. Daeron, too, would have been welcomed in her court. But Alicent's fear, her need to control, had driven her to start a war—a war that had cost them all dearly.

Rhaenyra knew that, in Alicent's twisted mind, she would find a way to blame her for everything, just as she always had. But as the hours passed and Helaena's life slipped away, as they finally pried her broken body from the cruel spikes, Rhaenyra felt nothing but sorrow for the woman who had once been her closest friend. It had taken over an hour for them to pronounce Helaena's death, and even more to remove her impaled body, but the wounds left behind in their hearts would never heal.

Helaena’s body had not yet been claimed by the Silent Sisters for long when unsettling news from the city began to reach the Keep. Almost ten thousand smallfolk had roused themselves into a seething mob, their anger palpable, though the reasons for it remained unclear. Whispers spread that they were blaming her for Helaena’s death, but that news could not have traveled so swiftly beyond the walls of the Keep. The mob was not even moving towards the Red Keep but rather towards the Dragonpit, where the great beasts rested. The more credible reports claimed it was the Poor Fellow preaching about the death of dragons that had incited this unrest. Yet, as much as she feared for the dragons, a greater terror gripped her heart—the knowledge that Jace was at the very center of this chaos.

Her son had been with Ser Luthor, part of the force sent to arrest the Shepherd and his followers before pandemonium erupted. She had already dispatched urgent orders to the Knights of the Vale, stationed outside King’s Landing, commanding them to aid the Gold Cloaks in restoring order. But her most desperate command was for them to find her son. Jace had already come too close to death during the Battle of the Gullet; the thought of losing him now was unbearable. If something happened to Jace, she might just set King’s Landing ablaze herself, letting fire and blood cleanse the city of her sorrow.

“Muña, please…” Rhaena’s voice was gentle, as it always was. She approached with a cup of tea, the delicate porcelain trembling slightly in her hands as she held it out to her. “Sit down, if only for a moment. The tea will help calm your nerves.”

But Rhaenyra shook her head, barely sparing a glance at the offering. “I cannot sit, Rhaena. I cannot be still while every moment brings us no closer to finding him.” Her voice was tight, strained with the weight of her dread. “Is there any news of Prince Jacaerys?” she asked, her eyes scanning the room as if the answer might be hiding in some shadowed corner.

Lady Mysaria, who had been standing quietly near the window, stepped forward. Her expression was calm, but there was a sharpness in her eyes that spoke of unyielding resolve. “All of my spies are searching, my Queen. They will leave no stone unturned, no whisper unheard. Prince Jacaerys will be found.”

Rhaenyra’s pacing slowed, but her fear remained undiminished. She looked at them both, the weight of her desperation evident in her eyes. “I know you are doing all that can be done.” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “But until he is here, until I can hold him in my arms, I can find no peace.”

Rhaena set the tea aside, stepping closer to gently take her hand. “We will find him, Muña. He is fierce, just like you. Hold onto that thought.”

But even as she nodded, Rhaenyra’s heart continued to race, her mind spinning in endless circles of fear and worry. Nothing could ease the gnawing terror that something had happened to her son, and until he was safely returned, she knew no words could bring her any comfort.

Then, through the windows, she saw it—the mob breaking through the iron gate, a wave of bodies surging towards the Dragonpit. A sob escaped her lips at the thought of the dragons within, barely more than hatchlings. Her heart clenched as she thought of Tyraxes, her son’s dragon, vulnerable in that pit. Suddenly, she was gripped by a new terror. "Where is Joffrey?" she cried, her voice rising in panic.

Everyone in the room exchanged uneasy glances, and Rhaena whispered in alarm, "He was just here." She pointed to the table where Joffrey had been served his dinner, but the food was half-eaten, the chair empty. A chill ran down Rhaenyra’s spine. She should have known. Joffrey would never sit idly by while Tyraxes was in danger. He had begged her to let him go out with the guards, to join the efforts to protect the city.

Rhaenyra’s resolve hardened as the minutes passed, her pacing coming to an abrupt halt. Her eyes flashed, and without a moment's hesitation, she turned to the men assembled before her.

“Find my son,” she commanded, her voice leaving no room for doubt. “He is not to leave the Keep—do you hear me? Not one step beyond these walls.”

The Kingsguard moved swiftly, each man snapping to attention. Ser Harrold Darke was the first to respond, his tone steady but with a hint of urgency. “At once, Your Grace. We will cover every passage, every hidden door.”

Ser Glendon Goode nodded in agreement. “I’ll take the western wing. Ser Harmon, you and Ser Medrick take the east.”

Ser Harmon of the Reeds stepped forward, his hand already on the hilt of his sword. “Consider it done, my Queen. We will find him.”

Ser Medrick Manderly, his usually calm demeanor now tinged with concern, echoed the sentiment. “No one will rest until the prince is found.”

Ser Willam Royce, his brow furrowed with determination, added, “I’ll check the towers and battlements. He won’t slip past us.”

As they turned to leave, Lord Corlys, who had been silent until now, took a step forward, his face pale with worry. “I’ll lead the search myself.” he said, his voice booming with authority. “We’ll scour every inch of the Red Keep, and beyond if need be. We’ve lost too much already—I’ll not lose another heir.”

Rhaenyra met his gaze, her eyes filled with gratitude but also with the same fierce determination that burned within him. “Thank you, Lord Corlys,” she said softly, but her tone was resolute. “Bring him back to me.”

Lord Corlys nodded, his expression one of unwavering resolve. “I will.” he promised before turning to lead the charge. His voice rang out through the halls as he barked orders, sending more men to join the search. The sound of their hurried footsteps echoed behind him as they fanned out, determined to find the prince.

“Let me go to Sheepstealer,” Rhaena pleaded, her voice urgent. “I can help.”

“No!” Rhaenyra cried, shaking her head vigorously. She grasped Rhaena’s face firmly, her eyes burning with a fierce protectiveness. “They will not take any more of my babes from me! Not one more!” Her voice was resolute, trembling with the raw fear that gripped her heart. She would not let this city, this war, this madness, take another of her children from her. Not while she still drew breath.

Rhaenyra sank into the chair Rhaena had dragged to the window, her bones protesting the weight of her grief, her spirit bruised by the sight below. Here she sat, not a queen astride her throne, but a woman bound to watch, helplessly, as the very symbol of her family’s might—her birthright—lay vulnerable, trampled by mere commonfolk. Was this a bitter jest from the gods themselves? Could it be they sought to remind her she was unworthy of the Iron Throne? It seemed that for every battle won, she was condemned to lose some precious piece of herself.

Since her return to the Capital, House Targaryen had endured one tragedy after another. Was the Crown truly been worth the ash that lingered in her heart, worth the emptiness left in Luke’s absence, or the weightless void where Aegon and Viserys once were? The familiar trust in Jace’s gaze, the warmth of Joffrey’s small hands—each was a sacrifice, a price paid in silent grief.

Rhaenyra felt the world shift beneath her feet as her gaze met the Dragonpit. At first, she thought it was a trick of her weary mind, but the sight was unmistakable—the great dome, cracked and splintering, surrendered to an enormous dragon’s wrath as the it burst forth, sending down half the ruined ceiling with her. The ancient dragon roared into the heavens, voice a furious hymn to the skies above, and Rhaena gasped beside her, clutching her hand. “Dreamfyre!”

Rhaenyra’s pulse quickened with fear and awe as the dragon circled high above the city, her scales catching the light of fires in a magnificent cascade of blue and silver. Was Dreamfyre set to unleash her fury upon the Red Keep, the seat of Targaryen power, or would she, maddened by grief, turn upon the city itself? But then, as the dragon veered closer, Rhaena’s gasp cut through Rhaenyra’s worry. “Someone—someone is atop her!”

With a thudding heart, Rhaenyra leaned over the sill, squinting through the glare. Her breath caught as she discerned a familiar silhouette, curls cascading like a banner caught in the wind. “Jace!” she cried, disbelieving but thrilled, her heart tripping over itself in shock. Rhaena’s eyes widened in awe, darting between her mother and the dragon aloft, her expression wavering between disbelief and hope. Was it truly him?

Rhaenyra’s laugh escaped in a trembling gasp, tears threatening to spill as her mind fought with her heart. She couldn’t see him clearly, but deep within her bones, she knew it was her firstborn, her Jace, high atop Dreamfyre’s broad back. Then, as if the gods themselves wished to test her endurance, a piercing trill cut through the air—a high-pitched whistle so unmistakable it sent a jolt through her.

Rhaenyra turned so fast her vision blurred, her gaze snapping to the sky. No— She had heard that cry in her dreams, a haunting echo of what had once been, but there it was again, ringing out clearly. A tiny figure approached, twisting and spiraling in a chaotic, joyous descent. She could see the dragon now—Caraxes, her husband’s dragon, with his zigzagging, unpredictable flight, the wild acrobatics she had seen him perform so many times. Caraxes, Daemon’s twin in spirit, born of chaos and fire.

Her heart rebelled against reason, thrumming with an aching, desperate hope. She knew in her mind it couldn’t be him; Daemon and Caraxes had perished at the Gods Eye. Yet, seeing that red streak carving through the sky, his rider as bold and brash as ever, she felt as though her heart might shatter. Was she truly seeing him? Was she going mad from the weight of grief? She wished to be nothing more than a fool in love, allowing herself to believe for one precious moment that her husband had returned to her, defying death itself.

A tear fell, but her lips trembled with a reluctant smile, as if her heart refused to let go, even as her mind cautioned her. Real or not, the sight before her was a gift from the gods, a fleeting dream brought to life. And if she could believe in it, even for a breath, she would hold onto it with all the strength she had left.

The room held its breath as Rhaena, in a burst of childlike abandon, threw herself at the window and shouted, “Kepa!” She waved madly, her hand cutting through the air, and Rhaenyra felt a jolt that sent her heart racing anew. Rhaena could see him too? She blinked in disbelief, hope seeping into her like water after a long drought. They were real; he was real.

Rhaenyra turned back, and there, framed against the sky, glided Caraxes. The dragon’s once-flawless wings bore scars—small punctures and a long, gaping tear along the neck where his scales had fallen away. But it was unmistakably him, the familiar, serpentine body undulating in flight. And atop, the rider she could now see clearly—Daemon, her Daemon—looking every bit the rogue prince. He was dressed in a hastily donned brown tunic, unlaced and loose, his hair tousled in a low, disheveled bun, silver strands flying in the wind.

And then their eyes met. Rhaenyra’s heart stilled, her pulse suspended as she drank in the sight of his dark, amethyst gaze, a gaze that held her captive, speaking every word neither had ever said aloud. The world around her ceased to matter—the screams below, the shattered city, the relentless smoke—all were mere echoes beyond this moment. For now, there was only him, looking at her with that insufferable smile, hand extended, fingers outstretched as if he could reach through the distance and touch her, pull her from despair.

How long had she longed for him? For this? No words would ever capture the depth of that ache. Her soul seemed to expand, unshackled and raw, finally whole again in the presence of the one she’d loved beyond all else. But he turned, shifting Caraxes with an effortless maneuver, to face the Dragonpit. She could see him assessing the unruly crowd below—those foolish few who had dared to fashion themselves dragon-slayers. Her heart clenched with pride, but also with that ancient, abiding trust that her husband, her Daemon, would protect them all.

In moons, for the first time, Rhaenyra hopeful. A smile rose unbidden to her lips; it was as if she could breathe again. She wanted to call him back, to call him home, but she knew better. The threat below must be handled first. She could only watch as Daemon steered Caraxes to the Dragonpit, his gaze a steely promise that no harm would come to her or their family. Beside her, Rhaena’s laugh rang out—bright, wet with tears, half-joy, half-astonishment. Rhaenyra turned to see her stepdaughter, smiling so broadly it seemed her face might split, tears of relief streaking her cheeks. Rhaena’s shoulders shook, but it was not with grief this time; it was with unguarded, unabashed happiness.

Rhaenyra took Rhaena in her arms, pressing a tender kiss to the side of her head, feeling the young woman burrow her face into her neck, her small frame shivering with happiness. Since Daemon’s death, Rhaena had become so withdrawn, more so when Aegon and Viserys were sent away. Rhaenyra knew she had failed to nurture her own child’s spirit in the face of relentless demands, but in this moment, they shared a joy she hadn’t felt in so long. She drew back, brushing a tear from Rhaena’s cheek. “Come,” she whispered, voice brimming with renewed strength. “Jace will be waiting in the courtyard.”

Together, they looked back to see Dreamfyre circling toward the Keep, and then Caraxes breathing a fierce line of fire in an arc below the Dragonpit, casting a ring of flames that separated the trapped men from any hope of escape. He was securing a perimeter, Rhaenyra thought with a thrill of admiration, ensuring no mercy would slip through those flames. Her heart swelled as she watched him, unwavering in his purpose.

Rhaena tugged on her hand, and they hurried from the window, Rhaenyra clutching her skirts in one hand as they descended the countless steps of the Tower of the Hand. Her heel caught on the uneven stone, her balance slipping, but Ser Lorent’s hand steadied her, strong and steadfast, and he did not release her arm until they reached the ground.

The outer yard was alive with the resounding echo of Dreamfyre’s roar, shaking the very air. Rhaenyra’s heart thudded as she ran forward, her steps sure and swift.

Jace POV

The descent was anything but graceful. Dreamfyre's wings, long unused to open skies, beat against the air with an unpracticed, frantic rhythm. Jace clung to the chains wrapped around him, his teeth rattling with every jarring movement. The ground rushed up at them, and for a moment, he feared he might be thrown from her back entirely. His bones felt as though they might shatter from the roughness of the landing, a far cry from the smooth, controlled descents he had known with Vermax. When they finally hit the ground, it was with a bone-jarring thud that nearly sent him tumbling from the saddle. His vision darkened, the world spinning, and he gripped the chains tighter, his knuckles white with the effort to stay mounted.

When the world righted itself and his vision cleared, the courtyard came into focus, and his heart lurched in his chest at what he saw. Joffrey—his little brother, barely more than a boy—was struggling to mount Syrax, the golden dragon standing eerily still, but her muscles were coiled like a spring ready to snap.

"Joffrey!" Jace shouted, panic flooding his voice as he fumbled to unfasten the chains securing him to Dreamfyre. His hands were shaking, but he managed to scramble down, his feet hitting the ground unsteadily. He moved toward Syrax, each step filled with caution. The dragon was familiar with them, yes, but she was not one to be trifled with—especially by a child who had no place on her back.

"Come here, little brother," Jace called out, trying to keep his voice steady despite the fear clawing at him. Joffrey, frowning, had stopped his attempt to climb Syrax’s saddle, but his wide eyes were now fixed on Dreamfyre. The golden dragon sat unnervingly still, her muscles taut with barely restrained tension.

"I need to save Tyraxes!" Joffrey’s voice was small, tearful, as he looked up at Jace, his eyes glistening with unshed tears.

"Tyraxes is safe." Jace reassured him, his voice softening. "I put him in the hatchery myself."

Joffrey’s eyes filled with hope, his lips trembling as he looked up at his brother. "Truly?"

Jace nodded, crouching down to Joffrey’s level, his expression earnest. "Why would I go to the Dragonpit unless it was to save Tyraxes?" he asked gently.

That was all it took. Joffrey launched himself into Jace’s arms, clinging to him with a fierce desperation. Jace pulled him close, holding him tightly, his heart aching with relief and fear.

"You foolish boy!" Jace scolded, though his voice was thick with emotion as he pressed Joffrey to his chest. "Have you not been listening to Kepa and Muña? You should never approach a dragon without their rider! Syrax could have thrown you off in an instant."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Joffrey cried into his shoulder, his small body shaking with sobs.

Jace kissed him on the forehead, then gently lifted his chin to look into his eyes. "Promise me, Joffrey," he said, his voice firm but tender. "Promise me you’ll never do that again."

Joffrey nodded vigorously, tears still streaming down his face as he buried it in Jace’s shoulder once more. "I promise." he whispered, his voice trembling with sincerity.

Jace held him close, his heart finally starting to calm as he pressed his cheek to his brother’s hair. For a moment, all the chaos, all the danger, faded into the background, and all that mattered was the boy in his arms, safe and sound.

"Where are your guards?" Jace demanded, his anger flaring anew as he tightened his grip on Joffrey's hand. But instead of answering, Joffrey’s gaze drifted upward, fixing on Dreamfyre with a look of wonder.

"Is Dreamfyre yours now, lēkia?" he asked softly, his eyes wide as they took in the magnificent blue dragon, who was now resting her head on the ground, watching both Syrax and Joffrey with a protective intensity. It was only then that Jace noticed one of Dreamfyre’s wings draped over them, as if shielding them from the world. Behind him, Syrax grumbled, her smoky breath swirling in their direction, but she made no move to challenge the older dragon.

Jace looked down at Joffrey, his heart heavy with confusion and concern. As he rose to his feet, still holding his brother’s hand tightly, he answered, "No, she just... let me ride her." he admitted, his voice faltering. He didn’t fully understand it himself. "Helaena is her rider. Perhaps Dreamfyre wanted to be close to her."

Joffrey’s face darkened, and he looked up at Jace with a grim expression. "Helaena is dead." he said, his voice thick with the weight of the night’s horrors.

Shock rippled through Jace, the realization striking him like a blow. The words barely registered, each one heavy with a meaning he struggled to grasp. Helaena… dead? The thought circled in his mind, refusing to settle. How could this be? He barely knew her—she had always been a distant figure in his life, a shadowed presence in the periphery of the conflict that had consumed their families. Yet, the weight of her loss is still too much.

"They’re still trying to get her... from the moat." Joffrey's words hung in the air, and Jace felt a cold dread seep into his bones. The image, vague and terrifying, flickered in his mind—a girl trapped in the dry moat filled with spikes, a desperate struggle, a life snuffed out too soon. He should say something, offer some words of comfort or wisdom, but his tongue felt heavy, his mind clouded.

"What?" Jace gasped, struggling to comprehend. "How did this happen?"

Joffrey shrugged, the motion helpless, before he spoke again. "The maids say the Green Bitch tried to escape, but Helaena didn’t want to, and then she… jumped from one of the windows."

Jace didn’t have time to chastise his brother for his language. The overwhelming wave of information left him reeling, and he could hardly process what he had just heard. Helaena was gone, and the thought of how she died filled him with a sorrow but he did not have time nor the energy to linger on it.

Before he could say anything more, a group of guards burst into the outer yard, their swords and spears at the ready. Dreamfyre reacted immediately, hissing and roaring at the approaching men, her protective instincts surging to the forefront.

"Do not approach the dragon!" Jace ordered, his voice firm as he pushed Joffrey toward the guards, who hesitated at his command. He then turned back to Dreamfyre, whose enormous head lowered to meet him, her eyes glimmering with emotions that mirrored his own.

Jace stepped forward, leaning his forehead against her snout, closing his eyes as he sought the familiar warmth that he once shared with Vermax. He focused on the rhythm of her breathing, remembering the lessons Kepa and Muña had taught him—how to synchronize his breath with his dragon’s, until it felt as though their hearts beat as one. He inhaled deeply, matching Dreamfyre’s exhale, and as he did, something clicked within him. The connection between them, the bond that had been so elusive, now surged to life with a strength that nearly staggered him.

It was unlike anything he had known with Vermax. That bond had been as natural as breathing, a seamless extension of himself. But this—this connection with Dreamfyre—was different. It was almost overwhelming, a torrent of emotions and memories that flooded him all at once. He could feel her sorrow, the deep sadness at the loss of her rider, and the loneliness that had settled over her after being confined to the Dragonpit for so long.

Dreamfyre keened in sorrow.

"I know... I know..." Jace whispered, his voice trembling with empathy as he caressed her scales, the warmth of her skin grounding him. "We can be sad together, both of us will grieve, but we need to be strong too. Our family needs us."

Dreamfyre responded with a gentle nudge, a short, rumbling roar that seemed to echo his sentiments. Jace felt a surge of resolve wash over him, fueled by the strength of their newfound bond. He could not afford to falter, not now. There was too much at stake, too many lives depending on him.

With a final, reassuring stroke along Dreamfyre's neck, Jace lifted his head, his resolve hardening. Whatever came next, he would face it with Dreamfyre by his side, their bond stronger than the fires that had forged them.

Rhaenyra POV

Rhaenyra’s eyes swept the courtyard until they fell on a familiar, beloved face amidst the clustered guards. “Joffrey!” she cried, her voice cracking with relief. At her call, her youngest son’s head whipped toward her, and without a moment’s hesitation, he broke free from the guards, his small frame darting toward her. Rhaenyra dropped to her knees, the unforgiving ground biting through her skirts, but she hardly noticed. Her arms opened wide, and within moments, Joffrey was in them, his face pressed close, his little body wracked with tremors.

“I’m sorry, Muña!” he blurted out between gasping sobs. “I just wanted to save Tyraxes! I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Fat tears poured from his eyes, streaming down his dirt-streaked cheeks. Rhaenyra shushed him softly, her thumb gently sweeping the tears from his face, soothing him as best she could.

“Hush now, love. You’re safe. I’m just so glad you’re safe.” she whispered, cupping his cheek tenderly. “But promise me, never do that to me again, sweetling.”  She said in a firm voice. Joffrey nodded so fervently his curls bounced, and before she could blink, he was tugging insistently on her hand.

“Come look! Jace has a new dragon, Muña—she’s so big!” His eyes shone with excitement as he pointed toward the outer yard.

With Ser Lorent’s help, she rose to her feet, clutching Joffrey’s hand tightly as they walked together to where Jace stood, resting his palm against Dreamfyre’s massive flank. Rhaenyra’s heart swelled with pride and admiration, for her eldest son was dwarfed by the dragon, yet he held himself with an unmistakable calm, his gaze steady as he stroked the creature’s scaled side. Jace turned then, his solemn face brightening as he caught sight of her, and he crossed the distance quickly, meeting her embrace with a fierce, if brief, hug.

Rhaenyra held his face between her hands, her eyes scanning the smudges of ash and soot that dusted his cheeks, the dark streak above his brow where blood had dried, and the cut that marred his temple. “I thought I’d lost you, too...” she murmured, her voice thick with unspoken fears. But Jace, ever her steady rock, shook his head, a small, determined smile on his lips.

“We have far too many things to do before I could leave your side for good, Your Grace.” he replied, his tone warm yet reassuringly confident.

She smiled, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Then you shan’t leave my side at all.” she whispered, her words part request, part command, and he nodded, his solemn gaze never wavering.

Just then, Joff tugged her hand impatiently, eyes wide and gleaming. “Muña, was that really Caraxes up there?” he asked, voice filled with awe. “I heard him! It is Caraxes, right?”

Before Rhaenyra could answer, a familiar, thunderous crash reverberated through the courtyard, and she turned just in time to see Caraxes land in a whirl of scales and power, his massive form settling upon the stones with a low, guttural growl. The sudden arrival set Dreamfyre on edge; she reared her head, flaring her wings with a furious roar. But Syrax, Rhaenyra’s own, reacted swiftly, lunging protectively between Dreamfyre and Caraxes, hissing in defense of the Blood Wyrm. Jace, quick to calm his new mount, murmured soothingly until Dreamfyre’s wings folded, her agitation settling.

Rhaenyra watched in awe as Syrax curled under Caraxes’s wing, their familiar closeness a reminder of the bond dragons so often shared. But her gaze drifted downward, drawn inexorably to the man she hadn’t dared hope to see again. There was Daemon, sliding down Caraxes’s massive wing with a roughness to his movements that spoke of fatigue—perhaps even pain, though she couldn’t quite be certain. His usual grace seemed worn, his descent uneven, yet her heart leaped at the sight of him.

Before she could even whisper his name, Joffrey had slipped his hand from hers and was racing toward his father, his small feet pounding against the stones. Daemon crouched, catching Joffrey up into his arms with a grunt, though he didn’t toss him into the air as he often do; instead, he held him tightly, face wincing slightly but too full of joy to care.

Rhaena was beside him a moment later, her gaze reserved but yearning. Daemon opened his free arm at once, and Rhaena stepped into it, embracing him with quiet fervor. Rhaenyra’s heart clenched as she watched her stepdaughter lean in close, murmuring words too soft for anyone else to hear. After a moment, Rhaena pulled back, her expression composed, hands folding demurely before her as she maintained her dignified poise.

But Daemon’s eyes found Rhaenyra’s then, dark with both longing and weariness, and something in her broke open. She could see it now—how exhaustion and pain had left their mark on his face, lines etched deeper, shadows beneath his eyes. But he was here. He was alive. Her feet moved of their own accord, carrying her to him, her heart full, words forgotten, as she closed the distance.

As Rhaenyra stepped toward Daemon, her heart thundered, drowning out the world around her. She wrapped her arms tightly around him, pressing herself into his familiar warmth, feeling the solidness of him beneath her touch. Daemon still held Joffrey in one arm, but he pulled her close, enveloping her in his embrace. She could feel the heat radiating from him, feel the heartbeat under his chest—steady, alive.

Daemon pressed a gentle kiss to the side of her head, his lips brushing her temple with a tenderness that made her eyes sting. She burrowed deeper into the crook of his shoulder, her face nestled against the worn fabric of his collar, inhaling the scent she’d yearned for since the moment he had left her. In his arms, the ache of his absence lifted from her shoulders like mist vanishing with the dawn. She clung to him, her fingers grasping the back of his tunic as if to bind him to her, to keep him there forever. And if this were only a dream, she thought, then may the gods show mercy and never wake her. Yet she knew—this was no illusion, for Joffrey squirmed between them, his little hands wriggling for a place in the embrace.

“You were gone forever,” Joffrey huffed, frowning up at his father. “Where did you go?”

At that, Daemon’s lips curved into a chuckle, the deep, familiar rumble vibrating through his chest. Rhaenyra closed her eyes, savoring the sound, letting it soothe her.

“I was dead, my little prince.” Daemon replied, his voice light with jest but laced with a truth they both understood. He glanced down at Joffrey, who wore a defiant expression, his brows drawn together.

“But you’re not dead.” Joffrey retorted, his young face full of conviction. Daemon’s quiet laugh echoed again, rich with amusement, and he tilted his gaze back to Rhaenyra, something softer and deeper glimmering in his eyes.

“Not even the deepest of the Seven Hells could hold me back from trying to get back to you.” he murmured, his tone so unguarded, so wholly sincere, that it pulled a rare, true smile from her.

She rose up on her toes, her hands finding their way to the nape of his neck as she drew his face down to hers. She kissed him, fierce and unapologetic, pouring her longing and her joy into it, her lips pressing into his with the kind of fervor that cared not for the gazes around them. She felt his hand, firm on her back, pulling her closer still, his fingers weaving into her hair as he returned the kiss, matching her fire with his own.

In the background, she heard Jace and Joffrey’s groan of mock disgust, and Rhaena’s exasperated sigh, but Rhaenyra cared little. By now, they were all well used to such displays. All that mattered was that he was here—whole, real, his heart beating against hers, the weight of his arms anchoring her to the moment, where no dream or illusion could pry them apart.

Rhaenyra rose carefully from their bed, slipping out with practiced caution, her fingers light on the covers to keep from stirring Daemon or Joffrey. The boy lay curled beside his father, a small hand clutching Daemon’s right arm. Joffrey hadn’t wanted to part from him, his protests echoing through their chambers, until Daemon had finally relented, pulling him close in an embrace that softened even her frustration. If not for the marks marring Daemon’s torso, Rhaenyra was certain Joffrey would be sprawled across his father’s chest, as he did when he was younger, just as little Egg and Vis still did, blissfully oblivious to any danger, safe in their father’s arms.

The faint morning light touched upon Daemon’s form, casting a soft glow over the haunting remnants of his battle at the God’s Eye. Even after four moons since the battle, his body bore the visible memory of his wounds. Faint burns traced their way along his neck and wrists, deep dragonfire scars that had faded but left dark, angry red welts. They pulled taut whenever he moved, remnants that seemed to ache on his behalf. A jagged claw mark slashed diagonally across his torso—a wound only a dragon could inflict. The sight of it, the angry curve of flesh so freshly mended, sent a tremor through her. If that mark had come from Vhagar, she knew, he would have been cut to ribbons, or crushed beyond hope. But Caraxes had spared him as best he could, that much was clear, even if the wound had nearly stolen Daemon from her.

The freshwater of the God's Eye had been a mercy, sparing his skin from the harsher sting he would have suffered in salt water, though its chilling depths had slowed his recovery. Patches of stubborn inflammation dotted his skin, tender reminders of the wounds he bore, far more fragile than he would ever confess. And his hands—the sight of his hands nearly undid her. Angry red slashes scored across his palms, raw patches lined his knuckles. They spoke of the desperate grip he’d kept on Caraxes’ reins, held so tightly in those final, harrowing moments that the skin had torn under the strain. Each scar told a story of defiance, of his relentless fight to return, and every healed crack along his fingers was a victory in itself.

Her heart clenched, a wave of fierce love and deep sorrow crashing over her as she remembered the moment Maester Gerardys had examined him. Daemon had protested, waving away her worry with a half-smile, insistent that he needed no tending. But her plea had softened him; for her, he had allowed it. She had held her breath as he peeled his tunic away, feeling the weight of her worry settle in her throat. The bruises and welts across his skin, some fading to shadowy blues and yellows, others still vivid and angry, were proof of the pain he’d endured. Some wounds had healed, but others lingered, refusing to close as if they, too, remembered what he’d survived.

In that moment, she had bitten the inside of her cheek to keep from breaking, from weeping openly at the damage carved across his skin. These were not ordinary wounds; they were scars of a battle that had nearly claimed him, reminders that the gods had come so close to stealing him away. And she was reminded of how close she’d come to losing him forever, how fragile his life had been in that terrible instant.

She swallowed back the ache in her throat, steeling herself, as she glanced once more at her husband and son nestled together. Daemon lay there, so worn, so human, and yet a quiet strength still pulsed beneath each scar, each bruise—silent badges of his unyielding will to return. Rhaenyra’s chest tightened as she watched him, the depth of her love almost too fierce, too sharp to contain. A part of her whispered thanks to the gods for sparing him, while another dared to hope he would soon find rest and heal, so she could finally lay her fears to rest, knowing he was truly home.

A soft knock sounded at the door, and Rhaenyra rose, draping herself in a heavy velvet overdress and another thicker black cloak, lined with rich furs that curled along the sweeping sleeves and hem. She cast one last glance over her shoulder at Daemon and Joffrey, nestled together on the bed, then stepped out, closing the door behind her with a gentle click.

Waiting for her were Ser Lorent, standing tall with his hands on the pommel of his sword, and Ser Addam of Hull, his face shadowed by uncertainty. The last time she’d thought of this boy, she’d been ready to have him arrested—a hasty, regretful decision fueled by the betrayal of two other dragonseeds. She bit the inside of her cheek, heat prickling at her face. It was not her proudest moment, nor one she hoped he’d remember too sharply.

Ser Addam’s nervousness was palpable, his hands wringing in front of him. When he caught her looking, he hurriedly clasped them behind his back, but not before dropping to his knees with an abruptness that made her wince at the sound of his knees hitting the floor.

"Your Grace." he murmured, head bowed.

"Rise, Ser Addam," she said, her tone softened with a gentleness she hoped would set him at ease. She moved toward the chairs set before the fire and gestured to the one across from her. "Please, sit with me."

With a visible start, he almost leaped for the chair, but then stilled himself, easing into the seat with as much restraint as he could muster. His hands repeatedly brushed over his breeches, a slight blush rising to his cheeks as he realized his own nerves were on display. Perched on the very edge of the seat, he sat with his back straight, looking for all the world as though he’d fall forward at the slightest movement.

Rhaenyra gave him a reassuring smile, reaching for a decanter of wine. “Here,” she said, pouring a generous cup and offering it to him. "This will settle your nerves.”

He accepted the cup and took a hearty sip, but the strength of the wine took him by surprise, and he coughed, coloring deeper as he looked up in embarrassed apology.

“Slow sips, Ser Addam.” she advised with a faint chuckle. “There is no need to fear. You are safe here, I assure you. I would not harm you.”

He reddened further, a flustered look in his eye. "I didn’t mean to imply…” he stammered, rubbing his hands again on his breeches.

She waved a dismissive hand, her voice gentle but firm. “It is only natural. After all, I did order your arrest.” She sighed, pressing her lips together before continuing, "And for that, I am truly sorry, Ser Addam. My actions were rash, and not my finest moment. I wronged you.”

His eyes widened in surprise, and he stammered an objection, “Your Grace, it—it’s forgiven. You had cause, and…”

But she raised a hand, silencing him. “No, Ser Addam. You deserve to hear it. I acted unfairly. And yet, despite that, you returned—no, you brought him back to me.” Her voice trembled slightly, and she quickly swallowed the emotion that threatened to spill over. “For that, I owe you more thanks than you can know.”

For a moment, he seemed at a loss, his eyes fixed on the wine in his hands, as if the very words she’d spoken had left him undone. Then he looked up, his face filled with quiet determination. “It was my duty, Your Grace. And…it was the right thing.”

She felt a pang of gratitude, warmth spreading through her chest as she nodded, raising her own cup in a small, sincere toast. “Then, let us both drink to what is right, and to those who choose it.”

At her gesture, he took another sip, slower this time, and she couldn’t help but notice the young man was calming, his form beginning to relax into the chair as the warmth of the wine settled into him.

“Thank you, truly.” she murmured. And with those words, a fragile, newfound trust began to settle between them, the flicker of the fire casting a soft glow over their unspoken accord.

Rhaenyra leaned back in her chair, her gaze steady as she asked, "Then tell me, Ser Addam, why did you venture to the Riverlands?"

Ser Addam’s eyes drifted to the flames for a moment before he replied, "I… I suppose I did not know myself at first, Your Grace. I wanted to leave, to get away, but then I thought… I had to prove myself. That I wasn’t a traitor. And for that, I needed men—an army, if I could muster one, to take back Tumbleton from the Betrayers.” His voice grew firmer. “So I found my way to the Riverlands.”

She nodded, listening intently as he recounted his tale. “In Harrenhal, I encountered a... an odd woman. She told me to go to the God’s Eye, though I had no idea what awaited me there.”

He paused, rubbing his hands again, almost as though the memory itself had a chill. “When I arrived, I was nearly killed by Caraxes himself. He’d been hiding there in the mist. I truly thought my life was over, until I believe Prince Daemon recognized me—not another dragonseed or, gods forbid, a traitor. I don’t think he knows yet about what befell Tumbleton. If he did…” He trailed off, eyes widening slightly.

“Perhaps not.” Rhaenyra murmured, understanding his hesitation.

“Once I told him of Tumbleton’s fall,” he continued, “he wanted to return at once. But Caraxes, he… he was not yet ready, Your Grace. The Green Men at the Isle told us he’d lost claws and his left leg had been badly broken. But he’s healing. They use red salves, let him soak in the lake. And now—well, now you’ve seen him, Your Grace. He’s stronger than ever.”

Rhaenyra nodded thoughtfully. “I’d yet to see Caraxes properly myself,” she admitted softly. “But he appears as though he’s healed beautifully.”

Ser Addam nodded, a note of admira ion in his voice. “Prince Daemon thinks so, too. With his leg and his underside torn so viciously, he thought Caraxes might not survive. But the Green Men—well, they worked wonders.” He paused, looking down as if weighing his words. “And as for the Prince’s injuries?”

Rhaenyra exhaled. “Maester Gerardys says most of Daemon’s wounds have healed, though he’s concerned about the deep gash across his torso.”

The young knight nodded solemnly. “The Green Men told me that wound came from Caraxes himself, as he dragged the Prince from the lake back to shore. They said it was slow to heal since it was inflicted by dragon claws. But it’s curious—only red sap from the weirwood trees was used on him. Nothing else, Your Grace. They cannot get supplies in the mainland because the water surrounding the isle remains hot—boiling, they think, from the dragon’s blood that seeped into it. But they said it’s enough for Caraxes and the Prince to heal well and they were right.”

She listened in rapt silence, then gave a nod. “It sounds like they tended to both of them with great skill. We are fortunate you found them.”

He bowed his head, murmuring, “I only did my duty, Your Grace.”

“Still, you have my gratitude,” she said, voice softened with sincerity. “If there’s anything I can grant you, Ser Addam, you need only ask.”

His head snapped up, eyes wide with surprise and a trace of humility. “A boon? I… Your Grace, I want only to serve. I was a sailor, a humble man, with no dreams beyond the shore. To be given the trust of caring for Sea smoke is an honor beyond anything I might have hoped for.”

She smiled, a warmth in her eyes. “Then should you ever have need of anything—whether boon or aid—you have only to tell me.”

Ser Addam’s face turned a deep shade, and he bowed low. “Thank you, Your Grace.” he murmured, his voice filled with reverence.

With that, he rose and took his leave, closing the door softly behind him.

As the fire crackled in the quiet of the room, Rhaenyra stared into its dancing flames, her mind lingering on the thought of how close she had come to losing Daemon. It struck her that, but for Caraxes' fierce loyalty and the strength of their bond, Daemon might have been lost to her forever. She knew what it was to love a dragon, but what Daemon shared with Caraxes was something even deeper, more profound—a bond woven through loyalty and survival, a wordless understanding that went beyond anything she’d experienced, even with Syrax, who had been with her since birth.

A low voice startled her from her reverie. "If you wanted to know anything, you could’ve just asked me."

She turned, her lips curving into a smile. “And give you the chance to downplay your injuries? You nearly threw the Grand Maester out last night.”

Daemon rolled his eyes, taking a slow step toward her, and she rose to meet him. Her breath hitched as she took in the sight of him, the bruises and fresh scars marking his chest and shoulders only enhancing the sharp planes of his lean, muscled body. Even now, he was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. Her gaze traced the ridges of his torso, the defined muscles of his arms; each scar felt like a testament to his resilience, and the smirk on his face only made her heart beat faster.

Daemon’s eyes danced with mirth as he caught her staring. She felt a blush creeping up her cheeks and dropped her gaze, only to feel his hand slide around her waist, pulling her closer. She leaned into him, her pulse quickening as he pressed his lips to hers, it was a simple press of lips then it  turned hungry and consuming. She clutched at him, letting herself be swept away, losing track of everything but the warmth of his mouth, the press of his body, and the desperate edge to his kiss. When they broke apart, her chest heaved with the need to catch her breath, but even then, his lips trailed along her neck, sending shivers down her spine.

Before she could register what was happening, he lifted her and settled her onto the sturdy table. She let out a small gasp, her hands flying instinctively to the back of his neck, her legs wrapping around his hips. She giggled, feeling the cool air against her skin, but that laugh quickly turned into a sigh as Daemon bent his head, pressing reverent kisses to the soft curves of her chest. His mouth lingered, warm and insistent, and she felt his attention focus first on one breast, then the other, his hand tracing slow circles as he lavished affection. Her breaths grew ragged, heat flooding through her as his lips and hands moved in concert.

Just as he was about to continue, she caught his face, threading her fingers through his hair and pulling him up to kiss her again, the kiss feverish, filled with the desperate edge of everything she felt. With a surge of need, her hands moved to the laces of his breeches, tugging them free, her hands trembling with anticipation.

Daemon’s lips crashed against hers once more, hungry and fervent, as though kissing her were the only thing keeping him tethered to this world. Rhaenyra matched him with equal desperation, her hands clutching at his waist, feeling the heat of his body, the firmness of his muscles, the scars beneath her fingertips. He was here. He was alive.

Her thoughts swirled, chaotic and overwhelming. For moons, she had feared the worst, imagined him broken and cold, his fierce spirit snuffed out like a candle. But now, here he was, all fire and intensity, flesh and blood beneath her touch. Each press of his lips, each drag of his hands across her skin, reminded her that he was hers, and he had come back to her.

Daemon’s hands moved with purpose, pulling at the ties of her gown,  his fingers trembling ever so slightly as he bared her to his gaze, she did not even know when he removed her cloak. “You’re beautiful.” he rasped, his voice rough, reverent. She shivered at his words, her cheeks flushed, her heart pounding in her chest.

Before she could respond, he gripped her hips and pulled her closer, his lips blazing a trail down her neck, across her collarbone, to the swell of her breast. Rhaenyra gasped, her head tilting back, her hands tangling in his silver hair as he worshipped her with lips and tongue, his breath hot and unrelenting.

“Daemon.” she whispered, her voice breaking, her need for him threatening to undo her entirely.

He lifted his head, his violet eyes meeting hers, dark with desire and something deeper, something raw and unspoken. Without a word, he pushed her skirts higher, his hands rough and insistent as they smoothed over her thighs, spreading them apart. She felt her breath hitch, her heart pounding louder as he pressed against her, the heat of him igniting her senses.

Their union was fast, almost frantic, a clash of bodies and souls as if they were racing against time itself. Each thrust of his hips into hers sent waves of pleasure crashing through her, but it was more than that—it was proof. Proof that he was here, solid and real, his warmth melting the cold fear that had gripped her heart for so long.

Rhaenyra clutched at him desperately, her nails digging into his back, her legs tightening around his waist as though she could pull him deeper, hold him closer. “Don’t leave me.” she murmured, her voice trembling, her plea raw and unguarded.

“I’m here,” Daemon growled against her ear, his voice like a promise and a command. “I’m here, Rhaenyra. I’ll always be here.”

His words broke something in her, and she tilted her head back, her tears spilling as her body moved with his, meeting him thrust for thrust. She felt the heat building between them, the rhythm of their movements frantic, almost unhinged. Every time his hips met hers, it was like a reassurance, a reminder that he was alive, that he was hers, that they were here.

When her release came, it was blinding, her body arching against his, her cries muffled against his shoulder as she buried her face in his chest. Her tears spilled freely now, her sobs quiet but unrelenting, her ear pressed against his chest as if she could anchor herself to the thunderous rhythm of his heartbeat.

Daemon followed her moments later, his release ripping through him with a force that left him trembling, his arms tightening around her as though he feared she might slip away. He held her close, his breath ragged, his lips brushing her temple in soft, reverent kisses.

Rhaenyra clung to him, her body spent, her heart full. The sound of his heartbeat, steady and strong, was a melody she never wanted to forget. She closed her eyes, pressing her tear-streaked face into his chest, letting his warmth and presence envelop her.

“Rhaenyra,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. He pulled back just enough to cup her face, his thumbs brushing away her tears. “You’re mine. Always.”

Her lips trembled as she smiled, her hands sliding up to rest against his chest. “And you’re mine.” she whispered, her voice steady now, her conviction unshakable.

As they held each other in the quiet aftermath, Rhaenyra felt a peace settle over her, a certainty she hadn’t known in moons. Daemon was here. He was alive, hot and heady and hers. And as his arms stayed wrapped around her, she felt grounded, utterly sated, and completely whole.

Daemon’s lips found hers again, the kiss languid at first, then deepening into something heated and all-consuming. Rhaenyra sighed into his mouth, her hands curling into the fabric of his breeches as she pulled him closer. His hands roamed over her waist, gripping her with a possessiveness that sent a thrill through her.

Just as the fire between them threatened to reignite, a plaintive cry pierced the air from the adjoining chamber.

Daemon groaned, low and frustrated, his forehead dropping to rest against hers. His eyes closed, and he exhaled heavily. “Your timing, my son, is impeccable.” he muttered, his voice dripping with wry humor.

Rhaenyra bit back a laugh, her shoulders shaking with silent mirth. She cupped Daemon’s cheek, brushing a kiss against his lips, light and teasing, before untangling her legs from his waist and sliding down from the table. “Go.” she whispered, smoothing her gown back into place as another cry sounded, this one louder and more insistent. “Your son demands you.”

Daemon leaned in, pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead before straightening and making his way toward the bedchamber. “Joffrey,” he murmured under his breath, his voice both tender and exasperated.

Rhaenyra watched him go, her chest tight with a strange mix of amusement and affection. She moved to follow, pausing just outside the door. Inside, she could hear the soft murmur of Daemon’s voice, low and soothing, a stark contrast to the wails that had greeted him.

Pushing the door open just enough to see, Rhaenyra’s breath caught at the sight before her. Daemon stood by the window, Joffrey cradled in his arms. The boy, though far too old to be held like this, clung to his father with fierce determination, his small hands fisting in Daemon’s shirt.

The early light spilled through the window, bathing them in a golden glow. Daemon, ever the warrior, looked uncharacteristically gentle as he whispered something to their son, his hand smoothing over Joffrey’s dark curls.

Rhaenyra felt a tear slide down her cheek, then another, as she watched them. The past weeks of uncertainty, of fear that she would never see Daemon again, seemed to crash over her all at once. Yet here he was, holding their son, a picture of life and love that she never wanted to forget.

She wiped her tears quickly, not wanting to intrude on the moment. Turning, she left them to their peace and made her way to the outer chamber. “Summon my maids.” she instructed a passing servant, her voice steady despite the emotions roiling within her.

As she waited for them, Rhaenyra placed a hand on her chest, feeling the steady beat of her heart. It matched the rhythm of Daemon’s from earlier, the unspoken connection between them a balm to her soul. Whatever the future might bring, she would face it knowing her family was whole once more.

Chapter Text

Daemon POV

Daemon stood in the City Square, surveying the grim assembly before him. The Gold Cloaks had rounded up nearly fifty men—brash pretenders calling themselves knights, though they looked more like common brigands than warriors. Most wore mismatched armor, pieces scavenged from the dead or dredged up from the depths of the Blackwater. Rusted breastplates clashed with dented helms; gauntlets with missing fingers and shields bearing faded sigils spoke of desperation and decay. Some among them bore the look of gutter rats, their faces hard and scarred by a lifetime of street brawling, while others, pale and drawn, seemed like fishermen unaccustomed to swords, lured here by the promise of coin.

One man, his beard flecked with grey, raised his voice. “We only joined to feed our families!” he cried, his accent marking him as a dockside dweller.

“Aye,” another chimed in, a wiry fellow whose rusted mail hung loose on his frame. “The Flea said there’d be good coin, and who wouldn’t want to be a knight? What choice did we have?”

“Shut your mouths!” snarled a younger man with a patch over one eye. “I’ve fought before! I earned my knighthood!”

Daemon’s gaze was unyielding as he swept over them, his silence more damning than any words. The excuses flowed like sewage from a burst pipe. Some claimed ignorance; others swore they had been forced. A few, bolder than the rest, insisted they had been wronged, that the Queen’s cause had left them with nothing. Yet their deeds spoke louder than their words: harassment, thievery, and worse, committed under the guise of knighthood.

At the forefront of the rabble knelt Perkin the Flea. His swollen lips were split and bloodied, several teeth missing from his mouth, and one eye was swollen shut, a grotesque purple lump. The man’s ragged appearance betrayed the consequences of a long night under questioning. His voice, hoarse and broken, had spilled truths and accusations alike, though not enough to spare him.

Daemon’s lip curled as he looked at him. This bastard had knighted nearly a hundred men with no regard for tradition or merit, elevating murderers, abusers, and bakers alike. The Flea’s audacity had shaken Rhaenyra’s rule, plotting to drive her from King’s Landing and claim the city for his gutter knights. His plans were laughable—a delusion in the face of three armies camped outside the city, loyal to the Queen, and a fleet awaiting her command. Yet the boldness of it, spurred by the absence of male dragonriders and the false perception of weakness, made Daemon’s blood boil.

Perkin raised his head as the guards hauled him toward the execution block. “I’ve told you everything!” he shouted, his voice breaking into a desperate wail. “It’s Larys Strong! He’s behind the Shepherd and all of this! He wants King Aegon back on the throne!”

Daemon’s eyes narrowed, though he said nothing.

The Gold Cloaks forced Perkin to his knees before the block. One of them pressed a boot against his back, shoving him down when he struggled. “I’ve told you all I know!” Perkin screamed, his cries rising to a pathetic pitch. “Mercy, my Prince, mercy!”

The executioner stepped forward, sword in hand, and the square fell silent. In one swift motion, the blade fell, severing Perkin’s pleas mid-cry. His head tumbled into the straw, the blood pooling dark and thick. The body was dragged away to be burned, but the head would remain—displayed upon Traitor’s Walk as a warning to all who might think to challenge the crown.

Daemon turned his gaze to the remaining prisoners. Their bravado had drained away, leaving only fear. For two days now, he had overseen the execution of such men—thirty had died yesterday, and nearly fifty would join them today. Their heads, mounted on spikes, would ring the city walls by sunset. A grim reminder to the people of King’s Landing of the price of rebellion, and a message that dragons were not to be trifled with.

As the guards began herding the men towards the block, Daemon clasped his hands behind his back, his expression as sharp and unyielding as Dark Sister itself. Three days since his return, he only allowed himself one day to rest, he had reclaimed order from chaos. The blood of these traitors would mark a turning point. King's Landing would think twice before allowing another mob to rise against the dragons.

Daemon’s gaze shifted skyward as the shadow of a dragon passed overhead, its great wings gliding with effortless grace. Dreamfyre circled once before descending toward the dragonpit, her pale blue scales gleaming in the late morning sun. Ser Luthor stepped forward, offering a low bow. Daemon gave a curt nod in return before turning toward his horse.

King’s Landing bore the scars of chaos, remnants of the mob that had raged three nights prior. Shops stood open to the elements, their wares strewn and shattered. Soldiers from the Vale worked alongside weary proprietors, repairing windows, hammering new stands, and sweeping debris from the cobbled streets. Daemon’s sharp eyes missed nothing, from the broken shutters of an apothecary to the faint scorch marks where fires had been hastily doused.

Flea Bottom was worse. The narrow streets, already precariously lined with huts and shanties, had been trampled underfoot by the mob. Entire sections lay in ruin, the fragile homes reduced to splinters. Yet there was hope amidst the devastation. Jace had ordered the displaced to be relocated to the almost-empty Visenya’s Hill, where the trees were swiftly felled, and a new settlement was rising.

Daemon smirked faintly at the thought of his son. The Prince of Dragonstone had been exacting in his instructions: the houses must be lined uniformly, with ample streets between them. No more haphazard sprawl. Though the work was in its infancy, the settlement already showed promise. Jace was determined to create something better, to ensure that Visenya’s Hill would not become another Flea Bottom.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of hoofbeats, and as he rounded a bend near the ruined outskirts, he spotted Jace approaching on horseback.

“Kepa!” Jace called out, his voice tinged with both relief and determination. He glanced back toward the city square, though Daemon knew he could not see the executions from this distance. Still, the thought unsettled him—his son, witnessing such brutality.

He knows Jace has already witnessed more bloodshed than most, yet the unease gnawing at him refuses to be stilled. This is the same boy he once cradled through a stormy night, his small form trembling against him. He should have been allowed to remain a boy for far longer.

“How was your flight in the Kingswood?” Daemon asked as they fell into stride, their horses’ hooves crunching against the stone.

Jace smiled faintly. “Good. But…” He hesitated, glancing at his father. “I want to go to Dragonstone. All my letters to Baela remain unanswered.”

Daemon arched a brow. “You’re still new with Dreamfyre. Your bond isn’t strong enough yet to risk such a journey.” His tone was measured, though firm. “Once you can land her without nearly being unseated, then we’ll speak of Dragonstone.”

Jace wrinkled his nose, his lips curving into a familiar pout that Daemon often see he wears whenever something does not go his way.

“Everything here is almost settled.” Daemon said. “I’ll go to Dragonstone myself later. We need to know why they’ve gone silent.”

Jace inclined his head, conceding the point without entirely agreeing. “Perhaps it’s nothing. The new maester there is young, likely overwhelmed with his duties.”

“You’re probably right.” he said.

But Daemon’s thoughts lingered uneasily on the silence from Dragonstone. Baela and Jace had exchanged letters almost daily since her fostering with Rhaenys. That she had not responded for more than two weeks was troubling, even if he would not show it.

As the Red Keep came into view on the horizon, Daemon turned to Jace, his voice cutting through the rhythmic clatter of hooves. “How goes the cleanup at the Dragonpit?”

Jace adjusted his reins, his brow furrowed slightly as he answered. “The builders report that the foundation remains intact, though they recommend reinforcing the roof. Rhaena suggested leaving half of the dome open so the dragons wouldn’t need to rely on the bronze gate anymore.”

Daemon hummed in agreement, a glint of approval in his eyes. “A sound idea. The gate could be barred entirely. Let the roof serve as their entrance and exit exclusively.”

His mind wandered to the grim events of three nights past. Seasmoke and Dreamfyre had burned the remnants of the slaughtered mob, their ashes serving as fodder on the sandpit. Only the dragonkeepers had been spared, their remains had been interred in the tradition of the Targaryens in one of the vaults. Now, only Dreamfyre and Seasmoke had returned to the Dragonpit, while Syrax, Caraxes, and Tyraxes remained in the Godswood. Sheepstealer is yet to be settled inside but he had stayed in the dragonpit while Rhaena is with him, only going back to the beach when Rhaena leaves. 

Jace interrupted his thoughts. “Are there no passageways from the Dragonpit to the Red Keep? It would be safer for dragonriders to come and go through a private route.”

Daemon’s lips quirked into a faint smirk. “I haven’t checked, but it’s worth investigating. Maegor would’ve ensured he had private access to the Dragonpit, if only for his own use. I’ll look into it.” His thoughts turned briefly to Dragonstone, where the ancient castle boasted a passage to the Dragonmont. If it existed there, it wasn’t far-fetched to think one might exist here as well.

As they neared the gate, a guard atop the walls shouted, his voice carrying across the still-recovering city. “Prince Jacaerys and Prince Daemon approach!”

Ahead of them, two of Jace’s guards spurred their mounts forward, entering the gate first to ensure all was secure. The great bridge was lowered with a groan of heavy chains, and Daemon and Jace rode across, their horses’ hooves echoing on the stone.

Inside the courtyard, the sound of screeching broke the air. Tyraxes darted after Joffrey, nipping at the boy’s heels as he ran in fits of laughter, his little legs barely keeping him ahead of the pony-sized dragon. At the sight of Daemon and Jace, Joffrey’s face lit up, and he abandoned his game entirely, all but flying toward them.

Daemon dismounted swiftly, handing his horse to a stable boy, who hastily led the skittish animal away from Tyraxes. Opening his arms just in time, Daemon braced himself as Joffrey crashed into him with the force of a battering ram.

“You’re getting too big to be carried around like this.” Daemon teased, hoisting the boy up against his hip nonetheless.

Joffrey pouted, hooking his small arms around Daemon’s neck. “Did you bring me anything from the city?”

Jace dismounted with a chuckle, ruffling Joffrey’s hair. “The city’s still being cleaned up, valonqar. But we can go to the kitchens. I’m sure the cook will find something for you.”

Joffrey huffed dramatically. “We’re not allowed in the kitchens anymore. Lord Benji and Lord Oscar were taken by the maester for their lessons.”

Daemon smirked, quirking a brow. “And what did the three of you do to be banished from the kitchens?”

“It wasn’t our fault!” Joffrey protested, his wide eyes filled with indignation. “The dough for the pie fell over, and then the flour spilled everywhere, and Tyraxes sneezed—and then there was a big mess!”

Daemon shook his head, biting back a laugh. “A big mess, was it? I imagine the cooks will need days to recover.”

Jace grinned as he looked at his brother. “Come, we’ll sort something out. Perhaps the cooks will take pity on you—if you promise not to bring Tyraxes inside again.”

As Daemon adjusted Joffrey’s weight on his hip, he cast a sharp look at the boy. “And why, pray tell, are you lingering about the outer yard? And so close to the gate at that? Did I not tell you to stay within the Holdfast or the Godswood, where we can ensure your safety?”

Joffrey frowned, a mix of defiance and guilt flashing across his young face. “Muna has a Council meeting,” he admitted, his tone defensive, looking over his shoulder where the Small Council Building is . “I was supposed to be her cupbearer, but they let me leave early because they had something important to discuss. I tried to listen at the door,” he added, his voice growing quieter, “but Ser Lorent shooed me away.”

Daemon’s lips pressed into a thin line, his nod slow and deliberate. If Joff had been dismissed from the chamber, the matter must indeed be of some gravity. Yet the Queensguard had no excuse for leaving the boy to his own devices, especially in the outer yard, where too many had access to him for Daemon’s comfort.

Daemon’s gaze settled sharply on Ser Adrian, his tone cutting like a blade. “Your charge should have been escorted back to his chambers, not left to linger here where any fool might stumble upon him. This lapse is on you, Ser Adrian, and we will have words about it later.” He said to which the younger man only bowed in contrition.

Joffrey wriggled in his arms, sensing his father’s irritation, and blurted out, “It was me, kepa! I said we should stay!” Daemon sighed, setting him down with a firm yet gentle grip before ruffling his hair. The boy responded with a reluctant pout, clearly torn between defiance and guilt.

Jace stepped in with a diplomatic tone, crouching slightly to meet Joffrey’s eye. “Joff, you know we all have rules for a reason,” he said gently. “You really should listen to them—especially when it comes to your safety.” Straightening, he glanced at Ser Adrian with a measured look. “And, Ser Adrian, perhaps next time, don’t let a boy who hasn’t even seen eight name days decide where he lingers.”

The knight looked appropriately chastened, but Jace quickly eased the tension with a warm smile. “Now, why don’t we all make our way to the kitchens? I’m sure the cooks have something delicious waiting to be ‘sampled.’”

Daemon snorted at that, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “You're supposed to be at the council meeting.” he remarked, though his tone carried little urgency.

“I doubt anything important will be discussed, Kepa.” Jace finished for him, grinning.

Daemon clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re not wrong. And truth be told, I’m hungry enough to make their droning unbearable.” With that, he turned on his heel, motioning for his sons to follow.

The trio made their way toward the kitchens, the scent of freshly baked bread and roasting meats wafting through the air. As they passed the Small Council chamber, Daemon’s sharp eyes caught sight of Mysaria, her black garments, which replaced her white ones, probably to endear herself to the Queen, faintly flutters in the breeze as she loitered just outside the closed doors.

She tilted her head as their eyes met, offering him a pleasant smile and a graceful bow, but Daemon’s response was anything but cordial. His sneer was open and unguarded, a stark display of disdain that would have sent many others scurrying. Mysaria, however, remained unruffled, her expression unchanging save for a flicker of amusement in her dark eyes.

Jace glanced at his father, then at Mysaria, his confusion evident but unspoken. Daemon, ignoring the silent question, resumed his stride, his boots striking the stone floor with deliberate purpose.

As they turned the corner, Daemon murmured, almost to himself, “There’s always a rat lingering near a feast.”

Joffrey, oblivious to the exchange, tugged at Daemon’s sleeve. his bright voice bubbling with innocent enthusiasm. “There are no rats here, Kepa. The cooks said the previous Hand brought three hundred cats to catch them!”

Daemon’s sneer melted into a smirk, one brow arching as he glanced down at his youngest. “Let us ensure Tyraxes isn’t tempted to make a meal of all those cats, shall we?”

Joffrey giggled, shaking his head vehemently. “Tyraxes likes goats better.” he declared confidently, wiggling his hand to beckon the small dragon closer.

Tyraxes padded forward on clawed feet, a curious blend of menace and mischief in his amber eyes. As the drake huffed, a plume of smoke escaped his nostrils, and before Daemon could step back, Tyraxes had singed the edge of his coat sleeve.

“Seven hells!” Daemon cursed outting Joffrey down and batting out the small flame with swift, practiced hands.

Joffrey dissolved into peals of laughter, clapping his hands and then wagging a tiny finger at his dragon. “Tyraxes! Behave! If we make too much noise in the kitchen, the cooks won’t give us any food. You’ll ruin everything!”

Daemon shook his head, his scowl giving way to reluctant amusement. The cooks, though exasperated by the arrival of a princes and his dragon, still offered warm bread and bowls of stew. The head cook’s glare was as sharp as a butcher’s knife, but Daemon enjoyed the scene nonetheless, savoring the simplicity of food fetched for his sons and himself.

Once Joffrey and Jace had eaten their fill, Daemon guided them and Tyraxes back to the Godswood, where the other dragons—Syrax and Caraxes—were resting. Though dragons were resilient and impervious to many elements, Daemon frowned at the thought of Syrax enduring the open air. She was accustomed to the protection of the Dragonpit and the Dragonmont, and he would see to it that her place there was secure again.

When he returned from Dragonstone, he resolved to uncover whatever passage might exist between the Keep and the Pit. Maegor had overseen its construction, there was little doubt he would have ensured private access for the royal family. Such secrecy was not merely pragmatic but essential to their safety.

Daemon turned to Jace as they walked back toward the Holdfast, the topic of the Dragonpit on his mind. “The dome’s bronze gate must be permanently barred.” Daemon began decisively. “From now on, the Dragonpit should be accessible only to the Targaryens. It is no longer a place for tourneys or crowds. We have grounds enough for those spectacles.”

Jace nodded, his expression thoughtful. “The benches could be converted into nesting spots for the smaller dragons,” he suggested. “That way, they can come and go as they please, even if they aren’t ready to fly outside the Pit on their own yet.”

Daemon tilted his head in approval. “A sound idea. And perhaps we could add viewing platforms where the Queen might observe the training of new dragonriders.”

Jace’s lips quirked into a faint smile. “Rooms for bathing and changing clothes would be useful too. It would spare us all the smell of dragon on the way back to the castle.”

Daemon huffed a low chuckle, a wistful glimmer passing over his face. “Viserys always complained about that.” he said, his voice distant. “He’d wrinkle his nose, muttering about the stench. He was so easily riled…”

His words trailed off, the memory of his brother’s scrunched nose and exasperated tone vivid in his mind. A pang of longing settled in his chest, and he let the silence linger.

Jace, walking beside him, smiled, though the expression was brittle and thin, as if afraid to disturb the memory.

Daemon straightened his stance abruptly, dispelling the haze of nostalgia. “Joffrey, let’s go.” he called, his tone brisk.

The boy had just finished securing Tyraxes’ chain to the bolt on the Godswood wall. “Goodbye, Tyraxes.” Joffrey murmured, stroking the drake’s scaled cheek as the young dragon keened, straining against the chain.

Tyraxes only calmed when Syrax shifted her great form, extending a wing to pull the drake beneath it. The smaller dragon stilled, nestling against the comforting warmth of the larger one.

Daemon watched the scene, his heart stirring with a familiar ache, thinking of Vermax and Arrax who used to sleep under Syarx wings as well. “Come along, little dragon." he said softly to Joffrey, placing a hand on his shoulder. As they walked away, he glanced over his shoulder, already imagining what changes they might bring to the Dragonpit—and how, one day, it might serve as a sanctuary worthy of their dragons and their House once more.

The Dragonpit had once been conceived by Maegor as a sanctuary for the great beasts, a place for their care and flourishing. Yet, Jaehaerys, with his eye ever fixed on the favor of the Faith and its many adherents, had reduced it to little more than a kennel. Maegor, reviled in history as one of the cruelest kings, had, paradoxically, shown greater care for the survival of their dragons and their family. Meanwhile, Jaehaerys—hailed as the great conciliator—had sought to corral the very creatures that crowned their House, to diminish the number of dragonriders, and to make their family beholden to the Seven.

Daemon mulled over this as he walked Joffrey to his nurse, his thoughts a tempest of pride and frustration. How ironic it was, he mused, that Viserys' reign had seen the most dragons and dragonriders alive since the days of Old Valyria, yet it had also ushered in an era where their supremacy was challenged at every turn. Lesser houses, emboldened by the king's indulgence and laxity, now dared to conspire openly against the very bloodline that had forged the city they called home. To think that dragonlords, descendants of the conquerors, were forced to defend their right to exist in the heart of their own dominion—it was a travesty born of misplaced generosity.

This was why the blood of the dragon had to be preserved, kept within the Targaryen line where its power could not be diluted or tainted. Daemon’s lip curled as he considered the wisdom of his grandsire, Jaehaerys the Conciliator. The old king had denied his daughters access to dragons, save for Alyssa, who would remain within the family through marriage. The others had been quietly prepared for lives far from the Court of Flame and Shadow, where their presence would not complicate the succession or dilute the power of the dragonlords. It was a cold pragmatism that Daemon could understand.

What good was filling the skies with dragons if their riders were weak, their loyalty divided, their ambitions reckless? No, the blood of the dragon was not meant to be shared. It was a gift bestowed by fire and forged by flame, to be kept strong and undiluted. Anything less was an affront to the legacy they were sworn to uphold. And yet, here they were—Viserys’ kindness had made the name of Targaryen one to be questioned, not revered.

Daemon resolved, as Joffrey’s small hand slipped from his, that the days of compromise were over. The blood of the dragon would rise again, pure and unyielding, or it would burn all that dared to stand against it.

Upon arriving, he found the nurse waiting, her arms crossed in practiced patience. She had tended to Joffrey since the boy’s first cry and carried an air of unflappable authority that grated on him now.

“Make sure he is not out of your sight again.” Daemon said sternly, his tone brooking no argument. “If he wanders into the yard unsupervised once more, I’ll feed you to Caraxes myself.”

The nurse, entirely unbothered, raised a brow before whisking Joffrey away toward the bath. “Yes, yes, my prince.” she said, her tone dry as old parchment, “I’ll be sure to stay clear of your dragon’s maw.”

Daemon bristled at her audacity, watching as she led Joffrey away. “Servants have no respect for me.” he muttered irritably.

Behind him, Jace’s laugh rang out, warm and unrestrained. “She saw you being ridden like a dragon by the babes,” he teased, “and trying to curl yourself into their cradles when they were teething. It’s understandable.”

Daemon turned and shoved him, though not without a smirk tugging at his lips. “Go write your letter to Baela.” he ordered, “and don’t let me catch you lingering. I leave at sundown.”

Jace grinned but gave a mock salute before retreating, leaving Daemon to return to his own chambers.

The creak of the heavy door stirred him. Daemon’s eyes opened, squinting against the dim light as he registered the soft padding of footsteps—familiar, deliberate. He shifted, his gaze sliding toward the window. The sun hovered low on the horizon, the last of its rays spilling golden-orange hues over the battlements.

“Rhaenyra...” he murmured, sitting up just as she entered, her silhouette framed against the doorway. Behind her, a maid followed, carrying a platter laden with food.

Daemon leaned back against the pillows, his body at ease though his eyes remained sharp, observing the way Rhaenyra moved—the proud tilt of her chin, the grace of her steps, and yet… the tightness at the corners of her mouth betrayed her weariness.

She set the platter down on a nearby table, dismissing the maid with a wave of her hand. Then, turning to him, she offered a small smile that did not quite reach her eyes. “You should eat before you go.” she said lightly, though there was something else—an unspoken unease.

She had gently suggested he move to the Queen’s Apartment, but he had declined, choosing instead to remain in his own chambers. Though it placed him far from the children’s corridor, he could not yet relinquish his control over himself—or the fragile boundaries he felt compelled to maintain. His love for her was a consuming fire, fierce and unyielding, but since donning the crown, he had come to see a side of Rhaenyra that tested even his considerable patience.

She was too willing to compromise with the lords of her council, bending to their whims with a grace that often set his teeth on edge. And yet, with him, she was unbending, her will as immovable as the Dragonmont. He knew their natures well enough to recognize that arguments were inevitable, for they were both creatures of passion and pride. Yet the prospect of being banished from their shared chambers after every quarrel was too bitter a pill to swallow.

Here, in this secluded wing of the holdfast, he found a semblance of peace. It was a distant, lonely peace, but one he preferred over the turmoil of their shared rooms and the sting of her inevitable dismissal. For now, he would wait. Wait until their passions cooled and their hearts softened, knowing full well that their love was as tempestuous as it was unbreakable.

He sighed, his voice quieter now. “How was your day, Rhaenyra?”

She hesitated, her shoulders rising and falling with a heavy breath. “Long.” she admitted, the word carrying the weight of countless burdens.

Daemon studied her for a moment, then reached for the platter, pouring a goblet of wine and handing it to her. She accepted it gratefully, her fingers brushing against his.

Daemon regarded Rhaenyra with a faint smirk, his sharp gaze noting the weariness etched into her features. “You shouldn’t look this tired from merely attending the Small Council.” he drawled, reaching lazily for a goblet of wine.

Rhaenyra exhaled, her tone wry as she replied, “The new Lord Rosby finally deigned to answer his summons. He presented himself at court with an endless litany of complaints.”

Daemon chuckled, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Just kill him, then. That would save you the trouble of hearing his complaints again.”

She leveled a bland look at him, unimpressed by his suggestion. His grin widened, cheeky and unrepentant, as he leaned back into his cushions.

“Also,” Rhaenyra continued, brushing past his humor, “Unwin Peake has arrived. He claims to have defected from the Greens.”

At that, Daemon arched an eyebrow, pausing mid-motion as he tore into a chicken leg. “Unwin Peake, defecting? I find that rather difficult to believe while Daeron still breathes.”

Rhaenyra tilted her head, her expression faintly exasperated but willing to entertain his skepticism. “Peake says that Daeron is no true leader. According to him, the boy is nothing more than a follower, being led by the nose by his uncle. He claims Hightower’s golden prince cannot even command his own soldiers.”

Daemon snorted, a sharp, derisive sound that echoed in the chamber. “The lad is barely a few moons younger than Jace and was never raised to rule. Of course, he can’t bloody well get his troops in line—he doesn’t know how.” He shook his head, taking another bite of chicken.

“Despite our numerous letters urging him to surrender, he refuses.” Rhaenyra said, her tone heavy with the frustration she sought to conceal.

Daemon set down his goblet, his gaze fixed on her with the unflinching intensity of a dragon considering its next prey. “Why not send him his mother’s head?” he asked bluntly. “Let him bend the knee or attack, and then it’s done. All this waiting and letter-writing—wasteful. A war’s purpose is to end, not linger.”

Rhaenyra’s lips pressed into a thin line, her irritation flaring in her eyes. “Daemon.” she began, her voice edged with warning, but he waved her protest aside with a flick of his wrist.

He leaned forward, his tone growing sharper. “I don’t understand why you delay. If someone opposes you, you strike before they can strike you. Anything else is folly. Do you think they won’t try to destroy us completely? They already have. To expect mercy from our enemies is not strategy—it’s stupidity.”

Her silence, coupled with the tightness in her jaw, spoke volumes. He could see the conflict warring within her, the battle between the hard practicality of war and the softer ideals she clung to.

Daemon sighed, forcing himself to soften his tone. “You’re too much like Viserys in that way,” he murmured. “Always looking for the good in people. Always believing it’s there to be found. It’s admirable in its way—gods know I benefited from it when you took me back at High Tide. But in war…” His voice trailed off as he leaned back, his hand brushing over hers.

He should be grateful for her relentless compassion, for the hope that had brought him back into her life. Without that boundless heart of hers, he wouldn’t have found his place beside her again. Yet here, in the cold reality of war, it was a vulnerability—one he feared their enemies would exploit.

Daemon resumed his supper with a deliberate calm, suppressing the urge to press the issue further. Experience had taught him that any prolonged debate on matters of bloodshed would inevitably lead to another quarrel. Rhaenyra had made it abundantly clear—twice over, no less—that his particular brand of pragmatism, steeped as it was in violence, did not sit well with her vision for the realm. She had no desire to sully her image with the stain of unnecessary brutality, particularly when it concerned those she still called family.

It was a term Daemon found increasingly difficult to stomach when applied to the Hightowers, whose notion of grace had been nothing short of a cruel jest. Yet Rhaenyra, in her maddening way, seemed intent on clinging to the idea that restraint was not merely a virtue but a necessity. She would rather shy away from actions that might paint her as merciless than strike preemptively, even against those siblings whose loyalty to her had always been conditional at best, none existent at worst.

He clenched his jaw, frustration gnawing at the edges of his self-restraint. But he swallowed his words along with a bite of roasted fowl, knowing there was no sense in stirring a tempest tonight. He had more pressing matters to consider—chief among them, Dragonstone.

A knot of unease coiled in his gut, a silent warning he could not shake. Something was amiss. Baela’s silence alone was telling. She was not the type to cease correspondence without reason, and if the storming of the Dragonpit had indeed reached Dragonstone, it would take a force of gods to keep her from mounting Moondancer and flying to her sister’s side. The fact that three days had passed without so much as a raven was a grim omen.

Daemon had no intention of alarming Rhaenyra, not when he could see the fatigue weighing on her already. Nor could he risk letting Jace catch wind of his suspicions. If left unchecked, his heir’s impulsive loyalty might drive him straight into danger with too little forethought. No, it would have to be Daemon who went, and he had resolved to leave at the earliest convenience.

Between measured bites, he spoke with Rhaenyra about the practicalities of securing the city, their conversation pointedly steering away from the tension that so often simmered between them. Over the past two days, Daemon had orchestrated the execution of most of the opposing forces, leaving only the cunning and cowardly people who had the minds to hide. These, he trusted Rhaenyra’s new—albeit unofficial—Mistress of Whispers to root out.

That woman. He bristled inwardly at the thought, though it was some relief to know Jace did not trust her in the slightest. His son had already taken steps to ensure she would not weave herself into Rhaenyra’s confidences as Otto Hightower once had with Viserys. In this, Daemon found himself quietly impressed.

For all her faults—and he was never one to overlook them—Rhaenyra had raised her children exceptionally well. Jace, in particular, was proving himself a capable leader, a statesman of rare promise, and an excellent negotiator. The boy was shaping into an Heir of the highest order. Yet what Daemon admired most about him was not his skill or potential, but his unwavering loyalty to his family. More than any Targaryen in recent memory, Jace seemed to value kin above crown, blood above throne.

Daemon couldn’t help but wonder if that would endure. He had seen too many monarchs buckle under the weight of the Iron Throne. Aegon, Jaehaerys, Viserys—all had failed to place family above the realm when it mattered most. Aegon’s self importance and unending ambition had put their family at the greatest risk since the Doom by seeking the Crown, Jaehaerys’s pragmatism had torn his children apart, and Viserys’ indecision had allowed his family’s bonds to fray beyond repair.

The Targaryens were always lauded for their grand legacies, their sweeping conquests, their enduring dynasty. Yet what had any of it truly brought them? Daemon could not think of a single Targaryen who had reaped more joy than sorrow from their lineage. For all the legends of their majesty, the Targaryens had always been their own worst enemy—brother turning on brother, sister betraying sister, parents warring against their own children.

Rhaenyra, at least, would die before letting the Iron Throne harm her children. Yet Daemon knew there were wounds even a mother’s love could not shield them from. Wounds that were felt, not seen. He feared those hurts most of all.

As he pushed his plate aside, his thoughts darkened. The weight of history pressed down on him like a dragon’s claw, sharp and unrelenting. He only hoped that Jace would not one day find himself shackled by it, forced to choose between family and the realm. Daemon knew the realm would always demand its due. But for once, he dared to hope that perhaps, just perhaps, family might come first.

The godswood stood cloaked in twilight, its ancient trees swaying gently in the night breeze. Daemon felt the cool air on his face, but his attention was fixed solely on Rhaenyra, who clung to his arm as if she might anchor him to her side through sheer force of will. Her slender arms wrapped tightly around his, her warmth pressed so closely to his body that it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.

She walked with him, her steps small and hesitant, her silence speaking louder than words ever could. When they reached Caraxes, her hold on his arm tightened. Daemon turned to face her, his lips parting to speak, but before he could utter a word, Rhaenyra threw her arms around his neck, locking them securely at the back as though she might chain him to her.

“Please be careful.” she whispered against his chest, her voice trembling though no tears fell from her eyes. Her face was buried in the warmth of his tunic, and Daemon felt the faint hitch in her breath. “Come back to me…”

He held her close, his arms encircling her waist, his hand coming up to stroke her hair. For a fleeting moment, the world beyond them ceased to exist—no war, no duty, no enemies. Just the two of them in the quiet sanctity of the Godswood.

When the time came to let go, it took him far too long. His fingers lingered on the curve of her back, his lips brushing against her temple in a silent promise. Sorrow weighted his movements as he gently pried her hands from around his neck, her touch reluctant to release him. He placed her hands in Jace’s, their eldest son standing steadfast beside them.

“Look after her.” Daemon murmured, his voice low and rough with emotion.

Jace nodded, his hand firm but gentle as he supported his mother. “I will, Kepa.” he replied, his voice steady though his eyes betrayed a flicker of unease. He leaned closer to Rhaenyra, whispering reassurances meant only for her ears.

Rhaenyra did not cry, but unshed tears shimmered in her lilac eyes, their depth reflecting a pain Daemon knew all too well. He could see the memory of his last departure etched in her gaze—a time when she believed him lost forever.

Daemon tore his gaze from her with difficulty and turned to Rhaena, who stood nearby. He had already bid her goodbye, instructing her to be vigilant and look after her siblings. “You know what to do.” he had told her earlier, his tone both commanding and tender. He had explained how to bring Egg and Serys back from Volantis, the precise words to use with Saera, and made her promise to wait until their enemies were no more.

Rhaena had nodded tearfully, her resolve strong but her heart heavy.

As for Joffrey, Daemon had put him to bed earlier that evening, choosing not to wake the boy. He knew that if Joffrey were aware of his departure, he would not have let him go without a fuss. The memory of his son’s peaceful face as he slept weighed on him now.

With a deep breath, Daemon mounted Caraxes, his hands steady as he gripped the reins. The dragon hissed low in anticipation, its sinewy body quivering with the readiness to take flight. Yet Daemon’s eyes remained on Rhaenyra, who reached for him with both hands, her fingers stretching toward him even as the dragon began to lift from the ground.

He could barely see her as Caraxes ascended, the soft glow of a torch held by a guard providing the only light. But he knew she was there, watching, holding on to hope as she always had.

Above him, Seasmoke’s pale form appeared, Ser Addam astride the dragon. Jace’s new decree that no dragonrider would fly alone was a prudent one, but Daemon’s mind was elsewhere. He had already discussed their plans—Addam would land at High Tide to ensure the island was secure, then proceed to Dragonstone under cover of the following night if no raven came from Daemon.

Daemon, however, expected the worst. He steeled himself for the possibility of seeing Vermithor and Silverwing unbound, of finding Daeron and his dragon prowling the skies above his ancestral home. He thought of Baela—his fierce, brilliant daughter—and the horrifying prospect that silence meant she was no longer among the living.

The thought tightened his grip on the reins, and Caraxes let out a sharp whistle of distress, his long neck twisting to glance back at his rider. Daemon loosened his hold slightly but muttered an oath under his breath. If harm had befallen Baela, if his home was no longer safe for his blood, then there would be no mercy left in him.

He would burn Dragonstone to ash if need be, the stones and halls that had once given him solace reduced to rubble. By the Fourteen Flames, he swore his enemies would know the full measure of his wrath.

For now, he flew, the chill wind cutting across his face as the distant lights of the Godswood faded into nothingness below. The burden of what awaited pressed heavily on his shoulders, but his resolve was unshakable. Nothing would stop him from protecting what remained of his family. Nothing.

The flight from King’s Landing to Dragonstone, which would normally span three languid hours, took Daemon scarcely two and a half. The urgency in his heart seemed mirrored in Caraxes' steady, tireless wings, propelling them across the darkened skies with purpose. By the time they reached the Driftmark's shores, Ser Addam on Seasmoke was lagging behind, his figure slumped with evident exhaustion as he directed his dragon to the cave that had once served as Meleys’ nest. Daemon spared him little more than a glance before turning his attention to Dragonstone, his mind sharpened with intent.

Caraxes, a creature of cunning and guile forged in countless battles, knew better than to approach openly. Together, they had mastered the art of stealth in the Stepstones, where survival often meant remaining unseen. The trick lay in flying so high that no watchman could spy their form or hear the beating of their wings. But from such a height, the castle below was little more than a shadowy outline.

Dragonstone loomed quiet—eerily so. The Dragon’s Tail, that long and winding path usually aglow with torches, was cloaked in darkness. The lone tavern frequented by fishermen after a day at sea sat silent, its doors shuttered and windows black. The castle itself bore only a sparse handful of lit torches, their faint glimmer swallowed by the night.

Yet it was the courtyard that stilled Daemon’s breath.

Sunfyre.

The golden dragon keened softly, its wings twitching with a restless energy even as it lay sprawled on the cobblestones. Daemon frowned, his mind racing. Reports had claimed that the Usurper’s dragon had perished at Rook’s Rest, slain by Vhagar’s flame and the weight of its fall. Survivors had spoken of Aemond Targaryen delivering the killing blow—a tale Daemon had dismissed as the kind of self-aggrandizement befitting a kinslayer.

A kinslayer.

Daemon’s lip curled faintly, though whether in disdain or bitter humor, he could not tell. Was he not one as well? Threefold now, with two children among his tally. The word hissed in his memory—a muttered slur from some petty lord in court. Babe-killer, the man had whispered as Daemon passed by, his cowardice evident in the way he did not meet Daemon’s eyes. The same man had watched his friends lose their heads for refusing to kneel to the Usurper and then prostrated himself below the Greens so he could be spared, and yet he dared judge. Daemon’s response had been a smirk, sharp and cutting. Men like him—timid and spineless—had no right to pass judgment.

He guided Caraxes away from the castle, his hand firm on the reins as he maneuvered them toward the Dragonmont. The great wyrm hesitated, his long neck twisting toward the familiar glow of the Dragonmaw caves where the dragons of old rested. His body shuddered with a low, guttural growl, his instinct to settle pulling against Daemon’s command.

“No.” Daemon murmured, his voice low but resolute. He tugged gently but firmly at the reins, directing Caraxes toward the secluded base of the mountain, far from prying eyes. “Not there, my friend. We cannot risk being seen.”

Caraxes growled low in his throat, the sound reverberating in Daemon’s chest, but he obeyed, albeit grudgingly. They descended near the wild dragons' territory, a place they seldom visited. The lair of the Cannibal loomed ominously, its cavernous mouth yawning wide in the darkness.

A guttural roar echoed from the cave as the Cannibal emerged, his black scales glinting faintly in the pale moonlight. The wild dragon’s displeasure was unmistakable, and Caraxes answered with a roar of his own, the challenge clear.

Daemon felt the tension in Caraxes’ coiled muscles, the readiness to spring into the air and engage. His dragon was eager for the fight, but the Cannibal merely spewed a stream of flame toward them before retreating back into the shadows of his lair.

“Easy, boy.” Daemon murmured, sliding from Caraxes’ saddle and landing lightly on the rocky ground. He rested a hand on the dragon’s warm, scaled neck. “Tolerate him for now. I need to find Baela, and I’ll return soon. You’ll have your feast of pigs, I promise.”

Caraxes let out a high-pitched whistle, his annoyance evident, before nudging Daemon sharply in the chest. The force of it sent him sprawling onto his backside, the indignity drawing a chuckle from him.

“You’re as insufferable as ever.” Daemon said with a grin, brushing dust from his tunic. “I’ll make it up to you.”

Caraxes, however, refused to settle. Instead, he perched on his haunches, his long neck arched and his glowing red eyes fixed on the Cannibal’s now-dark cavern. The tension between the two dragons hung in the air like a storm waiting to break, but Daemon had no time to spare for their quarrel.

With a final glance at his dragon, he turned toward the path that would take him to the castle. The silence of Dragonstone pressed down on him, and his heart grew heavier with every step. If Baela was here, he would find her. And if harm had come to her, there would be no refuge for those who dared cross him—not in this world or the next.

Daemon descended into the heart of the Dragonmont, the cavernous pathways twisting and turning like the labyrinthine coils of a sleeping wyrm. The heat hit him immediately, a stifling wave that clung to his skin and filled his lungs with the sharp tang of sulfur. Steam rose from unseen fissures, clouding his vision and casting eerie shadows against the jagged walls.

He moved with practiced ease, his boots crunching against the blackened ground, scorched smooth in some places by the blasts of dragonfire over the centuries. This was not his first time navigating the fiery depths of Dragonstone. These winding tunnels, riddled with hidden alcoves and treacherous drops, had once been his playground as a boy and his hunting ground as a man. He knew their dangers intimately.

The pathways branched off in countless directions, some leading to dead ends, others to hidden chambers where dragon eggs had been known to nestle among the smoldering embers. Daemon's sharp eyes darted from one pocket of darkness to another, searching for any sign of movement

Sweat began to bead on his brow, dripping down his temples and soaking the collar of his tunic. His hair clung to his face in damp strands, and the leather of his boots and gloves grew uncomfortably slick. The oppressive heat made his breathing shallow, each inhale searing his throat. Yet, he did not falter. He was no stranger to this inferno.

Years of exploring these fiery veins had taught him where the air grew thin and where the rock could crumble underfoot. He pressed forward, his pace steady but deliberate. His hand brushed against the hilt of Dark Sister at his hip, a silent reassurance amidst the suffocating heat.

The very moment his strength allowed, he resolved to reclaim his sword from the kinslayer’s ignoble skull. The Green Men, predictably, protested with fervent caution, citing the seething waters of the lake. But Targaryens, blessed—or cursed—with an innate tolerance for heat, were seldom deterred by such perils. It was not the boiling depths that proved his greatest adversary, but rather his own inability to hold his breath long enough to wrest the blade from Aemond's watery grave.

The endeavor spanned two arduous weeks, marked by three nights of relentless fever and a humiliating week of unrelenting sniffling, the result of a cold that had no respect for his Valyrian blood. At last, his precious blade was retrieved, and he swore, with a solemnity befitting a prince, that he would never part with it again.

The cavern’s silence was broken only by the distant rumble of the volcano, a low growl that seemed alive, and the occasional drip of molten rock cooling as it hit the ground. He could feel the pulse of the volcano beneath his feet, as if it had a heartbeat of its own.

As the pathways grew narrower, the air seemed hotter still, and the heat shimmered visibly, distorting the view ahead. His tunic clung to his back, and he paused for a moment, wiping the sweat from his eyes with the back of his hand. A lesser man might have turned back, but not Daemon. The Dragonmont was as much a part of him as the blood of Old Valyria that coursed through his veins.

He pressed on, his footsteps echoing faintly in the oppressive quiet. Every pocket of heat, every twist in the path, was a step closer to his daughter.

The passage through the Dragonmont’s labyrinthine corridors had tested Daemon’s endurance and patience, but the most time-consuming part came as he approached what had once been Silverwing’s nest.

The cavern was a volatile mix of molten fire and hardened stone. Vast pools of lava bubbled and hissed, casting a fiery glow that danced along the jagged walls. The air was thick with sulfur, making each breath an effort. Where the lava pools ended, clusters of dragon nests began, their placement uneven and erratic as if marking the natural rhythm of the dragons that had once claimed this space.

The nests were carved into the blackened rock, their hollowed forms still discernible. Most were empty now, long since collected, but their shapes told of a time when eggs had rested within. The resin-like substance that once cradled those eggs had hardened over the years, leaving glinting amber-like traces that caught the flickering light.

Each step was a gamble. The rocks near the lava pools were slippery, slick with condensation and heat. The ground near the nests was uneven, forcing Daemon to navigate carefully lest he trip or disturb the remnants of those ancient spaces. Some nests still held the fossilized remains of long-hardened eggs, their shells turned to stone, others were lined with streaks of silvery-white crystal that seemed to shimmer in the firelight. These streaks ran through the walls and floors, as though Silverwing herself had left her mark in the very essence of the cavern.

Caves like these had once been a place of abundance in the Dragonmont, Vhagar and Meraxes, then Silverwing and now Syrax as well, who had laid many eggs here. The area bore the legacy of their vitality, a place where new life had been nurtured and grown.

Daemon’s jaw tightened as his thoughts shifted to Dreamfyre, who had once been one of the most prolific egg-layers among the dragons. Now, the great she-dragon no longer laid eggs, her decline a bitter testament to the neglect she had suffered. Daemon could not entirely absolve Helaena of blame, though he knew her life had been one of tragedy and exploitation. Still, the bond with a dragon was a sacred privilege, and her abandonment of Dreamfyre cut deeply.

At last, Daemon reached a cavern opening, emerging into the fresh night air at the base of the Dragonmont. Before him stood a hidden manse, shrouded by fire-trees and dense shrubbery. Its black stone walls rose sharply, blending seamlessly with the volcanic terrain. The structure was circular and jagged, its black stone walls rising several floors high like the jagged teeth of some ancient beast. The manse was vast and tall with a labyrinth of rooms that, according to his children, seemed endless in their number. Daemon had never once felt the inclination to visit the quarters where the dragonkeepers resided, finding little interest in the mundane lives of those tasked with their dragons' care. His children, however, were of an entirely different mind, their youthful curiosity driving them to explore every nook and cranny of Dragonstone with relentless determination.

The manse was stark, unadorned, and functional, its only signs of life the faint curls of smoke rising from what appeared to be the kitchen and the movement of two young Dragonkeepers hauling buckets of water from a nearby well. They moved quickly, speaking in hushed tones, their postures hunched as though they feared being seen.

Daemon lingered in the shadows of the woods, his sharp eyes observing. The men whispered among themselves, their nervous energy palpable, while others clustered near the manse’s entrance, casting furtive glances around them.

Then, his gaze settled on a familiar figure: the head Dragonkeeper. The man was unmistakable—bald, his gait uneven from a pronounced limp, and his skin bearing the scars of burns, testaments to a life spent in service to the dragons. Daemon remembered him, a Bar Emmon, though the man’s given name eluded him.

Moving swiftly and silently, Daemon cornered the old Dragonkeeper against the manse’s wall. With one arm, he pressed the man’s shoulder against the stone, the other pinning his neck firmly but not cruelly.

“Do not scream.” Daemon hissed, his voice low but commanding.

The Dragonkeeper’s eyes widened in shock, his body stiffening as he met Daemon’s intense gaze. Recognition dawned quickly, and relief softened the man’s features.

“My prince…” the old man rasped, his voice rough and reverent.

Daemon eased his grip slightly but did not release him. “Tell me what’s happened here.” he demanded, his voice sharp as a blade. “Where is my daughter?”

The Dragonkeeper hesitated, his burned hands trembling as he raised them in a gesture of submission. “I will tell you everything, my prince.” he said, his tone urgent and deferential. “But not here where anyone can see us.”

Daemon studied the man for a moment before nodding curtly. He released him and took a step back. “Then lead the way.” he said, his tone brooking no argument. The Dragonkeeper bowed his head and gestured for Daemon to follow, their figures disappearing into the shadowed recesses of the manse.

As the man strode into the dimly lit kitchen, his presence commanded immediate attention. His voice, sharp and firm, cut through the quiet hum of the late hour.

“Enough lingering.” he declared, his tone brooking no argument. “Back to your quarters, all of you! Now!”

The two young Dragonkeepers who had been tending to the buckets of water froze, their confusion evident as they exchanged glances. Their confusion turned to alarm when their eyes landed on Daemon, his unmistakable presence casting a shadow over the humble space. Without a word, they abandoned their tasks, the buckets sloshing water onto the floor as they bolted upstairs, leaving behind a mountain of unwashed dishes and an air heavy with unease.

The older man watched them go, muttering something under his breath before turning to Daemon. “Please, my prince, take a seat. Let me offer you a drink to ward off the chill.”

Daemon considered refusing, impatience thrumming beneath his skin, but he relented. He lowered himself onto a rough-hewn wooden bench, his posture as straight as a blade, and watched as the old Dragonkeeper busied himself at the hearth. The kettle hissed and spat as the man tended to the tea, his hands practiced and steady despite their scars.

Daemon’s gaze wandered over the disheveled state of the kitchen—the scattered buckets, the pile of neglected crockery. A part of him itched to snap at the man to forgo pleasantries, but he held his tongue. The Dragonkeepers, he reminded himself, were loyal first and foremost to the dragons, not to kings or princes. Yet, he knew they had not been spared the hardships of the usurper’s rule. Servants, as they were seen by the realm’s lords, rarely had the luxury of choosing their sides, and those who served dragons bore the added burden of suspicion.

At last, the dragonkeeper placed a steaming mug before him, the aroma of herbs mingling with the ever-present scent of soot and stone. He settled himself across from Daemon, his movements careful, his expression unreadable. “I am Ser Addon Bar Emmon,” he began, his voice low but steady. “We have heard the tales of what happened at the Dragonpit, my prince. A terrible loss… the dragons, and the lives of those who served them.” he shook his head in sadness and disappointment.

Daemon nodded, his expression grave. “Two drakes. Shrykos and Morghul I was told.” he said flatly. “Too young to stand a chance against a mob of thousands. They did not die because they were weak but because they were outnumbered. A tragic waste.” He hesitated, then added, “I am sorry for the Dragonkeepers who perished. They deserved better.”

For a moment, Addon’s weary eyes brightened, shining as though tears threatened to spill. “My nephew was the head Dragonkeeper there.” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “I have no doubt he did all he could to secure the dragons.”

Daemon inclined his head, his tone softening. “I have no doubt of that either.”

He allowed the man a moment to compose himself, the silence filled only by the crackle of the hearth and the faint murmur of voices from the distant quarters above. Finally, Daemon broke the stillness. “Prince Jacaerys is already fortifying the Dragonpit. Half the roof has collapsed, and he’s decided that will serve as the new gateway for the dragons. The old bronze gate will be permanently barred. No one from outside will set foot in the Dragonpit again.”

Addon nodded slowly, a flicker of admiration crossing his face. “Prince Jacaerys has always had a gift for solving problems.” he said, his tone carrying a note of hope.

Daemon leaned back slightly, studying the man. “He has. And he will see to it that the dragons—and those who care for them—are protected.”

Addon’s lips quirked into a faint smile, though his eyes remained somber. “That is all we have ever wanted, my prince.”

The tea had barely cooled in Daemon’s grasp when he broke the silence, his voice low but sharp as a knife. “When did the usurper take the castle?”

Ser Addon’s weathered face darkened, his shoulders sagging as though burdened by the weight of the memory. “Two weeks past, my prince. It was Ser Alfred Broome who let them in—opened the gates like a thief in the night. Those loyal to the Queen were slaughtered where they stood. The rest? Sent back to their homes in the village.”

Daemon’s grip on the cup tightened. “And Baela?”

The Dragonkeeper hesitated, his gaze flitting to Daemon’s hands. “Lady Baela is alive.” he said cautiously. “But she was put in the dungeon.”

The words landed like a blow, and Daemon’s breath hissed through clenched teeth. The cup in Daemon’s hand shattered with a sharp crack, the pieces falling to the table in a spray of ceramic shards. He didn’t flinch, though his jaw clenched so tightly that the muscles in his face twitched. The gloves, made of the finest dragonhide, had absorbed most of the impact. A small mercy, for without them, the shards would have embedded themselves into his palm.

He rarely wore gloves—he found them cumbersome—but his hands still throbbed from the fierce grip he had held on Caraxes’ reins during the fight with Vhagar. The strain of it had left his skin raw and tender, and he could not afford to aggravate the wounds further.

“The stupid boy didn’t even grant her the dignity of a highborn prisoner’s quarters.” Daemon spat, his voice thick with disdain. He closed his eyes briefly, his hand braced against the edge of the table as he willed his fury to subside. “Was she harmed?”

Ser Addon hesitated again, the weight of his words pressing heavily in the air. “She bore scrapes and bruises, my prince, from when she and Moondancer attempted to fight Sunfyre. The young lady’s dragon… did not survive. Moondancer was felled, and the guards threw a net of chain over her. That was how they offered her to the golden dragon.”

Daemon bent forward, his other hand gripping the table until his knuckles blanched. His breathing was slow but uneven, each exhale sharp and deliberate. The loss struck deep, like a knife twisted in his chest.

Another loss.

His mind churned with thoughts of Baela. She was the one who had always been most like him—fierce, proud, unyielding. He knew she would not have shed a tear in front of the usurper, but her silence would conceal a heartbreak so profound it was almost unimaginable. To witness her bonded dragon, her cradle-hatched companion, be treated so cruelly… it was an anguish Daemon understood all too well.

He raised his head slightly, his voice softer but no less urgent. “Was she harmed in any other way?”

Ser Addon exhaled slowly, his gaze unwavering. “As far as I know, Lady Baela is safe, my prince. I overheard as I tended to Sunfyre that Prince Aegon intends to use her as leverage against Lord Corlys—to compel him to their side and betray the Queen.”

Daemon snorted bitterly, his lips curling in derision. “The Sea Snake? Betray the Queen? That man didn’t even visit Laena and the twins in the ten years they were gone, too consumed by his damned Stepstones. He nearly killed himself clinging to that folly. Do they truly believe he would sacrifice his allegiance for a granddaughter? A girl?” he asked bitterly.

The thought alone was laughable, but his humor was as dark as the shadows dancing on the walls. He straightened, his piercing gaze settling on Ser Addon. “You’re certain she’s unharmed?”

“Yes, my prince,” Ser Addon assured him, though his tone carried a heaviness that lingered. “But her companions… they were not afforded the same mercy. The maids said the new maester’s body was cleaved in two and now hangs outside the gates alongside the prominent servants and Ser Robert Quince, the castellan.” Ser Addon’s words fell like stones into a still pond, each one sending ripples of cold fury through Daemon’s veins.

“Her personal maids,” the man said quietly, his voice heavy with sorrow and disgust, “were raped in front of her and then killed.”

Daemon’s entire body went rigid, his jaw tightening until the tendons in his neck stood out like iron cords. His eyes, usually alight with mischief or cunning, darkened into something far more dangerous. There was no mistaking the violence that simmered there, a storm gathering in their violet depths.

His gloved hand flexed once, then twice, as though imagining the feel of a blade in his palm. He wanted nothing more than to wrap Dark Sister in his grip and let her sing through the air, her sharp edge tasting the blood of those who had committed such atrocities.

His voice, when it came, was low and deliberate, each word spoken with the precision of a blade being sharpened. “How many men are in the castle?”

“Fewer than thirty.” Ser Addon replied. “Plus the ten under Ser Alfred.”

Daemon said nothing, but his silence spoke volumes. His mind was already working, calculating, planning. The usurper had taken much, but he would take it back. And woe to anyone who stood in his way.

Daemon rose from the bench, his movements as deliberate as they were resolute. His gaze swept the room, landing on Ser Addon, who straightened and followed suit, bowing respectfully.

“We cannot tarry here.” Daemon said, his voice a low growl of command. “Some of you will stay, but others must prepare to depart. The Dragonpit needs dragonkeepers if it is to be fortified properly.”

Ser Addon inclined his head, his expression both grave and determined. “I will personally oversee matters at the pit, my prince.” He hesitated, shifting his weight as though the next words weighed heavily upon him. “And you? What will you do?”

Daemon’s mouth set in a grim line. “There are men in the village who will fight for me.” he said. “But first, I must get Baela.”

Ser Addon nodded, then paused, glancing at Daemon with a flicker of uncertainty. “If I may, my prince.” he began cautiously, “I could dispatch someone to the village to rally the men. The people of Dragonstone are loyal to the Queen. They will heed your call.”

Daemon gave a short, approving nod, and Ser Addon continued, his tone lowering conspiratorially. “In the days of the Freeholders, there were times when a prisoner’s cell was left unlocked, giving them a semblance of escape. They would flee into the Dragonmont, where the lava or the dragons would end them. The hidden passageways in the dungeons remain, though they have long been unused.”

Daemon’s brow arched, incredulity flashing across his face. “You’re telling me there is still a way in? From the Dragonmont?”

The older man inclined his head. “Aye, my prince. If you wish, I can show you.”

Before Daemon could reply, the sound of shuffling feet beyond the door caught his attention. Ser Addon opened it with a sharp movement, revealing a young dragonkeeper who stumbled inside, his face flushed with embarrassment.

“Eavesdropping, were you?” Daemon drawled, his tone somewhere between amusement and annoyance.

The boy stammered an apology, bowing repeatedly. “Forgive me, my prince! I only— I overheard, and— I thought you should know, the men loyal to you are in the village. They await your word, my prince. Fifty men-at-arms, ready to fight.”

Daemon studied the youth, the corner of his mouth twitching in what might have been approval. Reaching up, he unpinned the golden brooch from his cloak—a heavy piece stamped with the likeness of Syrax, its detailed engraving unmistakable. He extended it toward the boy, who took it with wide eyes, cradling the precious object as though it were a holy relic.

“I entrust you with this task.” Daemon said, his voice steady and commanding. “Gather the men and have them ready to move on the castle before the morning light.”

The boy looked up at him, resolve sparking in his gaze. “I will not fail you, my prince.”

Daemon’s lips curved into a small, tight smile. “Good lad.”

The boy turned and bolted out the door, his steps eager, leaving Ser Addon and Daemon alone once more. Daemon glanced at the older man. “Now,” he said, his voice laced with quiet determination, “take me to this hidden door.”

Baela POV

The cold, unyielding stone floor of the cell seemed to sap the strength from anyone who touched it, yet Baela knelt upon it without complaint. Her hands, though trembling with exhaustion, were steady as she helped Mireza sit upright. The older woman’s legs, trembling and weak as softened butter, refused to support her weight. One of the servants moved to assist, their shared resolve a quiet rebellion against their grim circumstances.

Baela reached for a cloth, its dampness biting cold as she wrung it free of the water that pooled in their corner of captivity. She dabbed at the blood gathering at the corner of Mireza’s mouth, her movements gentle despite the fury that burned hot in her chest.

The sound of jeering laughter drifted into the cell, cruel and lecherous, as the men stationed outside exchanged their vile jests.

“When the king’s done with the whore,” one sneered, his words dripping with malice, “we’ll get the dragon bitch next. Highborn cunt like hers is a rare treat, eh?”

Another, still fumbling with the laces of his breeches, smirked. “Perhaps I’ll sire a bastard on her—like she was meant to carry the pups of that bastard prince.”

Baela’s gaze flicked toward them, her loathing as sharp as the finest Valyrian steel. One guard, his girth spilling over his undone breeches, caught her stare and sneered, rattling the cell bars with his sword. “Something to say, little lady?” he jeered, his grin wide and mocking.

She rose to her feet, her chin high, and her voice low but firm. “Look at me.” she commanded.

The man’s smile faltered as he met her gaze, the hate and promise in her eyes stripping him of his false bravado.

“I will kill you.” Baela said, her voice as cold and unrelenting as the stone beneath her.

The guard snorted, rattling the bars again in a show of bravado that rang hollow. “Your dragon’s dead, girl,” he spat. “The only thing you’re good when the king’s done with you is bending over to receive our seed!”

Her jaw tightened, but her resolve did not waver. “The last thing you will see before you die screaming is my eyes,” she promised, her voice low, menacing, and unshakable. “And in that moment, you will learn not to provoke a dragon.”

The man shifted uncomfortably, her words digging into his bravado like claws. His companions, who had laughed moments before, now avoided her gaze, their unease plain. The guard forced a nervous chuckle, smirking weakly. “I like a woman who fights.” he said, though his tone lacked its former conviction. “Makes it more fun when she breaks.”

At last, the guards retreated, leaving them in darkness save for the faint glow of moonlight streaming through the high, barred window.

Mireza, her hands trembling and her breath shallow, reached for Baela’s hand. Her voice was a faint wheeze. “You should not anger them, my lady. They are monsters.”

Baela turned to the woman who had cared for her since infancy, the same woman her mother had  had trained and trusted with her precious daughters. Her smile was faint, but resolute. “You forget, Mireza,” she said softly, though her words were edged with steel. “I have commanded a monster since I was a babe. That bald man will die screaming—by my command.”

Mireza attempted to smile, but the effort was replaced by a wince as pain radiated through her battered frame. The maester, before his own untimely end, had warned of bruised ribs. Given the treatment Mireza had endured, Baela feared they might now be broken.

Baela tightened her grip on the older woman’s hand, her expression fierce with determination. “Rest, Mireza,” she murmured. “When the time comes, they will learn the price of their cruelty.”

Baela knelt beside Mireza, her hands shaking as she dipped the cloth into a shallow basin of murky water. Even in the dim light, the bruises and bites marring Mireza’s thighs were unmistakable, stark against her pallid skin.

Baela’s heart twisted painfully, her anger burning like dragonfire beneath her ribs. She reached out, intent on cleaning the wounds, but the young servant by her side gently stayed her hand.

“Please, milady,” the girl whispered, her voice trembling but resolute. “Rest. I will take care of her.”

For a moment, Baela hesitated, reluctant to relinquish even this small act of care, but the exhaustion in her own limbs betrayed her. She nodded, her throat tight with unshed tears, and allowed the girl to take the cloth. She sank back against the cold wall, the chains holding the makeshift plank bed creaking under her weight.

Two weeks. Two weeks of this living nightmare.

The usurper had stashed them here like discarded refuse, hidden from the eyes of the world. They were dragged from the cell only to serve as unwilling witnesses to the executions of those who dared defy him. Ser Robert Quince, the castle’s loyal castellan, had been the first, his cries still haunting her dreams. Then the maester, whose wisdom had brought comfort even in the darkest hours. And finally, a knight—brave, foolish, and doomed—who had tried to free her.

Her fists clenched at the memory of that first night, the night when the usurper revealed the depths of his depravity. Aegon had forced her to watch as her childhood companions—servants, stable hands, women who had comforted her in her grief—were brutalized by his men.

She had pleaded, her voice raw and breaking, for them to stop. She had raged, hurling curses and threats, until one of the guards raised his sword to her throat, silencing her. She had been terrified that Aegon might turn his vile attentions on her, but she soon learned of his impotence—his cock, maimed by Vhagar’s fire, leaving him a shell of a man. Instead, he took pleasure in watching others carry out his monstrous desires, whispering to her in grotesque detail the horrors he planned for her once she was no longer of use.

The first time he taunted her, she had spat her venom in return. “You are no man.” she had said, her voice cutting like a blade. “No better than an Unsullied, but far less useful.”

The memory of the blow that followed still stung, though it was the humiliation of being forced to listen to Aegon’s vile fantasies that lingered most. Mireza had begged her to hold her tongue, pleading not just for Baela’s safety but for the lives of the others.

And so she had swallowed her fury, letting it simmer within her like an untamed beast. But her silence did not spare them. The usurper’s dogs continued to visit the dungeons, dragging the women away to satisfy their depraved appetites, returning them broken and bloodied.

Baela’s gaze swept the cell, taking in the pitiful sight of her companions. Mina, the cook, sat hunched against the wall, her dress torn to shreds, the fabric barely covering her dignity. The old woman had once sneaked Baela warm cakes in the kitchens when she first arrived at Dragonstone, her mother’s death still a fresh wound. She had smelled of flour and spices then, her face crinkling into a kind smile that felt like home. Now, her face was pale, her eyes vacant, her spirit battered beyond recognition.

Near Mina sat one of the stable boys, his gaze fixed on the wall as though he could will himself away from this place. Baela had never known, never imagined, that boys could suffer such violation. She remembered his laughter on bright mornings when he would race the horses in the fields, his exuberance infectious as he shouted encouragement to her dragon from below. That boy was gone now, his joy snuffed out like a candle in the wind.

Her heart broke.

Mireza stirred beside her, her face contorted in pain, and Baela placed a trembling hand on her shoulder. The woman who had soothed her nightmares as a child now bore the weight of her own suffering, her body broken but her spirit flickering faintly like the embers of a dying fire.

Baela leaned in, her voice barely above a whisper. “You told me once, Mireza, that I had the blood of the dragon in my veins. Do you remember?”

Mireza's lips are red, same as her eyes.

Baela straightened, her eyes burning with resolve. “Then they have made a grave error. For no matter how much they wound us, the fire will burn on. And they will pay for every tear, every drop of blood they have spilled.”

Mireza closed her eyes, her breathing shallow, and Baela remained by her side, her mind whirling with grief and fury. Someday, she promised herself. Someday, she would make them all pay.

The oppressive darkness of the dungeon did not relent, though Baela’s exhausted body eventually surrendered to sleep. She drifted off against the cold wall, her cheek pressed to the rough stone, her mind teetering between fitful rest and a world of haunting memories.

The old gardener’s labored breaths rattled in the stagnant air, each one a cruel reminder of the pain that enveloped them all. Whimpers escaped from the young servant girl, her cries subdued yet sharp as daggers to Baela’s heart. Mireza’s murmured reassurances rose and fell, her voice a fragile thread of solace binding them together in the shadow of despair.

In her dreams, the darkness gave way to fire.

Moondancer, her brave and beautiful dragon, surged into view, her shimmering scales catching the sunlight as she charged at the grotesque Sunfyre. The golden dragon loomed impossibly large, his fire a torrent of blinding, searing light. Baela’s heart clenched as she watched her beloved Moondancer dart and weave, fierce and unyielding, her small frame a blur of speed and defiance.

Then came the flame, an all-encompassing inferno that engulfed Moondancer’s head. Baela screamed in her dream, her voice merging with the dragon’s agonized roar. Even blinded, Moondancer fought on, her wings faltering but still beating as she struck at Sunfyre with every ounce of her strength. The impact sent both dragons plummeting to the ground and she landed in a heap of broken grace, taking every agonizing blow meant for Baela.

Even though both his legs had been rebroken from the fall and he was delirious with pain, Aegon had still found the cruelty within himself to make her watch as Moondancer was fed to Sunfyre.

She remembered the way she had reached out, desperate to comfort her companion, but Aegon’s laughter had sliced through her grief like a blade.

“Watch,” he had sneered, his voice dripping with malice. “Watch as your little beast becomes fodder for mine.”

Baela’s chest tightened in her sleep as the memory replayed. Moondancer had been dragged, weakened and broken, before Sunfyre, who tore into her with merciless hunger. The sight had hollowed her out, leaving a cavernous ache where her heart should have been.

She had failed her.

As Moondancer's delicate, battered form disappeared into Sunfyre's golden maw, Baela felt a shattering within herself that no words could ever mend. Tears streamed down her face, hot and unrelenting, as if her very soul wept for her fallen companion. Moondancer had been more than a dragon to her—she had been her shadow, her solace, the only one to witness the tears she had shed when they laid her mother to rest beneath the waves.

It was Moondancer who had borne her away when the weight of her father's indifference and her insecurities about his new family had grown too suffocating to bear. It was Moondancer who had lifted her into the skies, far above the ache of her heart, where only the wind could hear her cries. The dragon had been her closest friend, her truest family. And Baela had let her die.

She had lost Jace’s beloved Vermax in the battle at the Gullet. He had shielded her and Moondancer with all the ferocity of a true dragonrider, sacrificing Vermax and nearly his own life to see them safe. That he had survived was a miracle, the weight of his sacrifice pressed on her chest. Jace had given everything for her, yet she was here, broken and helpless as her precious Moondancer—the dragon who had never failed her—was devoured before her very eyes.

Baela stirred in her sleep, the sound of murmured voices pulling her out of the dream’s labyrinth. One voice, far away but achingly familiar, whispered her name. She recognized it immediately, the voice she had so longed to hear speak to her with pride, with love. But it never had, not truly. Her father’s voice had always seemed reserved for others, for the sons he groomed for greatness or the Queen who held his heart.

The whispers grew louder, and Baela jerked awake, her breath caught in her throat. A scream was rising, but it was muffled by a large hand pressed firmly over her mouth. Terror clawed at her chest. Was this the moment Aegon had promised, the day his guards would come to claim her as their prize?

Her wide, panicked eyes darted upward, expecting cruelty. But instead of the leering faces of the usurper’s men, she found herself staring into eyes as deep and rich as amethyst—a gaze she had always sought but never held for long.

Her voice trembled as she whispered, “Father?”

It was impossible. Her father was dead. He had perished in fire and fury, trying to bring down Vhagar, her mother’s dragon, corrupted by the Kinslayer. He could not be here. Had her mind finally succumbed to the madness of grief and torment?

Daemon’s hands cupped her face with a gentleness that defied the calluses of war and hardship. His voice, low and rough with worry, reached her ears. “Are you hurt, Baela? Tell me—did they hurt you?”

For the first time in her life, she saw emotion break through the cold, unyielding mask of Daemon Targaryen. Relief, worry, and—was it possible?—love swirled together in his gaze, raw and unguarded. Her father, who was so often a storm of jeers and smirks, but who kept his deeper feelings buried beneath layers of wit and severity, now looked at her as though she were the most precious thing in the world.

Baela's lip quivered

Daemon’s grip on her face tightened slightly, his thumb brushing away a stray tear. “I am here.” he said firmly, as if daring the world to defy him.

Her heart stuttered, torn between disbelief and the desperate hope that this moment was real. It felt as though her father had come back to her, not as the severe man she had known, but as the man she had always dreamed he might be—vulnerable, present, and full of love.

And yet, a part of her knew this was not her father but a ghost, a fragment of her mind conjured from despair and longing. But for now, she would take it. For now, she would let herself believe.

She threw herself into his arms, clutching at him with the desperation of a drowning soul reaching for salvation. His arms wrapped around her, strong and familiar, as though they had always been waiting to catch her. She buried her face in his shoulder, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, she felt safe.

The last time she had embraced her father, it had been under vastly different circumstances. They were in Pentos, mourning the loss of her mother. She had clung to him then as fiercely as she did now, seeking solace in the one person who seemed as lost as she felt. But when they returned to Westeros, everything changed. His hurried wedding to Princess Rhaenyra had driven a wedge between them, the first of many splinters.

She had wanted to scream at him, to hurl accusations that burned her throat with their bitterness. How could he disrespect her mother’s memory so quickly? And yet, she swallowed her anger, suppressing it for the sake of peace. She had learned to channel her frustrations into other bonds, particularly with Jace. They shared an unspoken understanding, both the eldest, both burdened by the expectations of caring for their younger siblings. They couldn’t afford to falter, not when others looked up to them.

Wardship with Princess Rhaenys had been her reprieve, sparing her from witnessing her father as a different kind of husband to his new wife. But Rhaena had not been so fortunate, and Baela knew it must have been harder for her twin. Even so, no matter how much Baela tried to harden her heart against Rhaenyra, she found it impossible to hate her.

Rhaenyra had never sought to erase her mother’s presence, never tried to fill the hole left behind in a way that disrespected it. Instead, she had offered quiet understanding and love, a steadfast presence that neither demanded nor diminished. Rhaena had grown especially close to the Queen, closer even than to their father or Princess Rhaenys. Faced with such warmth and genuine care, there had been no choice but to love her back, no matter how much Baela had resisted.

And now, here she was, clinging to the ghost of the father she had once thought lost to her, both in life and death. When he began to untangle himself from her embrace, Baela whimpered in protest, gripping him tighter. She did not want to wake. Outside her dreams lay only darkness, fear, and pain. Here, in his arms, she was safe, a child once more.

“Baela,” Daemon’s voice came low and steady as he cupped her face in both hands, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head, though the right side of her face still burned from the slap one of the men had given her earlier when she had tried to stop them from taking Mireza. The sting was a distant pain now, overshadowed by the raw ache in her chest.

Daemon’s forehead rested against hers, and she blinked in surprise. He was trembling, his breath uneven as though he were struggling to calm himself. She had only seen him do this with a handful of people, with Caraxes, pressing his brow to the dragon’s snout to quiet the storm within them both. He had done it with the babe in her mother’s belly, a tender moment she had witnessed from afar. And, of course, he had done it with the Queen—always with her.

But now, he did it for her.

His hands moved to her arms, steadying her as he stood. “Come.” he said, his voice laced with urgency. He pulled her with him, and though her muscles protested the sudden movement, she followed. Her limbs were stiff and cramped from the cold, her makeshift wooden bed leaving her body sore and unyielding. The burn in her legs startled her more than the action itself, but she moved, stumbling slightly as he practically carried her toward the exit.

When they reached the cell door, Baela glanced back, her heart clenching at the sight of her companions crowding the bars, their wide eyes pleading silently for answers. None of them moved to follow, as though held back by invisible chains of fear.

Baela dug her heels into the ground, her voice rising in protest. “We can’t leave them,” she said, her words rushed and frantic. “They’ll be killed!”

Baela froze, her gaze darting between her father and the prisoners behind the bars. Daemon’s grip on her arm tightened slightly, grounding her as she struggled to reconcile the weight of their situation. The servants’ eyes followed her, wide and resigned, though none raised their voices in protest.

“They cannot come with us, yet.” Daemon said, his voice quiet but firm. “If the guards find the cells empty when they check, they will raise the alarm. We cannot risk it.”

Baela’s heart sank, but before she could voice her objections, Daemon turned to the prisoners, his expression softening by the smallest measure. “By tomorrow, you will all be free,” he promised, his words deliberate and edged with determination. “Dragonstone will belong to the Targaryens once more.”

The servants nodded in understanding, but Baela could see the truth written plainly in their faces. Resignation, quiet and cruel, settled like a shadow among them. The servant girl began to cry silently, her tears streaking her dirt-smudged face. Mireza and the cook smiled at Baela with an encouragement that made her chest ache, their words gentle but firm.

“You must go, my lady!” Mireza said. “We will wait for you. But you must be safe first.”

The old gardener stepped forward, his voice calm despite the storm in Baela’s heart. “I will see you tomorrow, my lady.” he said, his tone kind. “But not here. Outside.”

Baela’s breath hitched, her vision blurring with tears she could no longer contain. She knew, deep in her bones, that these people were resigned to their fate. If the guards returned to find her missing, there would be no mercy. And yet, they thought only of her safety, their bravery piercing her like a blade.

“I swear to you,” she said, her voice thick with emotion, “we will come back for you. I will come back for you.”

Her father’s hand guided her forward, his touch firm as he led her away. Baela walked with heavy steps, glancing back one last time at the faces pressed against the bars before they disappeared into the shadows.

The dungeon deepened as they descended, the steps seemingly endless. The processed black stone of the castle gave way to rough-hewn rock, the air growing warmer and heavier with the unmistakable tang of sulfur. They were beneath the Dragonmont now, the heat pressing against her skin like a living thing.

She looked at her father, his hand never leaving her elbow as he urged her onward. Her voice cracked with the weight of her question. “How are you alive?” she asked, her disbelief raw. “The ravens said you died at the God’s Eye.”

Daemon smirked, a glint of mischief lighting his eyes despite the grim surroundings. “You should never believe everything you hear, Baela,” he said, his tone maddeningly casual. “And only half of what you see.”

Her frustration flared, and for a moment, she wanted to stomp her foot like a child denied her way. But she bit back the impulse, knowing it would do little good. This was her father, after all—ever infuriating, ever withholding. She suspected the vulnerability he had shown in the cells might be the most she would see from him for the next decade.

Taking a steadying breath, she changed tack. “Is it true, then? What Aegon said about the Queen being besieged by smallfolk in King’s Landing?”

Daemon’s expression darkened, a dangerous glint sparking in his eyes. “Do you truly think I would allow peasants to besiege us?” he asked, his voice low and edged with disdain. After a pause, he added, “They targeted the Dragonpit. The usurper’s children’s dragons—they killed them.”

Baela gasped, horror flashing across her face. “But those dragons are as small as Stormcloud!” she exclaimed, her voice trembling with outrage. “Maybe smaller!”

Daemon nodded grimly. “You need not worry,” he said, his tone as sharp as Valyrian steel. “All those who fancied themselves dragonslayers are now dead.”

Baela huffed, her fury barely contained. “I should hope so. Anyone capable of such cruelty toward baby dragons would show even less mercy to their riders.”

Her father’s lips twitched, the faintest hint of amusement softening his features. There was approval in his gaze, a glimmer of pride that made her stand a little straighter. “Jace has claimed Dreamfyre.” Daemon said suddenly, his voice lighter. “Or, as he put it, it seems she has claimed him.”

Baela’s eyes widened, her outrage giving way to intrigue. “Claimed Dreamfyre?” she repeated, astonished. “But claiming a second dragon is unheard of. Dragons usually outlive their riders. Even King Viserys never took another dragon after Balerion died!”

Her father’s smirk returned, enigmatic and infuriating. “Jace always was full of surprises.” he said, and with that, he pressed her onward, the heat of the Dragonmont rising around them like the fiery breath of the beasts they both held dear.

Baela could hardly keep up, her legs burning as she took three steps for every one her father made. It was as if she were jogging while he strode forward with infuriating ease, his hand steady on her arm to guide and steady her.

Her frustration warred with awe as she glanced around, taking in the cavernous surroundings. The walls of the passage bore deep scratches, the unmistakable marks of dragons larger than any she had ever seen. Patches of molten rock smoothed the stone surfaces in strange, glimmering patterns, the remnants of dragonfire long cooled.

She and Rhaena, along with Jace and Luke, had once spent days exploring caves near Dragonstone, scouring for shards of the black volcanic glass the locals called obsidian. They had squealed with delight over every jagged piece they unearthed, marveling at the way it caught the light. To stand here now, in the heart of Dragonmont itself, was almost too much to fathom. The very material of the Throne of Dragonstone had come from this volcano, and yet here she was, surrounded by its fiery history.

No matter how much they had longed to explore deeper, even as children they had known better than to venture into the volcano itself. The hazards were too great—rivers of molten rock, choking fumes, and, most dangerously, the dragons who called this place home. While Targaryens were said to have a natural affinity for dragons, they had been taught to show respect and to leave the creatures undisturbed in their lairs.

Baela’s breath grew shorter, her body aching from the climb, and just when it seemed she could not take another step, she felt a rush of cool air against her face. It struck her like a balm and a blow all at once, the night air sharp and clean after so long amidst the oppressive heat and sulfurous fumes. She shivered, her skin prickling in protest at the sudden chill, but the relief of it was undeniable.

Daemon paused, pointing ahead into the inky darkness beyond the volcano’s shadow. “The Dragon Keepers’ manse lies in that direction,” he said, his voice calm as if they had merely taken a stroll through a garden. Dense woods and towering trees obscured her view, the thick canopy swallowing any sign of a manse or civilization.

“Why can’t I stay there?” she asked, her voice laced with irritation. Surely the Dragon Keepers would offer safety, a refuge from prying eyes.

Daemon’s lips curved into a wry smile. “If Aegon learns you’ve escaped, he’ll have the Dragon Keepers rounded up and questioned,” he said. “I have somewhere far safer in mind.”

Baela glanced at him doubtfully, unable to keep her skepticism in check. She had just slid down the treacherous slopes of the Dragonmont, her footing slipping constantly on the slick rock. If not for her father’s grip on her arm, she would have tumbled to the base of the volcano in a broken heap. And now they were climbing again, heading toward the far side of the mountain.

Her heart sank as realization dawned. The path they were taking led toward the wild dragons’ nesting grounds. She swallowed hard, the weight of her predicament pressing down on her. There could scarcely be a place more perilous.

By the time they reached the cave where Caraxes resided, Baela was drenched in sweat, despite the biting chill of Dragonstone’s night air. The oppressive heat of the volcano clung to her skin, mingling with the exertion of their near-relentless pace. Her legs felt like lead, and her breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, yet she pushed forward, following her father into the yawning mouth of the cavern.

A low, resonant whistle greeted them as they entered, a sound unmistakable in its power and familiarity.

Caraxes.

Baela’s heart twisted painfully at the sight of him. The Blood Wyrm loomed, his sinuous form coiled in the shadowy depths of the cave, his great head lifting at their approach.

Daemon moved to the dragon without hesitation, a rare softness overtaking his features. He ran his hand along the ridges of Caraxes’ scarlet scales, murmuring to him in a tone Baela could not hear but felt in her bones. There was such reverence in the gesture, a bond so profound it almost seemed tangible. Then Daemon pressed his forehead against Caraxes’ side, his lips moving as though in prayer.

The sight pierced Baela to her core. It was too much—too cruel a reminder of what she had lost. She gritted her teeth against the swell of grief that threatened to drown her. . The memory of her dragon was a wound that refused to close, her absence an aching hollowness in Baela’s chest where warmth had once lived.

Her connection to Moondancer had been unlike anything else, an unspoken harmony that tethered her soul to something far greater. Now that bond was severed, leaving only a stark, desolate emptiness. The grief was unbearable, yes, but it was anger that burned brighter than anything else.

The thought of the Usurper made her stomach churn. She had never been a violent person, but witnessing Moondancer’s brutal slaughter, watching her majestic dragon—a symbol of House Targaryen’s very supremacy—be treated as if she were nothing more than a beast to be butchered, awakened something primal and feral within her.

Every night, Baela imagined her hands wrapped around Aegon’s throat, squeezing until his bloodshot eyes bulged, until his purple lips gaped in a futile plea for mercy, until— No. She forced herself to blink away the image, the violent haze receding just enough to steady her breathing.

She averted her gaze, unable to bear the sight of her father and Caraxes any longer, and her eyes drifted to the cave’s opening. There, in the suffocating darkness, two orbs of sickly green glimmered faintly, watching her with an anger that mirrored her own.

The intensity of the gaze froze her in place, her breath catching in her throat. The eyes were filled with malice, burning with a wrath so fierce it was almost alive. Whatever it was, it radiated danger. Yet Baela did not recoil. Instead, she straightened her spine, meeting the green glare with a defiance that was as much born of her fury as it was of her fear.

Chapter Text

Daemon POV

The Gates of the Gods stood defiant and tall, their stone ramparts warmed by the relentless midday sun. Atop the towering structure, Daemon sat astride Caraxes, the blood wyrm’s crimson scales gleaming like molten fire under the harsh light. The dragon’s wings stretched lazily, the translucent membranes catching the sunlight in hues of ruby and shadow, casting flickering patterns across the ground below.

Daemon’s silhouette was stark against the bright sky, a figure of menacing regality. His silver hair shimmered like a halo of molten light, offset by the dark leather and steel of his armor. Dark Sister rested at his hip, a silent reminder of the threat he carried as he watched the scene below with cold calculation.

Beneath them, sprawled on the sunbaked cobblestones, lay Aegon the usurper, broken in body and spirit. Blood seeped from his split lip, staining his gilded tunic and marring the once-pristine image of a king. His limbs twitched feebly as the Gold Cloaks hesitated nearby, unsure whether to approach the fallen usurper or to keep their distance from the towering dragon above.

Caraxes let out a low, guttural growl that echoed like thunder across the square. His long neck curved downward, his molten yellow eyes narrowing as they fixed on Aegon with disdain. The dragon’s sharp talons dug into the stone of the gate, leaving deep gouges as he shifted restlessly, his annoyance palpable. Caraxes, ever the tempestuous creature, had been less than pleased to carry such a pathetic burden in his claws, having dropped Aegon like refuse at Daemon’s command.

Daemon watched with cold satisfaction as the gold cloaks just looked at the crumpled figure, jeers and curses raining down from the gathered crowd. His dragon’s irritation mirrored his own, the tension rolling off Caraxes palpable even in the air’s chill. The crowd recoiled at the sight of the dragon, but their fear soon turned to fascination, their gazes drifting skyward as a cry pierced the air.

“Balerion reborn!” someone shouted, their voice trembling with awe. Another called out, “Look at the size of him! He’ll devour us all!”

Daemon’s lips curved into a sly smile, his chest swelling with a mixture of pride and astonishment as his gaze followed theirs. The Cannibal circled the city like a shadow of death, his massive wings casting long, ominous streaks over King’s Landing. The beast was unlike any dragon Daemon had ever seen—darker, fiercer, and with an almost malevolent intelligence that set him apart from even the mightiest of Targaryen dragons.

And there, atop the black leviathan’s back, was Baela, her silver hair glinting like molten starfire in the sunlight. Even by Targaryen standards, the sight was remarkable. A Targaryen maiden astride the Cannibal—Daemon could scarcely believe it. He felt a swell of pride for his daughter, her boldness and determination unmatched. Yet he could not deny the undercurrent of fury that simmered alongside it. Baela had claimed the Cannibal, a feat that could scarcely be comprehended, but it was a reckless act, one that would bring a storm of reproach from her mother.

Not that he would be the one to chide her. No, Rhaenyra would have much to say, and Daemon knew better than to provoke Baela further. Besides, the past three days spent at Dragonstone had been as much for tying up loose ends as they had been for allowing her time with her dragon. The Cannibal was an unpredictable force of nature, and none of them could be certain how he would respond to the crowded chaos of King’s Landing.

Rhaena’s Sheepstealer had barely tolerated the Dragonpit, and even then, it had taken a collapsed roof to settle the creature in the pit. The Cannibal, Daemon suspected, would be far less accommodating. They would have to devise new strategies, teach Baela to temper their bond and navigate the complexities of commanding such a beast. Rhaena would need the same guidance, and Jace too, for Dreamfyre’s temperament demanded a masterful hand.

And then there was Joffrey. Daemon’s thoughts turned dark at the memory of Tyraxes’ increasing unruliness, the dragon reflecting the turmoil within his young rider. Joffrey had endured much since the war began, and it showed in his bond with his dragon.

Daemon sighed, his gaze momentarily softening as he thought of Egg  across the Narrow Sea. He wondered if the boy had managed to coax Stormcloud into breathing fire on command or if the hatchling still spewed flames only when roasting his food. And what of Serys? Had his egg hatched yet? His desire to bring them home gnawed at him, but it would remain impossible until all their enemies were vanquished.

His musings were abruptly interrupted by a strangled cry of pain. His sharp eyes flicked downward to where the Usurper writhed in the dirt. The gold cloaks struggled to haul him upright, but his shattered feet rendered the effort futile. Each attempt to stand sent him crumpling back to the ground in a pathetic heap.

Daemon sneered, his voice cutting through the commotion with the razor-sharp clarity of Valyrian steel. “Enough of this farce. Fetch a prisoner’s cart—the kind with bars. Let the people see the king they were made to suffer for.”

At his command, a captain of the gate hurried off and returned moments later with a wheeled cage. The Usurper was manhandled into the cart, his cries of pain drowned by the growing roar of the crowd. Standing tall atop Caraxes, Daemon raised a gauntleted hand to silence the throng.

“People of King’s Landing!” he began, his voice rich and commanding, carrying effortlessly across the square. “For more than twenty years, my brother, King Viserys, upheld his sacred vow to make Rhaenyra Targaryen the first Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Not three sons could sway his will, for he knew that only she could secure the realm’s future. Even on the eve of his death, broken in body but steadfast in spirit, he dragged himself to the throne room to reaffirm Prince Lucerys’ claim to Driftmark that the traitorous Hightowers questioned and to uphold the succession of Queen Rhaenyra.”

The crowd murmured, nodding, their anger simmering as Daemon continued.

“But the Hightowers,” he said, his voice dripping with disdain, “spat upon the King’s will. They dared to crown this usurper, defying a decision rooted in law and honor. The peace and prosperity King Jaehaerys the Conciliator left to Viserys were trampled underfoot by their greed. The Hightowers, feeling themselves entitled to power, sowed discord and ruin. It is their ambition that has plunged the realm into chaos.”

The murmurs turned to shouts, the crowd growing restless, anger boiling over into curses aimed at Aegon.

“Every death, every crime, every atrocity committed since my brother’s passing lies at their feet.” Daemon declared, his voice rising. “It was the Hightowers and their lapdog Usurper who instructed the Shepherd to incite rebellion against the Targaryens—the very family that has always protected this city! They are the reason your children starved, your brothers lie dead, and your sons burned!”

A rock sailed through the air, striking Aegon squarely in the temple. He cried out, blood trickling down his face as the crowd roared in approval. Daemon, his expression cold and resolute, spurred their fury further.

“This man,” he continued, pointing to the crumpled figure in the cart, “usurped the throne of my Queen and butchered her loyal subjects at Dragonstone. He claimed her home, as he claimed her birthright.”

Daemon’s voice faltered, not with hesitation but with barely contained fury. The crowd gasped, their shock quickly turning to outrage.

“Strip him!” Daemon bellowed, his voice a whipcrack of authority. “Let them see him for what he truly is—not a king, but a coward, a traitor, a pretender who butchered the loyal on Dragonstone. He dared to usurp our home as he did the throne, and to Lady Baela, he promised horrors too vile to repeat to sway Lord Corlys to his side.”

His voice trembled with barely restrained fury, his knuckles white around the reins. The crowd gasped, some weeping openly, others screaming their rage.

“This is the man who sought to feed Queen Rhaenyra to his dragon, believing he could run her from her rightful place. But let it be known,” Daemon roared, “that Lady Baela Targaryen fed his dragon to the Cannibal. Justice has been served by the blood of the dragon!”

The gold cloaks moved swiftly, stripping Aegon of his garments. The crowd fell into a stunned silence, staring at the ruin of a man beneath the finery—the burns that scarred his flesh, his disfigured body, the sight of his manhood charred and ruined.

Daemon’s lips curled into a grim smile as he leaned forward, his voice low and commanding. “Since you wanted so much to be king, Usurper , let them see you for what you are. A lesson, for all who would dare to challenge House Targaryen.”

The Usurper was shoved roughly into the barred cart, his limbs flailing weakly, his cries muffled by the din of the crowd. Daemon watched, his expression carved from stone, as the gold cloaks forced Aegon into the cold confines of his cage. His hands were bound to the top of the barred cart, leaving him sprawled in a wretched display for all to see, his mangled legs lying useless beneath him, his sobs drowned by the roars of the angry masses.

“Greedy bastard!” a voice rang out, raw and dripping with venom. Another followed, louder, shriller: “You greens took my son to Rook’s Rest! He never came back—give me my son back!” A woman’s voice broke into a wail, her grief echoing through the street.

“Kill the Usurper! Kill the Usurper!” the chant began, first from one man, then another, until the cry became a chorus. “Burn the Hightowers!” someone shouted, the words taken up with fervor as stones and scraps of refuse struck the bars of the cart.

“He’s no king! Just a craven!” spat another, while others turned their ire toward the absent Queen Mother. “Alicent the Highwhore!” The name rolled through the crowd like a wave, each iteration sharper, harsher, more biting.

Daemon sneered as he observed Aegon hunched in his pathetic cage, his burnt and broken body shaking under the weight of the city’s hatred. He deserved this humiliation; he deserved worse after he found out that he was going to feed Rhaenyra to his dragon. He would have killed him there and then but Rhaenyra deserved to look this traitorous wretch in the eye as he knelt before her, his head soon to part from his shoulders.

Daemon’s gaze lifted beyond the frenzied crowd, settling on the Red Keep perched atop Aegon’s Hill. His thoughts churned with rage, a torrent of incredulity and disgust. What twisted delusions had Otto and Alicent Hightower concocted to imagine this creature—a man-child who raped maids and took delight in watching his own children brutalized in the fighting pits—fit to rule over Rhaenyra?

Aegon was nothing more than a puppet. Too dull-witted to lead and too indulgent in vice to care, he was the perfect figurehead for Otto’s ambitions. It had been the same with Viserys, Daemon thought bitterly, his brother manipulated from behind the scenes, his reign weakened by illness and the isolation Otto had engineered by banishing Daemon and Rhaenyra to Dragonstone.

With a sharp tug on Caraxes’ reins, Daemon urged the dragon into the air. The great beast’s wings unfurled, sending a gust of wind and dust cascading through the streets as they ascended. The cries of the mob faded as they climbed, and soon they landed atop the Alchemist Guild’s ancient headquarters. The building groaned under Caraxes’ weight, but it held firm, its stonework sturdy and even older than even the Targaryen Conquerors’ dreams of the west.

From his vantage, Daemon surveyed the city below, his sharp eyes narrowing as he took in the state of the capital. Flea Bottom was a sprawling, fetid mass of humanity, its alleys clogged with filth and its streets teeming with the destitute. People huddled in rags, their threadbare clothing and dirt-streaked faces a stark reminder of how far King’s Landing had fallen.

The stench of unwashed bodies and waste rose on the breeze, a far cry from the golden days of King Jaehaerys’ reign, when the city had been a beacon of order and prosperity. Back then, the streets had been cleaner, the people better clothed, and the markets bustling with wares from every corner of the realm. Now, it was a hub of misery, a testament to the Greens’ corruption and incompetence.

His gaze shifted to a construction site on the edge of Visenya’s Hill. The beginnings of a multistory building were taking shape, a solution to the overcrowding in Flea Bottom, no doubt part of Jace’s efforts to restore order. The speed of its construction was impressive, but it did little to mask the decay that had taken hold of the city.

Daemon curled his nose in disdain. This was the Greens’ legacy—a city brought to ruin, its people reduced to beggars sleeping in their own filth. The once-proud capital of the Seven Kingdoms now lay broken, a reflection of the hollow men and women who had sought to claim its crown.

He looked up as the Cannibal let out a bone chilling roar. The Cannibal’s immense form moved with surprising grace for a beast so monstrous. Daemon watched as the dragon’s hulking bulk veered toward the Red Keep, his ebony scales glinting dully in the midday sun. The Cannibal did not pause or falter, a force of nature with a singular, unknowable purpose. Daemon’s lips quirked at the thought of Joffrey’s reaction—wide eyes, mouth agape, and perhaps even a squeak of astonishment as he beheld the creature. Though not as long as Vermithor, the Cannibal’s sheer bulk was unmatched,  not even Vhagar is bulkier, his muscle-bound frame and thick, impenetrable scales radiating an aura of menace.

Daemon recalled the day Baela insisted on securing the saddle to the Cannibal’s scales with bolts rather than mere harnesses and straps. It was a prudent decision, for the dragonkeepers could not hope to saddle the Cannibal as they did the others without forfeiting their lives in the attempt. And the great beast, armored in scales thick as ancient plate, scarcely seemed to notice the bolts at all. It had been an ordeal, the dragon’s temper flaring as fire licked dangerously close to Daemon’s face on three separate occasions. That he had survived the endeavor at all was a testament to both his nerve and Baela’s bond with the beast. Caraxes, mercifully, had not taken the Cannibal’s presence as a challenge—perhaps because he could now detect Baela’s scent upon the older dragon.

A distant roar broke Daemon’s reverie, his ears pricking at the unmistakable sound of Dreamfyre and Sheepstealer echoing from the direction of the Dragonpit. His lips curved into a smirk. If the dragons themselves sensed the upheaval of the day, then the realm was truly on the cusp of change.

As Caraxes soared above the city, the midday sun bathed King’s Landing in a harsh light, casting its filth into sharp relief. The crowd, a churning sea of fury, finally reached the Red Keep, their voices rising in jeers and chants as they pushed the Usurper's cart forward. Daemon directed Caraxes to perch atop the gate, the dragon’s sinewy frame curling over the wall with a grace that belied his size.

Daemon surveyed the courtyard below, his keen eyes picking out the gathered nobles. Lord Bartimos stared at the Usurper with a mixture of horror and revulsion, while Lord Staunton averted his gaze, his discomfort plain. The crowd had done its work thoroughly; Aegon sat shivering, bloodied and smeared with filth. Rocks, buckets of piss, mud pies, remnants of fish stew and even feces clung to his person, a grotesque testament to the people’s wrath.

The lords and ladies of the court were no less affected. Lord Corlys Velaryon, a man of iron will and steady resolve, looked upon Aegon and shook his head, his lips pressed into a grim line. Lady Redwyne and several other noblewomen turned their faces away, their eyes wide with distaste. Yet, it was not their reactions that pierced Daemon most deeply.

His gaze landed on her.

Rhaenyra stood at the edge of the gathering, her beauty undiminished by the day’s grim spectacle. She wore a crimson underdress beneath a black overrobe that shimmered like dragon scales when caught by the light. Her silver-gold hair was braided in an intricate style reminiscent of Visenya herself. But it was her eyes that struck him—a look not of triumph, nor even relief, but horror and disappointment.

Daemon tightened his grip on Caraxes’ reins, the leather creaking beneath his hand. The dragon responded with a sharp stomp on the gate’s wall, his roar splitting the air in a piercing whistle that sent shivers through the crowd below.

Surveying the nobles once more, Daemon saw not one face that met his victory with joy. They all looked at him as though he were a rabid beast—a creature to be feared and controlled, just as Otto Hightower and even Viserys had once viewed him.

His jaw tightened as his gaze drifted toward Maegor’s Holdfast, where he knew his children would be. Rhaena and Joffrey were surely within, safe for now, while Jace might still be with Baela. His youngest, Egg and Serys, should have been here too, but the city was not yet safe enough for them. And Luke… Daemon exhaled deeply, the thought too painful to dwell on.

This, he reminded himself, was not for the approval of lords and ladies. It was not even for Rhaenyra’s gratitude, though her disapproving gaze burned like ice upon his soul. This was for his children—to make the world they inherited a safer, more just place. If Rhaenyra disapproved of his methods, well… Daemon thought with a faint smirk, he had always found her most charming when her eyes are ablaze with passion.

Caraxes lowered his long, serpentine neck with a predatory grace, his massive body coiled in readiness. Daemon slid down the dragon’s scaled flank with practiced ease, landing softly despite the weight of his armor. He pushed an errant strand of silver hair from his face, where it had escaped the confines of his low bun, and strode toward the center of the courtyard with that unmistakable swagger that drew eyes to him even when the onlookers dared not meet his gaze.

Rhaenyra was already there, standing tall and unyielding, though her hands betrayed her fury as they clenched into tight fists at her sides. Her glare was molten, her lilac eyes dark and burning with an intensity that would have sent lesser men quaking. Daemon, however, only huffed in amusement, his lips curling into a faint smirk as his sharp gaze swept over the gathered nobles, most of whom hurriedly averted their eyes from him.

Behind the Queen stood the Lysene dancer he had once favored, her dark beauty as striking as ever. She watched him with a pleased, almost predatory look, her lips curved in a knowing smile. Daemon barely acknowledged her, his attention drawn back to Rhaenyra. She was trying to calm herself, he noted, her hands now resting over her stomach in that familiar, comforting gesture she had often used when pregnant with their little Visenya. The thought struck him like a dagger. Visenya, their fiery daughter, had been the first casualty of this wretched war—her spirit snuffed out before she could truly live.

Grief flickered across his face, a shadow too brief for anyone but Rhaenyra to catch, before he rearranged his features into his trademark arrogant smirk. He would grieve in private, as he always did. For now, he had a role to play.

Daemon fell to one knee before the Queen, his voice carrying easily across the hushed courtyard. “I bring you the Usurper, my Queen.” he declared, his tone laced with mockery as he cast a disdainful glance at Aegon. “The people of King’s Landing have seen him for what he truly is—a sniveling, craven wretch. A coward. A man unworthy of the throne he stole.”

Rhaenyra’s lips curved into a smile, but it was a pale imitation of her usual radiance. It did not reach her eyes. “I had no doubt, husband, that you would deliver all my enemies to me.” she said, her voice steady despite the undercurrent of weariness.

Daemon rose smoothly while the Queen turned to the guards with a sharp command. “Take him to the black cells. His trial will begin tomorrow.”

Before the guards could move, Lord Bartimos spoke, his tone brimming with urgency. “There should be no trial. His crimes are known to all—murder, usurpation, treason. Every moment he draws breath is a moment his allies might concoct a plan to free him. Better to end him now.”

Lord Corlys, ever the diplomat, stepped forward with a calm but commanding presence. “Justice must not only be done but be seen to be done. If we execute him without a trial, we risk feeding the fires of rebellion. Let the realm witness his downfall through proper means.” His words were measured, his wisdom evident in the murmurs of assent from the gathered lords and ladies.

Daemon, however, was growing impatient. He shifted his weight and crossed his arms, the familiar itch to snap at the indecision of the court rising. He opened his mouth, ready to cut through the debate, but a voice rang clear from the direction of the Godswood, silencing him.

Baela emerged from the shadows, her presence as striking as the dragon she had tamed. Her steps were tense yet purposeful, a crossbow slung over her back and a dagger secured at her hip. She had cut her hair to just below her chin, the shortened strands framing her face in a riotous halo. It was a sharp, almost defiant change. Perhaps it was a practical choice, Daemon mused—fewer tangles, no locks for an enemy to seize upon in battle. Yet, he suspected it was more than that. Perhaps it was her way of severing herself from the fear and humiliation that had gripped her during those harrowing weeks as a captive of the Usurper. She was much like him in that regard, unwilling to carry reminders of moments where she had been vulnerable, moments she might see as weakness. It was a declaration, a silent but resolute promise to herself: she would never allow such a thing again.

Beside her walked Jace, his face calm but his eyes betraying a storm of emotions. The two made their way toward the center of the courtyard, and the crowd parted like waves before them. Baela’s gaze was fixed on Daemon, her jaw set, her stride unyielding. Whatever words she was about to speak, Daemon could already tell—they would be as sharp as the dagger at her side.

Baela strode into the center of the courtyard, her head held high despite the whispers and gasps that rippled through the gathered nobles. When she stopped before the Queen, her voice rang out, clear and unyielding.

“Your Grace, I demand the chance to send the Usurper to the seven hells myself.”

The courtyard erupted in murmurs, but Lord Corlys was quick to step forward, his tone laced with concern and authority. “Baela, such brutality should not fall to your hands. You are not—”

Baela cut him off with a sharp glare, her voice rising with fury. “I am what this war has made me, Grandfather. Do not ask me to stand idly by when I have witness brutality firsthand—delivered by this vermin!” She gestured toward Aegon with a shaking hand, her voice breaking with emotion but never faltering in its strength.

The gathered nobles recoiled, their expressions shifting between horror and disbelief, their murmurs growing louder. Some whispered in hushed, barn-bred tongues, their words laced with judgment. But Baela silenced them with her next declaration, her chin raised high.

“I fed Ser Alfred Broome to Cannibal.” Gasps broke through the crowd, but she pressed on, her voice unwavering. “He was the one who opened the gates of Dragonstone to the Usurper and his men. I watched as Cannibal burned Ser Marston Waters, Tom Tanglebeard, and Tom Tangletongue. Those three bastards,” she spat, “visited me in the dungeons—laughing, mocking, and raping my maids in front of me. They told me they would do the same to me once I’d outlived my use as leverage against you, Grandfather.”

Daemon’s hand clenched so tightly around the hilt of Dark Sister that he could feel the steel biting into his palm. His knuckles turned white, and his lips pressed into a thin line, his restraint threatening to shatter under the weight of her words.

Baela’s fiery gaze swept the courtyard. “War does not spare anyone. And I demand the honor, Your Grace, of sending my tormentor to hell.”

Rhaenyra descended the steps with measured grace, her crimson gown flowing like molten fury. She reached for Baela’s hand, clasping it tightly with one while the other cupped her cheek in a gentle, maternal gesture. Her voice, though soft, carried the strength of the crown.

“You have shown courage, Baela,” Rhaenyra said, her violet eyes glimmering with unshed tears. “Bravery that few could ever fathom. Your mother and grandmother would be so proud to see how you embody our house words—‘Fire and Blood.’” She paused, her voice thick with emotion. “And know that your father and I are immeasurably proud of you as well. You are a true daughter of House Targaryen.”

Baela’s eyes shone with unshed tears, and she swallowed audibly, her throat bobbing as she struggled to keep her composure. A hand landed on her shoulder, steady and reassuring—it was Jace, his silent presence offering the support she needed.

Aegon, bound and bruised, snarled in protest from where he knelt before the court. “You would not let the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms become a kinslayer!” he shouted, his voice shrill and desperate.

Baela turned her gaze on him, her lip curling in disgust. “Have you forgotten, Usurper, how you boasted of your plans? How you told me that the Queen would be run out of King’s Landing by the mob, and that you would be waiting to feed her to your dragon? How any children left living would watch their mother die before you killed them, too? yOu already have plans to be a kinslayer, but I will fulfill it instead of you! ”

The courtyard erupted into chaos, the nobles roaring with outrage and calling for Aegon’s head. Their cries echoed through the space, a cacophony of anger and retribution.

Rhaenyra’s expression shifted, her grief and weariness hardening into resolve. A dangerous glint shone in her eyes now, the kind that brooked no mercy. She had borne many wounds in this war, but the threat to her children was a line that no one would cross unscathed.

“Guards,” she commanded, her voice like steel, “take him to the black cells. His execution will proceed tomorrow.”

The Hand raised his hands for silence, his measured voice cutting through the murmur of scandalized nobles. “The court is adjourned for the day. The royal family shall take this time in private.”

The nobles reluctantly dispersed, though their hushed whispers lingered in the air as the royal family made their way back to the Queen’s solar. Daemon walked behind Rhaenyra and their children, his gaze shifting between the resilient figures of his children and the determined step of his Queen. When they arrived, the door opened to reveal Rhaena and Joffrey, who had been waiting anxiously within.

Joffrey was the first to react, bounding toward Daemon with the unbridled enthusiasm of youth. “Kepa!” he cried, flinging his small arms around Daemon’s waist.

Daemon bent to his height, wrapping him in a fierce hug. He pressed a kiss to Joffrey’s forehead, his hand cradling the back of his head as he murmured, “My little sea dragon.” He held him there for a moment longer, his cheek resting against Joffrey’s dark curls as if grounding himself in the embrace.

As he straightened, his gaze fell on Baela and Rhaena, who had drawn together near the window. The sisters clung to each other, tears slipping silently down their faces as they whispered.

“I should have gone to you sooner.” Rhaena murmured, her voice thick with regret.

Baela shook her head fiercely, cupping her sister’s cheek with one hand. “I’m glad you didn’t. If you had, the Usurper cunt would’ve had two hostages to torment.”

Daemon lowered Joffrey to the ground just as the boy turned and launched himself into Baela’s arms. She caught him with a laugh, spinning him briefly before holding him at arm’s length to inspect him.

“When we last met, you were already up to my chest in height!” she teased, her tone warm. “But now it looks like you’ve shrunk.”

Joffrey gasped, his brows furrowing in indignation. “I have not shrunk! I’m taller!”

Baela smirked, placing her hand on top of his head as though measuring him. “Are you sure, little dragon? Feels like you’ve lost a few inches.”

Her teasing prompted a round of laughter, even from Rhaenyra, who had been quietly observing the reunion. Joffrey puffed up his chest in protest, declaring, “I am taller!”

The mirth in the room settled into a gentle warmth as Daemon approached Rhaena. She stood off to the side, her hands fidgeting with the fabric of her dress. Daemon stopped before her, his expression softening as he took her hands in his own.

“This was not your fault,” he murmured, his voice low and steady. “A dragonrider must know their dragon before they can command them. And you—you’ve done what no Targaryen has done in centuries. You are the first to tame a wild dragon. You should be proud, Rhaena. I know I am.”

Her shy smile blossomed into a beaming grin at his words. Rhaenyra, watching from her seat, added with a knowing smile, “What does it say about you, husband, that two of your children have tamed wild dragons?”

Daemon smirked, straightening to face her. “It says, my love, that our blood burns hotter than most.”

Their exchange was interrupted by the arrival of the maids, who carried trays laden with food. As the family settled, Rhaenyra drew Baela close to inspect her. She lifted her hands, turned them gently, and sighed at the sight of the bruises marring her skin.

“Are you sure there’s nowhere else you’re hurt?” Rhaenyra asked, her voice tinged with worry.

Baela waved off her concern with a wry smile. “Most of these bruises are from Cannibal, Your Grace.”

Jace, who had been quiet until now, leaned forward with a raised brow. “How did that happen?”

Daemon snorted, his grin sharp and wolfish. “I left Baela with Caraxes while I rid Dragonstone of the Usurper’s stench. Baela thought to test Cannibal’s mettle and the dragon passed.”

Laughter rippled through the room, rich and full, as if war and bloodshed were faraway things. Daemon had made it seem as though claiming a wild dragon as fearsome as Cannibal was as simple as plucking an apple from a tree, and his family was only too willing to indulge in the levity.

Baela, however, merely shook her head, amusement dancing in her dark eyes. “I know the Crown still has many enemies,” she said, her tone measured but resolute. “I cannot afford to be grounded.” She lifted her chin, her pride unmistakable. “I heard the guards talking about Jace claiming a second dragon, and I thought—if he can, then I definitely can too.”

Joffrey, ever eager, clambered onto her lap, his small hands gripping her sleeves as he looked up at her with wide, eager eyes. “Did you almost die too?” he asked with childish solemnity. “Dreamfyre almost did when the mob stormed the Dragonpit. Jace saved her. Was it the same for you?”

Baela’s lips quirked as though she wished to dismiss the enormity of what she had done, but something in Joffrey’s innocent earnestness made her pause. “No,” she admitted at last. “I didn’t almost die.” She exhaled, her gaze flickering to her father before settling on Joffrey once more. “But I did make sure Sunfyre did.”

The room quieted at her words, and she did not leave them hanging long before continuing, her voice steady but edged with something dark and satisfied. “I fed him to Cannibal, right in front of the Usurper—just as he made me watch Moondancer die.”

Joffrey’s eyes went round, his mouth parting slightly, but Baela was not finished.

“He thought he had broken me.” she went on, her voice softer now, though no less cutting. “But Moondancer—my Moondancer—crippled that golden beast before she fell. Sunfyre was larger, stronger, but Moondancer was faster. She tore at him, left him shattered in the end. He never flew again after her.”

Joffrey looked stricken, his small face crumpling with sorrow. “But Moondancer…” His voice wobbled. “She died?”

Baela sighed and pressed a gentle kiss to the crown of his head. “She died a dragon’s death,” she said firmly. “She did not go meekly.”

Daemon watched them, his gaze sweeping over his family, and for a moment—a cruel, fleeting moment—he allowed himself to imagine that they were not at war. That the nursemaids would soon come to bring the boys, already changed into their nightclothes, already fed, and that Luke—sweet, gentle Luke—would come barreling through the door with some treasure or another scavenged from the beach.

But no. That would never happen again.

Egg and Serys were too far away for their own protection, and Luke…

Luke was gone forever.

Daemon swallowed against the weight pressing on his chest and turned his eyes to his wife. Rhaenyra was smiling, laughing at all the appropriate moments, cooing at Joffrey’s dramatics, yet he saw it—the tightness of her mouth, the sharpness in her gaze whenever it landed on him.

Daemon sighed and stretched his legs out, leaning back into his chair with an air of nonchalance he did not quite feel. He had a sinking feeling that his wife was not pleased with how he had paraded the Usurper through the streets before presenting him to her.

He did not understand her.

He had wanted her to see—to witness the man brought low before she delivered the final blow. But it seemed to have been the wrong thing to do.

He was tired. He had barely slept these past three days, tightening security in Dragonstone, assisting Baela with Cannibal. There was no maester to speak of—only lowborn knights and a young acolyte to mind the castle.

He did not want to fight with his wife. He was supposed to have been greeted as a hero, perhaps even generously thanked in their bed.

Instead, she was looking at him as though he were the true monster.

A look that, most unfortunately, he was becoming all too familiar with.

It seemed that no matter what he did, no matter how many times he knelt before her, no matter how many oaths of fealty he swore, his loyalty would always be questioned. Perhaps that was his lot in life—to be forever doubted, forever cast in shadow, forever met with wary eyes and uncertain hearts.

The thought settled upon him like a shroud, cloying and heavy.

Perhaps there was something wrong with him.

First, it had been Viserys, who had spent his life loving Daemon and yet never trusting him enough. Always holding him at arm’s length, always speaking of duty and consequence while keeping him just far enough away that he could never grasp what was meant to be his. And now, Rhaenyra—the one person he had always thought would understand him—was looking at him as though he were some stranger, some creature to be regarded with wary detachment.

Had Otto Hightower been right all along?

The Hand had condemned him so easily, so thoroughly, whispering poison into Viserys’s ear, ensuring that Daemon’s name was always spoken with unease, that his actions were always scrutinized. He is unfit, the Lord Hand had claimed. He is reckless, cruel, dangerous. There is something twisted in him, something inherently evil that he may not even recognize in himself.

Daemon had dismissed it then, scoffed at the notion that he could be anything less than his brother’s equal.

But now…

Now, he wondered.

If Viserys had doubted him, if Rhaenyra doubted him, if the lords who condemned him spoke of his bloodstained hands with certainty—then perhaps they were not the ones who were wrong.

Perhaps he was.

Perhaps they simply saw what he had always been too blind to recognize.

As daylight waned, the last golden remnants of the sun slipping beyond the horizon, the maids moved about the chamber with quiet efficiency—lighting candles, drawing the heavy curtains closed, and stoking the hearth until the fire roared high, casting flickering shadows upon the stone walls.

Jace and Baela had taken it upon themselves to put Joffrey to bed, though the boy still clung to them, bombarding them with endless questions, his voice full of energy despite the lateness of the hour. Daemon watched them go, his gaze lingering upon his children with quiet longing. He wished to follow—to see them tucked safely beneath their covers, to press a kiss to their brows, to pretend for a fleeting moment that they were but an ordinary family untouched by war.

But he knew he could not.

No, he had far graver matters to attend to.

Rhaenyra stood abruptly, her movements restless as she paced before the fire, her expression dark with agitation. Daemon had half a mind to pull her into his arms, to still her temper with the warmth of his embrace, but he knew well enough that she would not take it kindly.

And indeed, she did not.

She whirled upon him, her voice a harsh whisper, laced with fury and disbelief.

"What were you thinking, parading Aegon through the city like that? Do you have any idea how our enemies will twist this against us?"

Daemon exhaled slowly, tilting his head in idle contemplation. He had known she would be displeased, yet it still irked him that she could not see—that she refused to see—the necessity of his actions.

He met her gaze, his tone slow and deliberate. "There is no reason to concern ourselves with how our enemies will perceive us—they already think the worst of us. Let them. This display only serves to remind them that the House of the Dragon is still strong, that we will not be so easily felled. Perhaps next time they consider storming our city, they will think twice."

Rhaenyra let out a sharp breath, her agitation mounting. "Things in the city are still tense, Daemon. There are still those who call for our heads—you cannot afford to act so rashly, not now."

His patience frayed, irritation creeping into his voice. "And I just gave you someone upon whom all their hatred can fall!"

She flinched at the words, but he pressed on.

"This war would never have begun had Aegon not stolen your throne. It was his allies who stoked the fury of the smallfolk. Larys Strong is still within the city, working from the shadows, and it was he who paid the Shepherd to stir the mob against us. Yet you blame me for doing what needed to be done."

Rhaenyra closed her eyes, exhaustion etched into every line of her face.

Daemon took a step toward her, reaching for her hand, but she pulled away before he could touch her.

It was a small thing, that movement, and yet it wounded—a rejection far deeper than mere words.

Did she not see?

Did she not understand that everything he did was for her? For their children?

When she opened her eyes once more, her voice was quiet but laced with bitter resignation.

"It is easy for you to say such things. You are not the one they call Rhaenyra the Cruel."

Daemon let out a short, humorless chuckle, shaking his head.

"No," he murmured, "I am Maegor Come Again, remember?"

He bowed to her then, a mocking gesture, before turning on his heel and departing.

It seemed he would not be greeted as a hero tonight.

Baela POV

Baela had been told all her life that Valyrian steel was the sharpest of all blades, that a single stroke could slice through flesh and bone as though they were nothing more than parchment. And yet, when she brought Dark Sister down upon Aegon’s trembling form, the cut was weak.

He screamed.

A pitiful, choked sound, more akin to a wounded animal than the king he had once claimed to be. She raised the sword again, ensuring the gathered crowd saw the way her own hand trembled upon the hilt.

Baela gritted her teeth, the taste of bile rising in her throat. She had not meant to falter. But she was only a girl, after all.

The second blow came, a hollow strike. Dark Sister bit deeper this time, and crimson welled from the wound, thick and glistening, spilling down his neck in sluggish rivers. Aegon sobbed through his gag, his body convulsing as his blood soaked into the executioner’s block.

Baela forced herself to look at him—to truly see him.

This was not merely an execution. This was justice.

For the servant girl who had once washed and changed her sheets, whose kindness had been repaid with horrors beyond imagining, drowned beneath the weight of men as they violated her in the water.

For the stable boy, who no longer spoke, no longer wept, no longer seemed to live—left a shell of himself, his gaze forever fixed upon a wall that had not saved him.

For her sweet Mireza, whom she could not even soothe, not the way she had once soothed her in the quiet dark, when she had lost her mother.

Baela struck again. And again.

By the fourth blow, Aegon had ceased making sounds of pain, his body twitching in its death throes, blood pooling beneath him in a vast lake of red. By the sixth, his head was barely clinging to his body, a grotesque hinge of muscle and sinew all that remained.

It took more than half a dozen strikes to fully sever the head from the shoulders.

When it was done, when his ruined corpse slumped against the block, Baela stood motionless.

The weight of Dark Sister was heavy in her blood-slicked hands. The front of her dress—once fine, now ruined—was drenched, the rich fabric clinging to her skin. Her sleeves were sodden to the cuffs, her fingers sticky with gore.

The world was quiet.

Then, a guard stepped forward to wrench the body away, the limp, headless form dragged unceremoniously from its place of death. Another lifted Aegon’s head by his matted silver hair and drove it onto a spike.

It had been Rhaenyra’s wish that he be burned alive—consumed by the very fire he had so often threatened to rain down upon Baela’s own stepmother. She had refused.

This monster did not deserve the swiftness of fire.

The Queen and the Hand had tried to dissuade her from the beheading entirely, but Baela had asked for this boon in public, and there was no walking it back without a loss of face.

"After the beheading, we shall burn him upon a pyre," Rhaenyra had said, "He is still of our blood, and this will show our benevolence."

Baela had disagreed again.

"He deserves nothing from us," she had told the Queen, "He never showed remorse for his crimes. He never begged, never wept for those he destroyed. He has earned only our contempt."

She had seen the way Rhaenyra sighed then, the weariness in her gaze—she had felt, for a fleeting moment, the urge to yield.

For Rhaenyra Targaryen was, in the end, a good woman and she loathe disappointing her.

But Baela was simply her father’s daughter. Baela knew how precariously their standing in the Seven Kingdoms remained, still tethered upon a knife’s edge.

She knew how Queen Rhaenyra had hated the breaking of peace she had inherited from King Viserys, who had inherited it from King Jaehaerys before him. She knew how desperately her stepmother—her Queen—longed to return stability to the realm. But peace could not be reclaimed until their enemies were dead.

And so, Baela had done her part.

She turned, bloodied hands still wrapped around the hilt of Dark Sister, and found her father’s waiting gaze. The glint in Daemon Targaryen’s eyes was unmistakable. Pride.

He took the blade from her hands, giving it a testing flick through the air before swiping it in a single, fluid motion, the sheer speed of it removing the blood that clung to the steel. Only then did he return it to its scabbard, the act as effortless as breathing.

Baela did not flinch when Jace reached for her hand, did not recoil when his fingers closed around hers despite the blood that still stained her skin.

Her grandfather’s voice rose above the murmuring of the gathered crowd, delivering some grand speech about justice being served, his tone solemn, his words practiced. The people listened aptly—as they always did when the Hand of the Queen spoke—but Baela barely heard him.

Instead, she let her gaze drift over the assembled faces, taking in their expressions.

Wariness.

The ladies at court refused to meet her eyes, turning away as though fearful that if they looked at her, she might turn her blade upon them as well. Others—lords and smallfolk alike—watched her with something close to unease, as if uncertain whether to applaud or shrink back.

Baela had been fully aware of the consequences of her actions.

Jace had spoken to her of it last night, his voice heavy with concern. She would be branded a kinslayer now. And there was no crime more grievous in this land they had made their home, a land that would forever see them as foreigners no matter how many generations they ruled.

The Lords had called him Maegor Come Again.

Baela had no doubt that King Jaehaerys had found it easy to be the realm’s greatest ruler—because Maegor’s terrible reign had made it so.

King Viserys had never appreciated it, but he had relied upon Daemon more than he had ever admitted. Even without a dragon, his rule had been peaceful not because he was a good king, but because he had a brother who loomed behind the throne, a brother whom the Lords feared, a brother who—should they so much as whisper treason—would burn them alive without hesitation.

And now, Rhaenyra had Daemon to punish her enemies for her.

Baela decided, then and there, that she would be Jace’s.

Jace was honorable. Intelligent. His mind for governance, for administration and negotiation, rivaled even the Old King himself. She had no doubt that he would usher in a new golden age for House Targaryen.

But even the greatest kings needed shadows to do what they could not.

Jace needed his Daemon. His Maegor.

Someone unafraid to be seen as monstrous. Someone who would soil her hands so that his would remain clean.

Baela was willing to be that for him.

And now, she had the Cannibal at her side, a dragon as fearsome as the image she wished to project.

She only hoped that, in protecting Jace and his family, in becoming what he could not, he would not someday look upon her with fear in his eyes.

The candlelight flickered, casting shifting shadows upon the nursery walls as Baela turned another page of the old Valyrian text in her lap. The room smelled of warm wax and parchment, the quiet hum of Jace’s voice the only sound beyond the occasional scratch of a quill.

At the table, Jace leaned over Joffrey’s shoulder, guiding his little brother’s hand as the boy carefully copied down Valyrian glyphs with furrowed concentration. Joffrey’s tongue peeked between his lips as he worked, determined to get each curve and line just right.

It was a scene of peace—or rather, the illusion of it.

Baela had tried to find such peace earlier in the gardens. Tried to let the fresh air soothe the weight of the execution from her mind. But the sharp-tongued whispers of the court had found her even there.

A lady—some tiresome creature whose name Baela could not be bothered to remember—had dared to insinuate that she carried the usurper’s child.

As if the wretched man had not been paraded naked through the streets only a day before, his cock all but cooked away before the final blow had fallen.

Baela would have killed herself before she allows him to touch her.

But for all their preening, their silks and jewels, their talk of honor and propriety, these women of court could be just as ruthless as any sellsword.

Her fingers had twitched at the heavy link she shared with Cannibal.

And her monster had roared.

The sound had split the sky above them, shaking the very ground beneath their feet.

The Lady had been in tears before she even excused herself, fleeing so quickly she nearly tripped on her own skirts.

Lord Peake, ever the opportunist, had also seized upon her seeming fall from favor in the eyes of court, parading his too-young daughter before Jace—hoping, no doubt, to tempt him into considering her as his future queen or even as a mistress.

Baela had known then that if she remained in the gardens a moment longer, she might very well have to explain to the Queen why one of the royal gardens had been burned to ashes—along with a few particularly vexing members of her court.

So, she had retreated to the nursery instead.

She sighed now at the unfamiliar quiet that settled over the room.

It had not always been so.

Egg and Serys were usually here, filling the space with their laughter, their squabbling over toys, their endless chatter. Gods, she missed them.

But she understood why her father had yet to bring them home. Their enemies were still too numerous, the threat still too near.

Jace had already sent twenty of their most loyal guardsmen—Daemon’s men, true men, the same warriors who had followed him to the Stepstones and back—to watch over the children. They were likely still at sea, but Baela knew they would see her brothers safely home when the time was right.

A knock at the door broke her thoughts. A page stepped inside, his expression careful as he bowed.

“My prince, the Council requests your presence.”

Jace exhaled, nodding as he rose to his feet.

At once, Joffrey scrambled up as well. “I must go too,” he said, puffing out his chest in the way only an eager boy could. “I am the Queen’s cupbearer.”

Baela caught his wrist before he could dart after Jace.

“Did you not miss me, little sea dragon?” she asked, her voice teasing but warm.

Joffrey hesitated, his small face torn between duty and affection.

Baela smiled, settling back into her seat. “Stay with me a while, and I shall tell you how I claimed Cannibal." Again.

Joffrey’s eyes widened, his curiosity winning out. He glanced once at Jace—who merely offered a small smile of approval—before nodding and climbing onto the seat beside her.

Baela watched Jace disappear through the door, then turned back to Joffrey, her fingers tracing the edges of her book.

“Now,” she murmured, leaning in conspiratorially, “where shall I begin?”

Baela spent the afternoon indulging Joffrey, weaving tales of her brief but spirited adventure with Cannibal, as they lounged in the nursery. The boy sat wide-eyed, utterly enraptured, while she pulled up the sleeve of her gown to reveal the bruises scattered along her arms.

“This one,” she murmured, pointing to a deep, purpling mark, “I earned when I tumbled down Cannibal’s back. He is too large, Joff, even for me. And when he shakes you off, he means it.”

Joffrey gasped, delighted, as she tugged up her skirts just enough to reveal her scraped knee, the skin raw from where she had slid down his unyielding hide and landed unceremoniously on the rocky ground.

Joffrey, ever eager to match her wounds with his own, rolled up his sleeve to present a thin, fading scratch. “Tyraxes did this when he tried to herd me back to the godswood after I escaped the maester’s lessons.”

Baela grinned, pressing a kiss to the mark, though she suspected it was far less grievous than he made it out to be. “A most valiant wound.” she teased, pulling him into a warm embrace.

For all their closeness now, the truth remained—she had not grown up with Joffrey, nor with Egg and Serys.

Unlike Rhaena, who had always been at their side, Baela had spent her youth divided between Driftmark and Dragonstone. She had done her best, always striving to be there for the important moments, to make the most of every visit—but it was not the same as staying, not the same as being theirs in the way that Rhaena was.

Still, she knew Joffrey is fierce.

It was whispered that of all Rhaenyra’s children, it was Joffrey—not Aegon, not Serys—who most resembled Daemon. A true son of the Rogue Prince, they said, despite not being of his seed.

He was brilliant, though his heart belonged to the training yard far more than the library. Dragging him to his Maester’s lessons was akin to pulling teeth from a dragon, but, like all children raised by the Queen, he was also sweet.

And tonight, he was particularly clingy.

By the time supper had been served and finished, Baela had recounted her adventures with Cannibal for the fifth time that day, and still, Joffrey wanted more.

The nurses had finally had enough.

“My lady,” one of them scolded gently, ushering Baela toward the door, “if you tell the story again, none of us shall ever sleep.”

With great reluctance—and one last ruffle of Joffrey’s curls—Baela took her leave, wandering the dimly lit halls of the Keep.

She had only meant to return to her chambers. But as she rounded the corner, she spotted Jace.

He stood at the threshold of his rooms, looking exasperated as maids flitted in and out, arms burdened with linens and travel packs.

Baela’s brow furrowed. Packing?

She stepped inside just as one particularly persistent maid huffed, thrusting yet another thick tunic into Jace’s already overflowing satchel.

“My prince,” the maid said, exasperated, “you must take another.”

“I must not.” Jace countered, crossing his arms.

“There will be snow,” she insisted, shaking her head, “and you take only one cloak? That is madness.”

Baela’s gaze flicked to the nearby chair where two more heavy cloaks had already been laid out.

“I shall take one,” Jace relented, “aside from the one I am already wearing.”

The maid huffed, but wisely did not press further. “At least another pair of boots, then—”

“I shall not be carrying an entire wardrobe across the realm.”

The older woman pursed her lips, eyeing him as though he were an unruly child. Then, with a dramatic sigh, she turned on her heel. “I am fetching food from the kitchens.” she muttered, disappearing into the hall.

Baela leaned against the doorway, amused, as Jace finally looked up and spotted her.

His expression softened instantly, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smile.

Without a word, she stepped inside, letting the warmth of the chamber wash over her.

The fire crackled in the hearth, casting golden light upon the room, and for a moment, they simply stood there, together, away from the hurried maids and the weight of duty.

Baela’s gaze flickered to the satchel beside him, then back to his face.

“You are leaving.” she murmured.

Jace exhaled, glancing toward the fire.

Jace barely had time to react before another maid bustled past, arms full of carefully folded tunics, nearly colliding with Baela where she stood. With a steady hand, he grasped her arm and pulled her out of the way, guiding her toward the chair before the fire.

"Sit." he murmured, his voice gentle yet firm as he helped her settle into the cushioned seat.

Baela’s gaze flitted across the room, taking in the hurried movements of the servants, the growing pile of carefully chosen garments and supplies, and, most of all, the tense set of Jace’s shoulders.

Something was wrong.

She had known it the moment she stepped inside, but when Jace finally turned to her, expression dark, she braced herself for the words she knew were coming.

“We received a raven from the Eyrie,” he said at last, his voice even but heavy with meaning. “It was the second one. The first was likely lost, or intercepted.”

Baela frowned, the warmth of the fire suddenly doing little to chase away the cold creeping into her limbs.

Jace exhaled, running a hand through his curls. “Arnold Arryn has risen in rebellion.”

Baela sucked in a sharp breath.

“The sky cells,” Jace continued. “He was released—by one of Lady Jeyne’s own knights. They fled together, and now—”

She didn’t even need him to finish.

Her mind was already racing ahead, already anticipating the worst, but Jace, ever thorough, laid it out plainly:

“Houses Royce, Templeton, Tollett, Coldwater, Dutton, and the lords of the Three Sisters have declared for him.”

Baela felt sick.

The Eyrie, of all places. The seat of Lady Jeyne Arryn, one of Queen Rhaenyra’s most loyal supporters. How had it come to this?

"Under what reason are they rebelling?" she demanded, leaning forward in her seat, fists clenching.

Jace’s lips pressed into a thin line.

“They are not happy that Lady Jeyne dragged them to war,” he admitted. “And now, with the realm in turmoil, they are using this as justification to reject female rule entirely.” His jaw tightened. “They say that women bring calamity—that the realm is suffering because of it.”

A deep, burning anger unfurled within Baela’s chest, a fire hotter than dragonflame.

“How dare they?” she seethed.

Jace said nothing, merely watching as her fury rose like a storm upon the sea.

"If Lady Jeyne was man, if Rhaenyra was a man, this would never have happened!" Baela’s voice was sharp with fury. "My grandmother was right—the lords of Westeros would sooner put the realm to the torch than see a woman rule over them!"

She drew in a shaking breath, trying to steady herself, but the truth was there—cold, undeniable.

It was why she had taken Cannibal, knowing full well he could have killed her. It was why she had steeled herself into something harder, something fierce, because she knew—everyone knew—what happened to queens without dragons.

Jace would try to protect her, of course he would. He would always try. But he could not always succeed.

No one could.

She needed to be strong. More than strong—ruthless.

And so she had built her reputation upon execution and flame, upon the promise of blood for blood. She had hoped it would be enough to dissuade anyone from underestimating her.

Yet even now, with Cannibal looming behind her, there were those in King’s Landing who still dared to test her.

She would not be weak.

She could not be weak.

"I am coming with you." she declared.

Jace shook his head. "No."

Baela’s nostrils flared. "No?"

His expression was resolute, though there was no pleasure in his refusal.

"Both of us are newly bonded," he said carefully. "Dreamfyre may be fierce, but she is easier to control than Cannibal."

Baela scoffed. "Easier to control?"

"I cannot risk you flying into battle on a dragon that half the time will not even let you mount him." Jace said, his voice firm but not unkind, looking at the servants making sure none of them could understand him.

She opened her mouth to argue, to insist that she did have control—but that was not entirely true, and they both knew it.

Jace stepped closer, lowering his voice.

"If Cannibal loses control, Dreamfyre will not be able to corral him. Only Caraxes could do that."

Baela swallowed hard.

"That is why it is better for you to stay with Daemon."

His words stung, not because they were cruel, but because they were right.

She remembered the decree.

No dragon shall travel alone—especially into a hostile situation.

Her pulse pounded in her ears. "You are not traveling alone."

Jace’s lips twitched—not quite a smile, but something close.

"I am not," he said. "Rhaena is coming with me."

Baela’s anger simmered low in her belly, but she said nothing.

Because there was nothing left to say.

Because Jace had already decided.

Because no matter how much she hated it, he was right.

She longed to rebel. Rhaena was also a newly bonded dragonrider, her claim resting not upon the tame beasts of the Dragonmont but upon a wild dragon, a creature as untamed as the winds that howled through the Eyrie’s peaks. And yet, for all her newfound strength, Rhaena had once been Lady Jeyne’s ward—no matter how little time she had truly spent in the Vale. Still, she knew that her sister had already woven her charm upon the knights and ladies of the mountain stronghold. Rhaena was beloved there, just as Baela had always been her father’s shadow.

It was only right that she be the one to answer their call in this hour of peril.

Yet, as Baela weighed the truth of it, something tingled at the back of her mind—a whisper of unease, a thread of doubt that she could not yet name.

“When had all of this happened?” She asked, and Jace’s lips curved into a small smile—proud, though edged with something darker.

"Arnold Arryn escaped five moons ago." he told her, his voice measured yet brimming with the weight of consequence. "Almost immediately after Daemon was thought to have fallen into the Gods Eye. They began marching on the Eyrie a week ago—perhaps at the very moment the Dragonpit was stormed."

Baela’s breath caught. A chill ran down her spine.

"It was coordinated." she whispered, as the realization settled in her bones like a sudden frost.

Jace nodded grimly. "They expected us to be driven from the city. Mother would have had little choice but to flee to Dragonstone, and Aegon would have been waiting for her—ready to strike the moment she arrived. Had he succeeded, he would have returned to the capital victorious, wearing her crown as his prize."

She shook her head. "That is too much left to fate." Her voice was firm, defiant. "The Velaryon fleet remains strong. The armies of the Riverlands, the North, and the Vale stand beyond our gates."

Jace, however, remained solemn. "The moment word reached us that the Eyrie was under attack, the lords of the Vale would have been compelled to return home. Aegon would have used you to force Lord Corlys to turn his cloak. And though the Riverlands and the North remain steadfast, do not forget—the forces of the Westerlands and the Reach linger but a few days’ march in Tumbleton, and they have two full-grown dragons at their command. The Stormland had not even entered the battlefield yet, their  forces are intact. This was not some desperate act of rebellion, Baela. This was calculated."

Baela exhaled sharply, fury threading through her veins. "But by whom? Aegon was a fool, and Daeron is but a green boy."

Jace’s jaw tightened. "It would have to be Larys Strong. The prisoners Daemon interrogated claimed it was he who incited the mob. He orchestrated the storming of the Dragonpit. And he is still here, somewhere in the capital."

Baela scowled. "Then what, pray, is the Queen’s Mistress of Whispers doing? She failed to find Jaehaera. She has failed to find Larys Strong. What use is she?"

Jace sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "She has burrowed her claws into the Queen’s confidence. I can only do so much to create the distance that is needed."

Baela lifted her chin, eyes dark with intent. "Then once you are gone, I shall take up the task myself. I will remind the Queen—again and again—that Lady Mysaria remains in the Red Keep at her pleasure. And if she does not keep her place, I shall see that she is removed from it."

Jace smiled at her, warmth and gratitude softening the weight in his gaze. He took her hand gently, pressing a kiss upon it.

"I will count on you, my love." he murmured, his voice rich with affection and trust.

After much argument and no small amount of persuasion, the maids had at last relented, allowing Jace to bring two pairs of breeches, three tunics, and two cloaks, along with loaves of bread and some salted meat—meager provisions for a journey so fraught with peril.

Baela accompanied him to the Godswood, where Dreamfyre stood tethered alongside Sheepstealer. She could not fathom how the dragonkeepers had managed to bring Sheepstealer here of all places, but there he was, a wild and untamed force amidst the sacred stillness of the grove. Though the Godswood was vast, the presence of four fully grown dragons rendered it uncomfortably cramped, the scent of fire and scales thick in the air.

Her steps quickened when she caught sight of Rhaena, her sister standing a few paces away, looking apprehensive yet resolute. She had just finished speaking with their father, the weight of his words still evident in her expression. Without hesitation, Baela crossed the distance between them and drew her into a fierce embrace.

"Be careful," she whispered, holding her sister tightly. "And remember—you are a woman. You must be smarter. If the worst comes to pass, do not be magnanimous, do not be honorable. Let Sheepstealer burn them all before they ever have the chance to harm you."

Jace could afford the luxury of honor, but Rhaena could not. The world was far crueler to women, and survival demanded its own kind of ruthlessness.

Rhaena pulled back, her violet eyes wide with understanding. Then, she nodded, solemn and determined. Baela pressed a kiss to her forehead before stepping aside, watching as her sister mounted Sheepstealer. The great beast shifted uneasily, his wild nature at odds with the presence of Dreamfyre, who loomed larger and far more temperamental beside him.

With her heart still heavy, Baela turned and made her way toward the Queen. Rhaenyra stood rigid, her expression unreadable, yet the tension in her hands betrayed her reluctance to let Jace go.

Wordlessly, Baela reached for her, taking the Queen’s hand in her own. A moment passed, strained and silent, before Rhaenyra turned fully, pulling Baela into a tight embrace.

Jace stood nearby, his face composed, yet Baela could see the truth beneath the mask—worry and heartbreak warred within him, the weight of his mother’s sorrow pressing upon him like a tangible force. She caught his eye, offering him a small, encouraging smile. He exhaled and gave a faint nod in return before turning to mount Dreamfyre.

As the dragons prepared to take flight, those gathered in the Godswood stepped back, giving the mighty beasts space. The ground trembled beneath them, and when their wings beat against the air, a great gust of wind and dust rose around them.

Baela closed her eyes against the force of it, her fingers curling into fists. She could only pray—for her sister, for her betrothed, for their safe return.

Chapter Text

Baela POV

Baela’s gaze flickered to the Queen, hunched over the table, her hands trembling, though she clenched them into fists as if sheer will could still them. Her face, a mask of anguish, was set in an expression of brittle strength. It was a sight that made Baela’s heart lurch. She would have gone to her—to press a steadying hand over her mother’s fingers, to whisper words of reassurance—but Lord Corlys was already at her side, murmuring to her in a voice low and soothing.

Baela did not linger. Her father had already turned on his heel, his cloak billowing behind him as he strode from the chamber with long, ground-eating steps. She muttered a curse under her breath—why must he always move so damned fast?—and hurried after him, weaving deftly through the clusters of lords and ladies still murmuring in hushed voices. The Small Council meeting had only just concluded, and already the scandal of it was taking root, the courtiers’ whispers spreading like ivy along stone walls.

It had been bad enough that the Queen and her father were at odds—but for them to lay their grievances bare before their most trusted allies? A disaster. Normally, whatever discord lay between them was fought behind closed doors, beyond the prying eyes of even their children. Yet something had unraveled today, something sharp-edged and raw. And now, by nightfall, the entire city would be abuzz with whispers of the fierce shouting match between the Queen and Prince Daemon.

Her pulse pounded as she reached the iron door. The only one of its kind in the Keep, thick and heavy, as if barring entrance to a fortress. Fitting, she thought bitterly. This had always been her father’s sanctuary. With a push, she forced it open, the hinges groaning in protest.

Inside, Daemon was a flurry of motion, throwing tunics haphazardly onto his satchel, his movements sharp and deliberate. A belt, a sheathed dagger, a set of riding gloves—all tossed onto the bed in rapid succession.

"You’re leaving." she said, the words half-formed between disbelief and certainty.

Daemon did not so much as glance at her. "Have you not heard what they did?" His voice was dark with fury, the words practically spat between gritted teeth. "The fucking Hightowers crowned Daeron in Oldtown. The Most Devout have called upon every wretched zealot of the Seven to take our heads."

Baela felt the weight of those words settle in her chest like a stone.

"Do you have any idea how many people in this Keep alone pray to the Seven?" he went on, his hands moving without pause, shoving a pair of boots to the floor, retrieving a map, a set of silver rings, a polished vambrace. "How many of them will turn on us the moment the Faith bids them to? How many knives will be at our throats before the moon turns?"

Baela swallowed, the truth of it sinking into her bones. The Hightowers had not simply made their move. They had declared war on a battlefield more treacherous than any fought with steel—the battlefield of faith.

And faith had felled greater dynasties than theirs.

"If you leave, what will happen to the Queen? To Joffrey?" Baela’s voice was sharp, cutting through the tense air of the chamber, though it betrayed the worry threading through her.

Daemon did not pause in his preparations, only scoffing under his breath as he secured the straps of his satchel. "Jace is returning, likely by tomorrow, with a fresh knighthood from the Vale. He will be here to protect them." He turned then, eyes dark with purpose. "This stunt by the Most Devout must be addressed before they organize themselves into something greater. Before they storm the Red Keep again."

Baela inhaled deeply, willing her heart to steady, though it pounded furiously within her chest. "I doubt they will do it again—a mob, that is." she said, forcing reason into her voice. "It already failed once, and now we have more grown dragons at our side."

Daemon gave a short nod, but there was no relief in it. "No," he murmured, "it will not be a mob this time. It will be an assassin. A blade in the dark. A guard, a maid, perhaps even the Septon who resides within the Keep’s sept."

Baela’s blood turned to ice. Fear surged within her, but it was swiftly overtaken by anger—by the sheer audacity of it all. "And yet you would still leave us here?" Her voice was sharp, nearly incredulous.

Daemon sighed, a heavy thing that seemed to drain the fight from him for a fleeting moment. His face was lined with something she rarely saw—defeat. "Rhaenyra has loyal Queensguard. She has Lord Corlys. They are competent enough to keep her safe for a day, at least—until Jace returns and sets everything in order." His jaw clenched. "You do not understand how serious this is. The last time the Faith rose against us, they nearly destroyed our family. It was only Maegor’s cruelty that saved us. His fault was that he did not destroy them altogether."

Baela’s eyes hardened. "The Faith of the Seven is deeply entrenched in Westerosi society. Destroying them would be seen as an unforgivable sin. Any remaining neutrals would rally behind Daeron out of sheer outrage."

A slow smirk curled at the corner of Daemon’s lips, though there was no humor in it. "Who said I would leave Daeron alive?" he asked, voice smooth and laced with danger. "I am already a kinslayer. What's one more nephew's blood on my hand?" he said with a chilling voice. "I stood aside as the Hightowers dug their claws into my brother, isolating him from his own family, letting him die alone. I will not do the same for my wife."

Baela felt her frustration mount like a storm. "And you think killing Daeron will end this?" she demanded. "They will frame it as a holy martyrdom for the Faith, a righteous sacrifice that will only fuel further rebellion!"

Daemon’s eyes darkened, his expression thunderous. "They broke the peace first," he bit out. "King Jaehaerys struck an accord with them, and in return, the Faith swore to stay out of politics—to no longer oppose Targaryen rule. Calling for Rhaenyra’s head is a betrayal of that agreement."

Baela swallowed against the warring emotions within her. War with the Faith was not something they could afford—not now. And yet, they could not let this stand. It was treason. Worse, it was a threat to the very foundation of their dynasty.

Her decision came swiftly.

"If you are going, then so am I." she said firmly.

You will be of more use here, protecting them." Daemon said, his tone firm, his meaning unmistakable.

Baela merely shook her head, her decision already made. "Jace has decreed, and the Queen has agreed—no dragon is to leave alone for hostile territory. The Greens still have Vermithor and Silverwing. I am coming with you."

Daemon studied her for a moment, his expression unreadable, before he gave a sharp nod. "Then you had best hurry and pack—but only lightly." he instructed. "Do it now while I speak with Joffrey."

She inclined her head in response, already turning towards the door—only to feel her father’s hand close around her wrist, halting her in place.

"Not that way." he murmured.

Before she could question him, he stepped forward and pressed his palm against one of the carved panels on the wall. A moment later, with a faint, mechanical groan, the wood gave way, revealing a narrow, shadowed passage beyond.

Baela’s breath caught in her throat.

"The hidden corridors." she whispered, eyes widening.

Daemon’s smirk was knowing. "You didn’t think I’d risk us being seen, did you?" He gestured for her to step forward. "Come, girl. We haven’t the time for gawking."

Rhaenyra POV

Rhaenyra sat motionless, her elbow braced upon the table, her forehead cradled in one trembling hand. The weight of the past hour pressed down upon her, heavy as a mantle of iron. She had held her composure before the court, before the lords and her council—she had always known how to school her features, how to bear the weight of her crown without faltering.

But the sound that shattered the stillness of the night undid her entirely.

A whistle, high and keening, tore through the air—the unmistakable call of Caraxes. It was followed, almost immediately, by the mournful roar of Syrax, her great golden beast crying out in answer.

The roar that followed was monstrous, deeper, wilder—like the very earth had come alive to rage against the sky. The stones of the Keep trembled beneath its power, the very walls seeming to quake with unease. The Cannibal.

Rhaenyra’s breath caught in her throat. She lifted her head in time to hear the heavy beat of wings above the Keep. The familiar rhythm of dragons in flight—one, two, and then a third, so powerful it seemed the very air itself was torn apart. She was on her feet before she had even made the decision to rise, her silken skirts whispering against the cold stone as she rushed towards the balcony.

The night was clear, the moon bathing the sky in a ghostly glow, illuminating the creatures above. Her breath hitched at the sight.

Caraxes, his long, serpentine form twisted and coiled as he flew in chaotic patterns—he dove, he wove, he dropped so abruptly that her heart lurched in her chest, only for his wings to snap open at the last moment, catching him before he plummeted. And then he did it again, and again, a red blur against the night, his distress unmistakable.

Behind him loomed the Cannibal, a hulking shadow against the sky, his sheer size making the others seem small by comparison. He did not twist, nor turn, nor falter. He did not need to. Each powerful stroke of his wings was deliberate, assured, effortless—where Caraxes needed  three beats of his wing to stay afloat, the Cannibal needed only one to propel him forward, to keep him aloft.

Rhaenyra's lips parted in horror.

"Baela." she breathed.

She had only just gotten the girl back, only just begun to believe she was safe. And now—Daemon had taken her. He had allowed her to come with him.

A heavy weight settled upon her shoulders, startling her from her daze. She turned sharply, only to be met with the gentle, knowing smile of Lady Mysaria.

“My Queen.” Mysaria murmured, fastening the thick cloak more securely around her. “It is too cold to be out here.”

Rhaenyra turned back, one last time, searching the sky. But already, the dragons were vanishing into the night, growing smaller and smaller until they were nothing but specks against the vast darkness.

She allowed herself to be led back inside.

The warmth of the room enveloped her, though it did little to thaw the chill in her bones. She sank into her chair, watching as Mysaria moved with quiet efficiency, closing the heavy doors to the balcony, bolting them, and drawing the thick curtains to shut out the night entirely.

A steaming cup of tea was placed before her, its fragrant tendrils curling in the air. Rhaenyra lifted it to her lips, taking a slow sip.

Daemon had gone again. Mysaria did not need to ask; the understanding was already there in her gaze. Still, she voiced it softly.

“Daemon has left once more?”

Rhaenyra exhaled, her breath heavy with weariness. “My husband is a warrior, Mysaria. I could scarcely expect him to sit idly by while the Faith calls for my head—for my children’s heads.”

Mysaria’s expression did not change. “He is expected to obey your command, Your Grace.” she said gently. “He may be Daemon Targaryen, but you are still the Queen. And you made it clear before your council that the Faith must be handled delicately.”

Rhaenyra let out a mirthless laugh, shaking her head. “And that was my folly. To command him so publicly, as though I did not know how he would resent it. I should have leashed my temper, should have waited to speak to him alone.”

Mysaria inclined her head in understanding. “It was within your right to command him,” she reassured. “Daemon was not speaking of mere battle—he spoke of fire, of burning not only the Hightower but the Citadel, the Starry Sept, the whole of Oldtown. Have men so soon forgotten Maegor’s war with the Faith? Thousands perished then, and thousands more had already died in this war. If the Faith rises again, the cost will be immeasurable.” She hesitated, then added, “If Oldtown burns, it will turn more people away from your cause, my Queen.”

“I know,” Rhaenyra admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “But Daemon is a warrior. This is his nature. He is the greatest Targaryen warrior of our time—more battles fought with his sword than even Aegon the Conqueror himself. He took the largest dragon in the world to battle and emerged victorious.” She exhaled. “I may have once doubted his loyalty to me, but never his love for his family. And now that our family is under threat, his blood is afire. I fear he will stop at nothing until that fire has turned to burn our enemies.”

Mysaria was silent for a long moment before she spoke again, her voice softer than before.

“Then we must ensure it does not consume you as well.”

The room was silent save for the soft crackling of the hearth, but the warmth of the fire did little to chase away the chill settling deep in Rhaenyra’s bones. She stared into the flames, her hands clenched into fists upon the table. The weight of Mysaria’s gaze pressed upon her, unwavering in its quiet understanding.

At last, Mysaria spoke. “You could say Daemon acted without your orders,” she murmured, tilting her head ever so slightly. “He has done it before—when he took it upon himself to wage war in the Stepstones, forcing King Viserys to acknowledge his victory after the fact. It would scarcely be a surprise if he did it again.”

Rhaenyra’s fingers curled against the carved arms of her chair, her knuckles whitening.

Mysaria took a step closer, her pale hand resting lightly upon the back of the seat. “Send him away, my Queen. Exile him. Let him rule the Stepstones far from court, far from the war that is better fought with whispers than with fire and blood.”

The words cut through Rhaenyra like a blade. To cast Daemon aside, as her father had done before her—she could scarcely imagine it. Not after she had already feared him lost to her once. Not when she knew it would shatter him beyond repair.

Rhaenyra’s head snapped up, fury flashing in her eyes like a storm upon the sea.

“I will not turn my back on my husband!” she spat, rising so suddenly that her chair scraped against the stone floor. “I will not cast him aside like a dog to be put out in the cold!”

Mysaria did not flinch. She merely tilted her head, watching her with that same, unreadable expression. Then, without a word, she reached forward and took Rhaenyra’s hand gently in hers.

The Queen stiffened at the unexpected touch, but Mysaria’s thumb traced slow, soothing circles over the back of her hand, grounding her, steadying her.

“Daemon is fighting for you, my Queen,” she murmured. “There is no doubt of the honor in that. But he is doing so callously.”

Rhaenyra’s breath came uneven, her pulse thudding in her ears, but she did not pull away.

“It would have been better to send an assassin,” Mysaria continued, her voice softer now, coaxing. “To put a knife through Daeron’s throat, to do the same to the Most Devout, to the leaders of this rebellion. Yes, the blame would fall upon the Crown, but we could claim innocence. A knight eager to earn lordship of Oldtown, a lord eager to please his Queen. A silent hand, clean and swift.” She exhaled. “What Daemon is doing now is unrefined. He is putting a greater target on your back.”

Rhaenyra’s lips parted, but no words came.

“Yes, he will be able to kill Daeron—he is only a boy,” Mysaria went on. “And mayhaps he will kill the Most Devout, the warriors who have risen for them. But after that, what then? Oldtown will turn against you in full. The Faith will radicalize, and every pious noble and peasant alike will see the Targaryens as their enemy.”

She squeezed Rhaenyra’s hand, her voice laced with urgency.

“Without the Hightowers to rule it, Oldtown may become a theocracy. And even those who were lukewarm in their support for the Greens—the Rowans, the Tarlys, the Oakhearts—will be horrified. You will spend the rest of your reign crushing uprising after uprising. The moment you show weakness, they will seek to undo you.” She shook her head. “You must protect yourself, Your Grace.”

Rhaenyra swallowed hard, her throat tight, aching.

“You cannot go down with Daemon.”

The words struck her like a blow, and she turned away sharply, squeezing her eyes shut as the first tear slipped free. She clenched her jaw, willing herself to stillness, to steel, but it was no use.

“I cannot,” she whispered hoarsely. “I cannot send him away.”

Mysaria’s grip on her hand did not loosen, did not waver.

“My children are still so small,” Rhaenyra choked out, her voice barely above a breath. “I do not want them to grow up without their father beside them. I do not—” Her voice broke entirely, her shoulders shaking as the grief overwhelmed her. “My father exiled him more than once. Each time, it chipped at him, little by little. If I do the same, I fear I will break him beyond repair.”

suddenly, the woman was there, arms wrapping around her in an embrace so warm, so gentle, that Rhaenyra felt herself collapse into it without thought. She buried her face into Mysaria’s shoulder, seeking warmth, seeking solace, and Mysaria held her, smoothing a hand over her back as if soothing a child.

A sharp bang against the outer door made them both start, the heavy wood slamming against the stone walls.

“Your Grace,” Ser Lorent’s voice rang through the chamber. “Prince Joffrey to say goodnight to you.”

Rhaenyra pulled back sharply, her breath hitching, her heart still hammering in her chest as the doors swung open.

Joffrey’s brown hair was tousled, his sweet face set in a determined frown, though his expression darkened further when he caught sight of Mysaria beside her. Rhaenyra exhaled softly, dabbing away the last traces of tears before offering him a warm, if weary, smile.

“Joff?” she murmured. “What is it, sweetling?”

With the utmost gravity, he declared, “I will sleep here with you tonight. And the next night. And the night after that.”

Her lips quirked in amusement. “Oh? And why is that, my love? You know I am awake long into the night, working.”

Joffrey shook his head, undeterred. “Then I will wait for you in bed.” He hesitated only briefly before adding, with all the certainty of a child who had been given instructions from the highest authority, “Kepa said so.”

Rhaenyra stilled. The breath in her throat turned heavy as she stepped around the table, lowering herself onto the sofa and pulling him close to her side. “Did he speak to you before he left?” she asked gently. “What did your kepa say?”

Joffrey hesitated, glancing first at Lady Mysaria, and his frown deepened. Then, with all the imperiousness of a boy who believed himself a man, he declared, “You should leave.”

Rhaenyra’s brows lifted in surprise, her mouth parting in mild admonishment, but before she could speak, Mysaria merely smiled—a slow, knowing thing—and sank into a graceful curtsey. “Of course, my prince,” she murmured, her Lyseni accent lilting. “I am sorry to have imposed upon you.”

Joffrey’s sharp gaze followed her as she glided toward the door, watching her every movement as though she were a cat that might strike. Only when she disappeared from sight did he turn back to his mother, his small face still drawn in a frown.

“I do not like her.” he announced.

Rhaenyra almost rolled her eyes. Of course, he didn’t. Daemon had never liked Mysaria, and Joffrey, his father’s most devoted shadow, had taken his cues accordingly.

She gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “Tell me, sweetling,” she coaxed. “What else did your kepa say?”

Joffrey straightened, his young voice firm with importance. “That bad men are out to hurt us. That we cannot trust anyone. And that I must always stay with you so the Queensguard can protect us better.” His breath hitched as he rushed through the rest. “And I will not just be your cupbearer—I will be your little shadow too! And that we should have Tyraxes sleep on the balcony! Please, please, can we have Tyraxes in the balcony? It is big enough!”

Rhaenyra could not help the soft laugh that escaped her, nor could she resist pressing a kiss to his earnest little face. “Once Jace returns, we shall ask for his help to bring Tyraxes back.”

At that, Joffrey let out a delighted whoop, practically bouncing from her lap as he twirled in joy. “Yay!” he cried, dancing in exuberant little circles.

Rhaenyra smiled at his happiness, but beneath it lay a bitter edge. How could the pious men and women of the Faith stomach such cruelty? How could they claim righteousness while condemning a child so full of life? They insisted they merely followed the teachings of their gods—but if their gods could justify the slaughter of innocents, then they were wicked deities indeed.

No, she would not allow it.

Joffrey would remain close to her always. She would have the chamber beside the Council Room converted into his own, where he could rest when meetings stretched late into the night or take his lessons where she could see him. She had no intention of letting her children out of her sight—not after the audacity of the Faith in daring to call for their heads.

With the threat looming ever nearer, Rhaenyra thought it best that Joffrey remain within sight of his dragon. Tyraxes was still young, but he was formidable in his own right, and his mere presence might dissuade even the boldest of would-be assassins from acting upon their treacherous impulses.

Of course, there would need to be rules. She could not have Lords and Ladies fleeing the court in terror at the sight of a dragon perched upon the balcony, nor could she allow the servants to work in fear. No—strict guidelines would have to be set regarding Tyraxes' presence. But if the Faith was so intent on threatening her children, then let them be reminded, day and night, that her children were Targaryens.

Joffrey’s bond with Tyraxes was a powerful thing, forged in fire and blood, and the closer he was to his dragon, the safer he would be. And if it unnerved her enemies to know that the prince’s protector had scales and wings and fire in his belly—then all the better.

Baela POV

Baela sat beside the fire, watching intently as the hare roasted over the flames, determined not to let it blacken into an inedible husk as she had once done. The memory of her father’s glare upon finding their meal charred beyond recognition still lingered, as sharp as Dark Sister itself. He had not spoken a word, merely turned and vanished into the woods to hunt again. It had been punishment enough.

They were two days into their journey, moving only by night, resting in the daylight to avoid detection. They had not dared approach a castle, lest a passing glance turn into recognition. Daemon had insisted they could have soared high enough that no one below would even glimpse them, but he had wanted to survey the land. And what he had found was troubling.

"Four thousand men," her father had told her. That was the number he believed to be gathering at Storm’s End.

Baela chewed thoughtfully on her meal, casting a sidelong glance at him. The fire cast flickering shadows across his face as he ate, his expression unreadable.

"Are we not going to do anything about the Baratheon army mustering?" she asked at last.

Daemon barely lifted his gaze from his meal. "If I burn them now, the Hightowers will be alerted. No—the Hightowers first. Daeron must die. Without him, there will be no one to lead the Greens, and their cause will crumble. After that, Tumbleton—to deal with the two betrayers. I know the men Mysaria has placed there. They will obey me. Then the Lannisters, and lastly, the Baratheons." He took another bite of his food before adding, as if it were the simplest thing in the world, "I do not intend to leave even a single drop of their blood alive."

Baela froze, her fingers tightening around her own meal. A chill ran through her that had nothing to do with the night air.

"Father," she whispered, her voice scarcely above the crackling of the fire. "Is that not too much? You mean to end three noble houses entirely?"

Daemon snorted. "Should we ignore their treachery? When they raised their banners against us, they prepared themselves for the worst. No one breaks a hundred years of peace lightly, Baela. If you are to wield a sword and take lives, you must be prepared to lose your own as well."

She nodded, but her heart warred against his words. To kill men in battle was one thing. But to slaughter women, children—babes still at their mothers’ breasts? It sat ill with her.

"Perhaps," she said hesitantly, "we could spare the children. Raise them in the Red Keep, make them loyal to us."

Daemon looked at her then, truly looked at her, his violet eyes dark with something she could not name.

"If someone killed me," he said slowly, "but spared you and took you to their castle as a hostage, would you be thankful to them? Would Egg and Serys, even if they were too young to remember me?"

Baela shook her head, twisting the hem of her tunic between her fingers. "No," she admitted quietly. "I would not."

"Exactly," Daemon said, his voice low, unyielding. "If you must crush your enemies, do it so thoroughly that no one is left to stand up and think of vengeance. If you leave even one, you must live your life looking over your shoulder, waiting for the day they are strong enough to strike you down. And then you must pray that your descendants will avenge you. It will be a cycle of endless bloodshed, Baela. Better to end it now, in one fell swoop."

She swallowed hard, staring into the fire as the flames licked at the remains of their meal. Somewhere in the darkness beyond, Caraxes stirred. She wondered if the dragon knew what destruction his rider was planning.

“You can still go back, you know." Daemon’s voice was calm, almost indifferent, as he tore another piece of meat from the bone, but Baela knew better. He was testing her.

She frowned at him, back straightening. "I did not come with you on a whim, Father. I know the consequences."

"Do you?" He tilted his head, his eyes glinting with something unreadable. "Many will clamor for your betrothal to Jace to be broken. They will say you are a violent woman. And if there is one thing the court abhors more than a violent man, it is a violent woman."

Baela pushed her shoulders back, chin lifting. "Let them try. Rhaenyra will forgive me anything."

At that, Daemon laughed—an amused, knowing sound. "That she will," he agreed, shaking his head. But then his expression sobered, and he turned to her fully. "And what of Jace?" he asked. "What if he looks at you differently?"

A flicker of doubt crept into her heart, but she crushed it before it could take hold. "Then…" she hesitated only a moment, "then he does not deserve me at all."

Daemon studied her for a long moment before his lips curved into something that was almost a smile, but the bitterness in his eyes made it sharp. "Yes," he murmured. "You need to know what you are worth. Never love someone more than they love you, Baela." His voice was softer now, almost wistful, as though he spoke from a wound that had never quite healed. And then, as if the conversation had never happened, he returned to his meal.

Baela looked down, blinking rapidly, willing away the sting in her eyes. Her father was trying to appear unaffected, but she knew better. The slow dissolution of his marriage was gnawing at him, piece by piece. She could only imagine how much it must wound him to look at Rhaenyra and see distrust in her gaze, or to reach for her only for her to step away. The Queen needed him—Baela knew that well—but Daemon’s choices, though made for their family, had placed heavier burdens upon her shoulders. She only hoped Rhaenyra could find it in herself to forgive him one last time. Because Baela knew, with the certainty that came from knowing one’s blood, that one more rejection might just break her father entirely.

Daemon tossed the stripped bones of the hare into the dying embers of their fire, the crackle of burning marrow the only sound between them. Without another word, he rose, moving toward his bedroll beside Caraxes, the dragon's great crimson form curled like a serpent in the dark.

"Eat your fill," he told her, his voice as calm as if he were speaking of the weather. "Tomorrow, we have people to kill."

And with that, he lay down, the flickering light of the fire casting long shadows over his face.            

Baela had thought she knew war.

She had grown up with tales of conquest, had spent her youth training for battle, had known from the moment her mother first set her upon Moondancer’s back that her bloodline was bound to fire and war. She had swung her sword with purpose, had felt the wind whip against her skin as she soared through the skies, had understood—so she believed—what it meant to be a dragonrider, what it meant to wield the power of House Targaryen.

Yet as she watched Caraxes storm Oldtown, his terrible cry splitting the heavens, she realized she knew nothing at all.

From her vantage point, Baela saw the city roiling like a disturbed anthill. The bells tolled frantically, their chimes lost beneath the terrified screams of the people below. Bodies moved as one, surging toward the sept in search of refuge, the green flames of House Hightower still burning defiantly over the city. The sight of it made her snarl, and Cannibal echoed her fury with a guttural roar, his black wings unfurling like the shadow of death itself.

It did not take long.

Tessarion rose from the city, Daeron seated upon her back, his silver hair gleaming in the light of the sun. Baela could grant him this much—he was daring indeed. But boldness would not save him.

Tessarion was scarcely the size of Seasmoke and far less trained. The battle was over before it even truly began.

Baela did not need to command Cannibal. He moved of his own accord, a living nightmare of teeth and hunger, lunging with terrifying speed. Caraxes struck first, his long, sinuous body coiling around the smaller dragon, his fangs tearing through scale and flesh with vicious precision. Tessarion shrieked, her cries high and keening, but it was futile.

And then Cannibal descended, talons ripping through her, cleaving her apart. He caught one half in his massive jaws, devouring it mid-air.

Baela could not tear her eyes away.

The acrid scent of burning blood filled her nostrils, thick and cloying. The screams from below, the fire, the smoke—it was too much. Her stomach twisted violently, and she barely had the presence of mind to turn away before the meager contents of her stomach emptied onto the saddle.

Even as she wiped her mouth, her hands were trembling.

This was war.

This was victory.

Then why did it feel like something else entirely?

Then, with a deafening crash, the great beacon atop the Hightower collapsed. Caraxes had struck it with a single, devastating swipe of his tail, the ancient stone shuddering before it gave way, crumbling and spilling fire and debris onto the streets below. The blaze swallowed the people who had gathered in terror beneath, their screams rising in a chorus that sent a shiver down Baela’s spine.

She barely had time to process what she was seeing before the beating of wings pulled her from her stupor. Caraxes soared beside Cannibal, Daemon’s sharp eyes fixed upon her with a frown. His voice carried over the din, rough and commanding.

"You can go to the walls and perch Cannibal there. I will take care of everything."

Baela turned her glare upon him, defiance lighting her gaze. She had not come all this way to sit idly by while he reduced the city to ash.

The once-mighty structure still stood, though the beacon was no more. Smoke billowed from its upper levels, but its foundations held firm. Not for long.

Baela pressed herself lower against Cannibal’s back. Dracarys.

A jet of fire poured from Cannibal’s maw, hotter and wilder than any other dragon’s flame. The black beast struck like a shadow of death, his talons ripping through stone, his tail smashing through windows and walls. The tower groaned under the onslaught, splintering, crumbling. Another strike, and then another. The stones that had stood for centuries could bear no more.

With a final, ear-splitting crack, the Hightower shattered, folding in on itself in a violent collapse, dust and fire rushing skyward as it was reduced to ruin.

Baela shielded her eyes as dust surged around them, coughing against the choking air. When she looked up, the Hightower—the seat of the Hightowers, the very heart of Oldtown’s power—was gone.

She turned to Daemon then, defiance burning in her gaze.

And he smirked.

Pride gleamed in his amethyst eyes, but it was not a gentle thing. It was sharp, knowing. His daughter had met destruction with her own hands, and he did not need to tell her that there was no turning back now.

But Oldtown’s fate was not yet sealed.

With a glance toward the harbor, Daemon spurred Caraxes forward, and the great dragon’s roar split the sky. The defenders of Oldtown fought valiantly. Their walls were lined with soldiers, their weapons gleamed in the firelight, and their fleet patrolled the bay in tight, disciplined formations. If they had faced an army, they might have had a chance.

But they faced dragons.

And Daemon Targaryen had not come for conquest.

He had come for annihilation.

From the city walls, massive contraptions flung flaming stones toward them, but Daemon only laughed, the sound sharp and near hysterical. Is this all they can do?

Baela pressed herself low against Cannibal’s saddle, and the beast plunged toward the harbor, his enormous mouth yawning open. Fire poured forth, and it was not merely flame—it was an inferno. The first ship did not simply burn; it exploded, the force of it sending splintered wood and shattered bodies into the air.

A jagged shard struck her chin, sharp enough to sting, but there was no time to care. She wiped the blood away and pressed on, turning her fury upon the barracks. If there were men within, they would never see the battlefield.

It only took half a day for the dragons to lay Oldtown to waste.

The Hightower was no more.
The barracks and fleet lay in ruins.
The granaries, the merchant guild, the Starry Sept—all reduced to cinders.

The city burned, its people screaming, but Daemon did not care. This was not mere conquest—it was punishment. Oldtown would take decades to recover, if it ever did. The Hightowers had thought themselves rulers, but they would be left with nothing but ash.

Baela exhaled, her body heavy with exhaustion as she lifted her gaze. Ahead of her, Daemon landed Caraxes atop the Citadel, the dragon’s long, serpentine body coiling around its spires like a serpent claiming its prey.

Baela had thought she knew war.

But as she looked upon the smoldering ruin of Oldtown, she realized she had known nothing at all

Chapter Text

Jace POV

Jace walked with long strides, though the Septon needed no urging to keep pace. The old man moved with the steady ease of one who had known both the battlefield and the cloister, his steps sure and unhurried. There was no sign of fatigue in his bearing, no faltering in his breath.

It was no wonder, really—before he donned the robes of a Septon, Garren had been a sellsword, his sword arm once hired to spill blood rather than to offer benedictions. His face was weathered by the passage of years, lined by hardship and devotion alike, but his eyes were sharp, his presence commanding. There was nothing grand about him, nothing gilded or ostentatious like the High Septon, with his embroidered finery and jewels that glinted like stars. Garren wore only simple, threadbare robes, the rough wool a stark contrast to the silks and velvets of court. Around his neck hung a wooden star, carved by hand, its edges worn smooth by the passage of time and touch.

Jace could hear the shouting even before they reached the doors of the Small Council chamber. His jaw clenched as he spotted Ser Simon waiting just outside, the Castellan's broad form near blocking the entrance entirely. At the sight of Jace, the man straightened, his face lined with barely contained agitation.

“My prince,” Ser Simon said in a low voice, his fingers flexing at his sides. “Word has reached us—Daemon has put the nobility of the Westerlands to the sword.” He exhaled sharply. “The lords are afraid. And they are angry.”

Jace inhaled, his shoulders squaring. His grip on control was careful, measured, but his pulse drummed a steady beat against his ribs. He turned slightly, meeting the Septon’s gaze.

“Remember,” Jace murmured, voice quiet but firm. “You speak for the people.”

The Septon nodded, his considerable height forcing Jace to tip his chin ever so slightly to meet his eyes.

“And for the gods, my prince,” Garren replied solemnly.

With a nod, Jace turned back to the doors.

They swung open before him, the iron hinges groaning softly, and in an instant, the chamber fell into silence. The weight of their stares pressed upon him—lords and councilors, each with their own grievances, their own fears. But Jace did not spare them a glance.

Instead, his gaze found his mother.

Rhaenyra’s face, so often carved from stone in the presence of her council, softened at the sight of him. A quiet light flickered in her violet eyes, and when he strode forward, not looking at the Lords who had bowed and murmured their greeting, she lifted her hand to him.

Jace bowed deeply, taking her hand with all the grace of a prince trained in the highest refinements of court. With a gallant ease, he pressed a kiss to her fingers before straightening once more.

Only then did he turn to the lords.

“My lords,” he said, his voice even, controlled. “This is Septon Garren.”

The Septon stepped forward, his robes rustling against the stone.

Before the murmurs of greeting could settle, Lord Peake—who Jace could not fathom why his mother had allowed upon her council—cleared his throat.

“It is good that you are here, my prince,” he said, his tone carefully measured. “Another report of Prince Daemon’s butchery has reached us.” He exhaled sharply. “This time, in the Westernlands.”

Jace turned his head sharply, leveling a glare at the up-jumped minor lord who had spoken so brazenly. The man’s mouth remained open, lips still parted as if to continue—but nothing came. The sharpness in Jace’s gaze cut through him like a blade, and he swallowed thickly, the color draining from his face.

“I have been back from the Vale for a week,” Jace said, his voice even, measured—but there was an edge to it, one that silenced even the most impudent of courtiers. “A week since I returned from putting down a rebellion, and yet the lords of this council still bicker about Prince Daemon’s burning of Oldtown, and now, his butchery in the Westerlands.” His eyes flicked over them, cool and assessing.

“You are all swift to cast blame upon my lord father,” Jace continued, his words slow and deliberate. “And yet, none of you have spoken of why the Prince Consort was driven to such actions in the first place.”

Lord Staunton, ever the voice of reason amidst fools, inhaled deeply. “No one here denies the absurdity of the Faith’s decree.” he said, his tone careful, deliberate. “But to put even innocents to the fire—”

The chamber rang with the sharp, furious voice of Septon Garren.

“The Faith has abandoned its sacred duty!”

The force of his words seemed to shake the very stones of the room. Heads snapped toward him, eyes widening in shock. His voice was no mere rebuke—it was a righteous condemnation, each syllable laced with a conviction so unshakable it was near madness.

“The Most Devout called for the death of innocents—small children, babes in their mothers’ arms! That is not the will of the Seven!”

A stunned silence followed.

Lord Rosby was the first to recover, sputtering in disbelief. “What—what do you mean? The Most Devout merely acted in accordance with the teachings of the Seven-Pointed Star—”

“Ha!” Septon Garren barked, flinging his arms wide in scornful mockery. His expression was one of wild incredulity, his eyes alight with an almost frenzied zeal. “Show me, my lord,” he said, stepping forward, his tone laced with dangerous challenge. “Show me where in our sacred book it is written that women and children should be slaughtered! Show me where it is written that the Queen and her children must perish!”

Lord Rosby’s mouth opened, then shut.

Septon Garren did not wait for an answer.

“To call for the death of Queen Rhaenyra is clear religious interference in the succession,” he declared, his voice rising in fervor. “A direct violation of the Pact with King Jaehaerys! The agreement meant that the Faith would no longer challenge the rule of House Targaryen, nor meddle in the governance of the realm. And yet, the Most Devout, in their arrogance, would cast all aside—”

He turned then, his gaze locking onto Rhaenyra, and he bowed his head low.

“My queen,” he said, and there was something almost fevered in the devotion of his voice. “Not all who serve the Seven stand with the Most Devout.” He lifted his head, his eyes burning with conviction. “In the camps alone, two hundred septons recoiled in horror at their decree.”

A murmur spread through the chamber, disbelieving, uncertain.

“The Most Devout,” Septon Garren continued, voice thick with scorn, “have long since forgotten their true purpose. Their proximity to the Hightowers has poisoned their hearts, made them obsessed with the destruction of House Targaryen—so much so that they have neglected their sacred duties. They no longer serve the gods! They no longer care for the poor, nor feed the hungry, nor uphold justice!”

He exhaled sharply, eyes blazing.

“But we do.”

A pause. A breath.

“We are willing, my queen,” Septon Garren said, his voice steady, unyielding, “to calm the people, to assure them that the Faith remains steadfast in its teachings. We will not turn from the gods. We will not forsake our duty.” He stepped forward, his presence a force unto itself. “The Crown and the Faith has walk together, hand in hand, to protect the people and uphold the will of the Seven. For the sake of the Realm, we must continue to do so again.”

His eyes shone with something dangerous, something unrelenting—a man utterly, completely certain in his righteousness.

Lord Peake made a strangled noise in his throat, his face turning a shade too close to purple for comfort. “It does not,” he managed, almost choking on the words, “remove what Prince Daemon has done—entire noble lines put to the torch, their houses ended.” His voice wavered just slightly, but he recovered, straightening his shoulders as if the weight of his own self-importance could shield him.

Rhaenyra regarded him coolly, her expression unreadable. When she finally spoke, her voice was smooth, even—but there was steel beneath it.

“Prince Daemon has killed traitors, as is the law of the land.” She tilted her head ever so slightly. “It was fortunate, Lord Peake, that you had the good sense to bend the knee just in time. Otherwise, you might have found yourself among those who lost their lives.”

Jace did not bother to hide his amusement. He kept his lips pressed into a firm, neutral line, but his eyes gleamed as Lord Peake paled, his earlier bravado evaporating in an instant.

“Of course, Your Grace.” the man stammered, bowing his head hastily. “I—I live only to serve the Crown.”

Lord Corlys exhaled, ever the one to sense when a meeting had run its course. “That will be all for today,” he announced, his voice a command that none dared to challenge. “The Queen will grant Septon Garren a private audience.”

At once, the assembled lords stood, bowing low before filing out, some grumbling under their breath, others casting wary glances at the Queen. A young page stepped forward, guiding Septon Garren toward an adjoining chamber where food and refreshment awaited. The old man inclined his head, gratitude evident in his weathered features.

“I thank you,” he said, his voice softer now, the fire of his earlier speech banked but not extinguished. “I look forward to speaking with Your Grace. The path of the Faithful must be corrected, and I would see it done.”

Rhaenyra nodded, watching as he disappeared beyond the door.

Once they were alone, she turned to Jace, arching a brow. “Where did you find him?”

Jace grinned, the expression sheepish. “Septon Garren has been with the bulk of our army since we crossed into the Riverlands,” he admitted. “Giving last rites to the dead, offering comfort where he could. He was popular among the smallfolk even before, but now…” He gestured vaguely, as if the answer was self-evident. “Since we arrived in the capital, he has taken it upon himself to oversee the giving of alms to the poor. He is well-respected.”

Rhaenyra hummed in thought, her gaze distant for a moment. Then, she nodded. “It was Ser Simon who mentioned him?”

Jace inclined his head. “It was.”

A small smile ghosted across the Queen’s lips. “Then I suppose we must thank Ser Simon for his wisdom.”

Jace said nothing, only returned her smile, knowing full well that Septon Garren would soon prove invaluable.

Lord Corlys did not leave. As the room emptied of the other lords, he eased himself into a chair beside them, his expression pensive. The weight of his years had not yet slowed him, nor had the burdens of war, but even the mighty Sea Snake was not immune to the shifting tides of power. Baela had been a willing accomplice in Daemon’s crimes—her dragon, the Cannibal, had all but razed the Hightower itself to the ground. With his granddaughter so firmly entwined in the Prince Consort’s bloodied wake, Lord Corlys was scrambling to steady his hold over the court.

The Northmen, for their part, seemed largely unbothered by the carnage. These were hard men and harder women, who had survived the unyielding grasp of winter by embracing violence, not recoiling from it. They had commended Prince Daemon for ensuring that all traitors were dealt with, though they did think it excessive to set an entire city aflame. But the Riverlanders—they were far too angry to care. Aemond had burned their homes, slaughtered their kin, left them wailing over the ashes of their past. If the Rogue Prince wished to repay the Hightowers in kind, well… who were they to object?

Jace sat in quiet contemplation, his eyes sweeping the chamber, the murmur of his mother and grandfather’s voices fading into a distant hum as they talked how they could turn this new person who entered the Game into their favor.

Something felt… off. His gaze flickered over the familiar figures in the room, searching for something—someone.

Joff.

His frown deepened. His little brother had been steadfast in keeping his promise to Daemon, remaining glued to their mother’s side through every meeting, every meal, every moment. Jace could scarcely recall a time in recent days when the Queen had been without him. They could not let Tyraxes in the main keep because that will be courting chaos so he is left at the Holdfast. And yet—

“Where is Joff?” he asked, his voice sharper than he intended.

Rhaenyra blinked at him, momentarily caught off guard. “He is with the Maester, doing his studies.” she answered simply.

Jace exhaled, nodding. Of course. It made sense. And yet—

His heart pounded, sudden and sharp, an inexplicable panic surging through his veins. The room, warm with candlelight, felt cold all at once. The weight in his chest tightened, an unfamiliar dread clawing at the edges of his mind. Something was wrong. He did not know why, did not know how, but he knew—he knew.

He was on his feet before he even realized it.

“Jacaerys!”

His mother’s voice rang out, startled, followed by Lord Corlys’s commanding, “Boy, what—?”

He did not stop to answer.

The sound of booted footsteps pounded after him—Ser Loreth, calling his name, demanding he return. But Jace could not turn back, would not turn back.

The halls blurred around him, torchlight smearing into streaks of gold as he ran. The faces of those he passed were indistinct, reduced to nothing more than startled figures in the periphery of his vision. His chest burned with exertion, but he pushed forward, faster, faster—

The room was not far. Just two corridors down. He had walked this path countless times before, had always thought it too near for his liking, sure that JOff will be able to hear the vitriolic voices of unsatisfied Lords and entitled men,  but now—it was too far.

A lifetime seemed to pass before the familiar sight of the heavy oak door came into view.

Ser Adrian stood guard before it, his white cloak a stark contrast against the dark stone. The knight turned at the sound of rapid footfalls, his expression shifting from mild surprise to alarm at the sight of the prince hurtling toward him.

Jace did not slow, did not wait.

Ser Adrian barely had time to move, stepping aside and throwing the door open as Jace barreled through—

His breath caught, his body seizing with a cold so sharp it stole the air from his lungs.

The Maester’s hands—gnarled and weathered—were wrapped around Joffrey’s small throat.

The Maester’s face—crazed, self-satisfied, alight with some twisted sense of righteousness—was the first thing Jace saw.

The second was Joff.

His brother was no longer moving.

The little boy’s body hung limp in the Maester’s grip, his head lolled to the side at an unnatural angle, dark lashes fanned against deathly pale cheeks. But worse—worse than the stillness—was the blue. The ghastly, wretched blue creeping over his lips, his chin, his small, round cheeks.

Jace’s mind screamed at him to move. To act. To do something—anything. But his body betrayed him, rooted to the stone floor as though he had been turned to marble, his chest too tight, too heavy, his limbs leaden with horror.

Joff had fought. That much was clear.

The evidence of his struggle was written in the angry red scratches marring the Maester’s arms, in the crescents of blood wedged beneath Joff’s tiny nails. But what could a child—a boy of barely eight—do against a grown man? Against a Maester, whom he had been taught to trust?

The world tilted.

It was not Jace who moved first.

Ser Adrian was quicker, his voice a sharp cry of alarm as he lunged forward, seizing the old man by his robes and hurling him away from the boy with all the force of a charging warhorse. The Maester hit the floor with a sickening thud, but Jace barely registered it, barely heard the startled gasps of those crowding at the doorway.

He could only stare—

At Joff.

At his brother’s neck, where deep, violent bruises were already beginning to bloom. At his tiny chest, eerily still. At his open mouth, slack and soundless.

Jace’s legs buckled beneath him.

Then came the scream.

A mother’s scream.

His mother’s.

Rhaenyra reached them in a blur of flowing skirts and trembling hands, falling to her knees upon the cold stone as she gathered Joff’s lifeless body against her chest, cradling him as she had when he was but a babe.

Jace had never seen her like this.

The unshakable, indomitable Queen Rhaenyra—reduced to a woman unraveling before his very eyes, gasping out shattered commands in a voice that did not sound like hers.

“Get the Grand Maester—NOW!”

No one moved fast enough for her liking.

“GO!” she shrieked, near hysterical.

Jace barely felt himself move, crawling toward her on hands and knees, unable to stand, unable to breathe, unable to do anything but reach for her, for Joff—

There was a commotion. A figure stepping forward. Not the Grand Maester.

Septon Garren.

His presence barely registered until his hands—warm, steady, alive—reached for Joff.

“No—NO—” Rhaenyra fought him, clutching her son tighter, her eyes wild, frenzied.

It was Lord Corlys who subdued her, hands firm but gentle on her shoulders, his voice low and urgent.

“Let him help the boy, Rhaenyra.”

For a moment, she did not yield.

Then, with a sob that cut through Jace like a blade, she let go.

The Septon worked quickly, pressing his ear to Joff’s tiny chest. For a heartbeat—a terrible, endless heartbeat—the room was silent.

Then—

“He still has a pulse.” His fingers found the boy’s jaw, tilting his head back with practiced ease. With a swift motion, he parted Joffrey’s lips and checked for any obstruction. Finding none, the septon pinched the child's nose shut and bent low, sealing his mouth over Joff’s.

Jace was frozen as he watched the septon breathe life into his brother, once—twice—before pressing gentle yet insistent hands upon the child's chest. "Come now, little one," Garren murmured between his efforts. "The gods are not so cruel."

Another breath. Another push. Jace clenched his fists, willing himself to remain still, to do naught but watch as hope flickered like a dying candle. Nothing.

It was too long.

Too long.

Jace felt his stomach churn, the world swaying beneath him, his vision tunneling—

And then—

A cough.

A terrible, wet cough, thick with blood—

And then—

A cry.

Small, hoarse, feeble—but alive.

Jace collapsed against his mother, burying his face in her shoulder as she let out a strangled sob, her hands trembling as she smoothed Joff’s hair, whispering his name over and over and over—

Joff was alive.

Joff was alive.

Jace did not know how long he knelt there, arms wrapped around his mother, shaking from head to toe as she clutched Joff like he might disappear.

The Maester.

Raving.

Shouting.

Spitting his twisted words into the air like venom.

"Abomination! A bastard born of lust and sin—IT NEEDS TO DIE!"

The world tilted again—but this time, not for Jace.

Lord Corlys moved first, the fury of the tides made flesh. He was not a young man, yet there was nothing slow or faltering about the way he strode forward, all the power of the sea behind him, a storm rising.

And then—

A stomp.

The heel of the Sea Snake’s boot came down upon the Maester’s face with a sickening crunch.

The old man howled in agony, blood spurting from his mouth, his nose shattered beneath Corlys’s foot. His cries echoed against the stone walls, desperate, pitiful, but Jace felt no sympathy.

Nor did his mother.

From the floor, still cradling Joffrey in her arms, Rhaenyra spoke, her voice like iron, smooth and unyielding.

"Drag him through the city."

Silence fell.

Rhaenyra did not waver.

A rustle of fabric, and then Septon Garren stepped forward, his face pale but set with quiet conviction.

"I will accompany them," he declared, voice firm. "The people must understand. It is not the teachings of the Seven that are at fault, but the way men and women distort them to fit their own desires. That is the true danger."

His words carried weight, and Rhaenyra, for the first time since this nightmare had begun, allowed herself a breath. She reached for the Septon’s hand, gripping it with trembling fingers.

"You have saved my son’s life." she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "The Crown is indebted to you. Always."

Septon Garren inclined his head, eyes warm. "May the Seven watch over him, and over you, Your Grace. There is no greater service than to protect the innocent."

A new voice shattered the moment.

"Gods be good—"

The Grand Maester had arrived.

His expression, upon seeing Joffrey, crumpled in horror. He hurried forward, issuing sharp commands to his acolyte.

"Milk of the poppy. Quickly." he said then turned to anotehr one instructing him to make some sort of brace for the Prince's neck out of linens.

Jace barely breathed as the Grand Maester knelt beside the Queen, his hands far gentler than one might expect of a man so old. He touched Joff with great care, fingers ghosting over the dark bruises at his throat, along his back, his little arms. The silence in the room was unbearable.

Rhaenyra clutched at the Grand Maester’s sleeve.

"Tell me he will be all right." she pleaded, her voice breaking.

The old man did not immediately respond, still carefully pressing along Joffrey’s ribs, listening for breath, for pain, for anything that might signal deeper harm. And then, finally, he exhaled.

"He is young. He is strong," the Grand Maester murmured, eyes kind, though deeply weary. "And he is still with us, Your Grace. That is what matters now."

Rhaenyra let out a shaky breath, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks as she cradled Joffrey closer, her lips pressing against his curls. Jace felt something inside him loosen, his chest expanding in a way that had felt impossible mere moments ago.

He inhaled. Deeply.

Then, with great effort, he stood.

There was still work to be done.

He turned to the knights standing at the entrance, his voice quiet, but firm.

"Remove everyone from the rookery who did not come from Dragonstone. Silently."

A pause. Then:

"Do the same with the Keep’s sept."

His men stiffened, but none dared question him.

"They are to be sent out of the city," Jace continued. His throat burned, but he did not stop. "Gather every servant in the courtyard. I will address them myself."

A murmur of assent. Boots moving swiftly, orders already being carried out.

Jace exhaled once more.

Only those from Dragonstone would remain within the Holdfast.

No one would ever touch his family again.

Jace’s breath came in uneven stutters, raw and ragged, as the last of his composure frayed at the edges. He had barely begun to steady himself—barely found a moment to think beyond the crushing weight of fear—when his gaze caught on her.

Lady Mysaria stood apart from the others, her pallid face drawn tight with something aching.

Grief.

Regret.

A shattered, broken expression in her eyes as she gazed upon the Queen.

Jace’s fury roared back to life.

Before he could second-guess himself, he strode toward her, seized her by the wrist, and dragged her from the chamber.

She did not fight him.

Not truly.

But she gasped softly at the force of his grip, stumbling to keep up as he pulled her into the nearest empty room and slammed the door shut behind them.

"What use are you," he seethed, voice low and shaking with rage, "if you cannot even see the dangers right in front of us?"

Lady Mysaria flinched.

"I—" she began, but Jace cut her off with a sharp, livid gesture.

"Do not waste your breath with apologies," he snapped. "Words will not undo what has already been done. My brother nearly died today. Here. In his own home. And you—you, who claim to know the whispers of this city better than any, you did nothing to stop it."

She swallowed, her lips parting as though to refute him, but no words came.

He would not have listened, even if they had.

"You will give Ser Loreth every one of your contacts in this city," he commanded, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. "And from this moment forward, you are not allowed within Maegor’s Holdfast. You will work for your keep, or you will leave."

Mysaria’s fingers trembled at her sides, her pale eyes flickering with something desperate.

"I will work," she said at last, her voice quieter than before, but determined nonetheless. "I will ensure that we know the people’s thoughts, their whispers—"

"No."

Jace shook his head, firm, unwavering.

"Rhaena will take over now."

Mysaria’s breath hitched.

Her mouth opened, her expression darkening—not in defiance, but in protest. Yet the moment her gaze met his, she hesitated.

There was nothing in his eyes but cold steel.

Whatever argument she had been about to make, she swallowed it down.

Jace turned on his heel, yanking the door open.

"Ser Loreth," he called, his voice brisk, sharp as the snap of a whip.

The knight was there in an instant, ever watchful, his sword hand steady at his side.

Ser Loreth nodded once, already moving to seize Mysaria’s arm.

Jace did not linger.

He could not.

There was too much to be done.

Too many shadows to cast from the Red Keep, too many untrustworthy hands still lingering beneath his mother’s roof.

He walked away, his stride purposeful, unrelenting.

Tonight, he would comb through the servants of the Keep.

Tonight, only the loyal ones would remain.

Rhaenyra POV

The Iron Throne was not a comfortable seat.

No, it was a beast of cold, unyielding metal, a monument to power forged in fire and blood. And yet, Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen sat upon it with a poise so regal, so commanding, that one might believe it had been shaped for her and her alone.

Upon her brow rested the crown of Jaehaerys the Conciliator, the very same that had once adorned the head of her father, Viserys the Peaceful. A symbol of stability, of the reign she had once wished to embody—a reign of wisdom, of prosperity, of peace.

And yet, peace had slipped through her fingers like sand through a clenched fist.

Beneath the voluminous black folds of her gown, trimmed in crimson at the hem and cuffs, her hands moved with restless energy—one wringing the heavy skirts of her dress, the other absently worrying the golden buttons on her sleeve. She forced her back to remain straight, though every muscle ached with the effort, as though a rod of steel had been set against her spine. A queen does not slouch. A queen does not falter.

But a mother—a mother worries.

Her husband and daughter had yet to arrive.

Lord Corlys Velaryon and her son Jacaerys had gone to meet them in the courtyard. They had insisted that it was best for her to receive them here, upon the Throne, where all would see her as Queen before she was seen as wife and mother.

Daemon had defied her command, had rained fire and blood on half the continent against the Crown's will and the court expected to witness her answer to such defiance.

The throne room was silent, but Rhaenyra could feel the weight of expectation hanging thick in the air. The gathered nobility watched her with careful, calculating gazes. At the very front stood her council—men who had sworn themselves to her cause, but men who now waited to see whether she would temper her husband’s fire or let it rage unchecked.

The mood in the Throne Room was uneasy.

Many among them expected punishment. But though the lords of her court would not speak their protests aloud, she knew why.

Joffrey.

Her youngest son had nearly died at the hands of a Maester within these very walls. The attempt on his life had sent a ripple of fear and fury through the entire city, and though she loathed to admit it, Lord Corlys and Jace had wielded that fear to justify Daemon’s bloodshed in the South and West.

The war had demanded it, they had said. Daemon had done what was necessary.

And Rhaenyra—Rhaenyra, who had always known what her husband was—could not argue against it.

Daemon was a man of fire, brilliant and consuming, his love as fierce as dragonflame and his devotion to their sons beyond question. He had done what a father must. What a warrior must. Ensured that no hand would rise against their children again.

It had been them or the Greens.

And he had ensured that it was not her children who perished.

And yet.

As the smoke of Oldtown’s ruin blackened the sky, as the rivers of the West ran red, she could not quiet the unease coiling in her chest.

It was not the deaths of Hightower or Baratheon or Lannisters that troubled her. They had been traitors. Enemies who had sought her downfall, who had condemned her sons to death before they had ever drawn breath. Their fate had been sealed the moment they had chosen to raise arms against her.

But what of the others?

What of the children who had burned in their cots? The women who had screamed as dragonfire devoured their homes? The smallfolk who had perished for no crime greater than being born under the wrong banner?

She could not look upon the ashes without wondering—how many of them had been innocent?

She did not doubt Daemon’s loyalty. Never. He had done this for her. For their house. For the sons they had sworn to protect.

But in the quiet of the night, when even dragonfire cast long shadows, she could not silence the question that gnawed at the back of her mind.

Would his ruthlessness—his cold disregard for life—ever turn toward her?

Toward their sons?

Would there come a day when they, too, stood in the path of his wrath?

She had claimed the throne with a dragon’s might. And it was a dragon’s might that had secured it for her.

But at what cost?

And how much more blood would be spilled before they could finally, truly, call it peace?

The air was thick with anticipation, the hush of the throne room stretching taut like a bowstring. Every noble, every knight, every courtier stood poised between decorum and unease, their murmurs ceasing in collective expectation.

And then—a tremor.

The sound came first, a high pitched whistle that sent a ripple through the great stone walls of the Red Keep, setting the very air to vibrate. A heartbeat later, a deafening thud resounded from beyond, the unmistakable impact of something massive striking the Keep’s walls.

Even among those accustomed to dragons, there was a moment of fear.

Gasps rippled through the gathered nobility, some clutching at their sleeves, others stiffening where they stood. No matter how many years these men and women had lived in the presence of dragons, no matter how many times they had beheld them soaring above the city, they would never be truly unafraid.

But Rhaenyra did not flinch.

Instead, she straightened her spine further, her back already aching from the rigid posture she had maintained. A silent declaration—she was unmoved. She was Queen, and she would not cower before the might of dragons, nor the man who commanded them.

The herald stepped forward, his voice ringing through the chamber.

"Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, Heir to the Iron Throne and Prince of Dragonstone, and his betrothed, Lady Baela Targaryen!"

The great doors swung wide, and through them, Jace strode forth—hand in hand with Baela.

Not offering his arm, as was customary, but holding her hand, palm to palm, their fingers interlocked in a silent declaration of unity. A statement—one so subtle and yet so powerful it did not need words.

Baela walked beside him, not behind.

She was still clad in her leathers, but they were not pristine. There was no polished sheen to them, no attempt to present herself as something untouched by the war behind her. No, they bore the marks of use, of travel, of war —though it was clear she had wiped them clean, as if to ensure that the grime of battle would not be too visible in the Queen’s hall.

Her hair, shorn to just below her chin, framed her face like a halo—its silvery strands secured from her brow with tight, intricate braids, meant to keep them from obscuring her vision. It gave her an air of fierceness, of sharp, deliberate intent. She looked every inch a warrior, yet beside Jace, she was something more.

They were a pair—a prince and his lady. They exuded royalty and courage in equal measure.

Baela’s eyes did not stray from her.

Even as she entered the great hall, even as she walked past the lords and ladies who would soon bend the knee to her, her gaze sought only Rhaenyra. Her chin was tilted in defiance, but there was something softer in her eyes—something pleading yet offering, as if she both sought understanding and extended her own, no matter what Rhaenyra’s judgment would be.

Oh, how she longed to run to her.

To gather her in her arms, to smooth her battle-worn leathers and whisper that all was well, that she was safe, that she had returned home.

But she held herself still.

The herald took another step forward.

"Daemon Targaryen, Prince of the City."

Rhaenyra winced.

Daemon should have been declared King Consort already, but there had been no time. War had made a mockery of ceremony, leaving them with only half-measures and titles that did not quite fit.

And then, he appeared.

Daemon.

He did not stride forward so much as prowl, his gaze cast from beneath half-lidded eyes, exuding nothing but nonchalance—and yet, she knew better.

He was watching.

Assessing. Calculating. Mocking.

His very presence was a challenge, and though no words passed his lips, the court felt it all the same. He dared them to meet his gaze, to hold their ground in the presence of a man who had left cities in ruin and rivers running red.

Few had the stomach for it.

Most averted their eyes, some lowering their heads as if hoping to escape his notice altogether.

His hair, once meticulously combed before they left their chambers, was now haphazardly gathered into a loose low bun, no doubt tied together in the moments after he had dismounted Caraxes.

She had once been the one to tend to it, her fingers weaving through the silver strands with care, fastening the locks with the dragon-shaped clasps she had commissioned for him. He had preferred his hair out of his way, and she had ensured that it was secured in a manner both practical and befitting his station.

Now, he barely tended to it at all.

But at last his eyes found hers.

And Rhaenyra breathed.

For a moment, time stood still.

Daemon smiled at her—the tender, knowing smile he reserved for her alone—and Rhaenyra nearly broke.

It was the smile of another time, a time when war was a distant threat, when his greatest trials had been hunting dragon eggs in the steaming caverns of the Dragonmont. It was the smile he had worn when he returned from such perilous ventures, regaling their children over supper with tales of the death-defying feats he had performed to retrieve the precious eggs without provoking the dragons that brooded over them.

For one agonizing, fleeting second, she could almost believe that this was no different. That when this moment ended, they would merely retreat to their chambers, their children crowding around him, hanging on to every word as he recounted the dangers he had braved.

But this was no dream.

Rhaenyra forced herself to take a slow, steadying breath. She willed herself not to weep, not to shatter beneath the weight of all that had passed between them, all that had been lost, and all that still remained unknown.

Instead, she smiled.

Genuine, welcoming, full of relief and gratitude.

Daemon’s smirk deepened as if he had caught the flicker of her emotions, as if he saw too much—but before she could react, he was moving.

At the foot of the Iron Throne, he and Baela knelt.

"My Queen," Daemon declared, his voice booming through the chamber, rich with bravado and triumph. "I have returned after fulfilling my promise to you—that I would wipe out all of your enemies!"

The words hung in the air, bold and unrepentant, as he turned his head slightly, his violet gaze sweeping over the assembled lords and ladies as if daring any among them to refute him.

"I stand before you today, House Targaryen and the Seven Kingdoms safe once more from those who would see us brought low."

For a moment, there was silence.

Then, a single pair of hands came together in applause—Rhaena.

She clapped proudly, her expression beaming with open admiration.

Jace followed, his applause sharp and resolute, his pride undeniable.

The Small Council joined next, their agreement measured, though it carried the weight of those who recognized what had been won.

And then, as though a tide had broken—the hall erupted.

The lords clapped, some begrudgingly, others with true fervor. Cheers rose, whistles pierced the air, and noblewomen wept, clutching at one another in sheer, overwhelming relief.

Daemon drank it in, his arrogant smile flashing toward Rhaenyra, his head tilting ever so slightly in satisfaction.

She let out a quiet, breathless laugh, shaking her head at him before she addressed the room.

"House Targaryen will always have its ultimate protector in Prince Daemon."

The words left her lips with deliberate weight, and though she spoke to the gathered lords and ladies, her gaze never left him.

Daemon’s smirk softened just so, but he said nothing. Instead, his gloved hands moved to the three swords strapped to his belt.

Without preamble, he drew two and with a swift, almost careless flick of his wrists, cast them at the foot of the throne.

The sound was deafening.

A sharp, metallic clang rang through the hall as the first blade—a monstrous thing, nearly as tall as Joffrey—hit the stone with a dull, foreboding weight. The second was ostentatious, its hilt drowned in gold, its pommel encrusted with rubies and sapphires, a weapon made for display rather than war.

Gasps rippled through the gathered lords and ladies. Unease slithered through the chamber like a living thing.

Daemon took his time, let the tension build, let them all sit in the heavy truth of what he had just delivered.

"These," he said, voice unhurried, measured, "belonged to the traitors Borros Baratheon and Jason Lannister."

A pause.

Long enough to let the words sink in, to let the realization unfold.

Then, with a mocking little tilt of his head, he added, "You may add them to the chair."

Another ripple of discomfort ran through the hall, some shifting uneasily, others visibly stiffening at the stark reminder.

Daemon had ended entire lines.

The Warden of the West. The Warden of the Stormlands. Their blood extinguished.

And now their swords lay at Rhaenyra’s feet, their legacies reduced to cold metal, soon to be reforged into the throne they had once sought to serve.

Daemon let them stew in it.

Then, finally, he moved again—withdrawing the last sword.

"This," he announced, "was the Hightower’s ancestral sword. Valyrian Steel. “ he pointed it up to let the courtiers see. "They sought to use it to cut down House Targaryen."

His voice was edged with derision, with triumph, but then, his sharp gaze landed on Jacaerys. "I offer it now to the Prince of Dragonstone, so that he may wield it to protect our house going forward."

Jace stilled, his brows lifting in genuine surprise.

For a breath, he simply looked at the sword, at the weight of what it meant, and then—his expression lit up.

He turned his face upward, toward Rhaenyra, as if seeking her approval.

She nodded, warmth flickering in her eyes.

Jace stepped forward and accepted the sword, his grip firm but reverent.

"Thank you, kepa," he murmured, the Valyrian word slipping past his lips with unfeigned emotion. "I will make certain that this sword is only ever used to protect our family—and the Seven Kingdoms."

Daemon exhaled something like amusement, his expression unreadable, before he rose to his feet, moving to stand beside Baela and Jace.

Yet his gaze was already searching.

For someone.

Rhaenyra swallowed hard.

She knew who.

Joffrey.

Did he know? Had he already learned the truth? The ache in her chest tightened, she does not even know how she would tell him of what happened to their sweet boy. The gods only know how Daemon will react to it. Rhaenyra forced herself to remain still, to remain composed.

It was not yet time.

And so she stood.

She lifted her chin, her voice ringing out with unmistakable authority.

"Thanks to Prince Daemon and Lady Baela, the war is over!" she said.

The chamber erupted.

“The Green Rebellion has been put down.” her words echoed through the hall, carried on the breath of history itself. “The threat that has loomed over us for so long is vanquished.”

There was no mistaking the finality in her tone, nor the steel in her gaze as she swept it across the gathered nobility. She did not need to say what had been lost, what price had been paid—there was not a soul present who did not already know.

“It is time to rebuild.”

This time, the applause was thunderous, genuine—a resounding cry of relief and victory.

People shouted with unbridled joy. Some whistled, their cheers bouncing off the high, vaulted ceilings.

Women wept openly, throwing their arms around one another, laughing and sobbing in equal measure.

Hope had been restored.

House Targaryen had prevailed.

Rhaenyra let her gaze sweep over the gathered lords and ladies, their faces alight with triumph, relief, and, in some cases, a barely contained eagerness for what was to come. She inhaled, slow and steady, before speaking, her voice ringing through the hall with the practiced ease of a queen long accustomed to command.

“None of this would have been possible without those who kept their faith.”

A hush fell over the chamber as her words settled.

“To the lords and ladies who stood steadfast, who held true to their oaths, who raised their banners not for greed or ambition but for justice and loyalty—I see you. House Targaryen sees you.”

She allowed the weight of her words to linger, her gaze moving deliberately across the room. Some straightened, as if to bask in her recognition. Others lowered their heads, their own betrayals and hesitations burning hot beneath her scrutiny.

“Your loyalty has not gone unnoticed,” she continued, “and know that rewards will be given to those who have earned them.”

Rhaenyra let the moment settle, allowing the murmurs to fade. Then, with deliberate intent, she lifted her chin and spoke again, her voice clear and strong.

“Ser Addam of Hull, step forward.”

The hall stirred at the name. The Dragonknight of Hull, they called him now—a bastard by birth, but a man who had proven himself a hundred times over. Addam moved with measured steps, but there was a quiet power in the way he carried himself, his shoulders set with unwavering resolve.

He knelt at the foot of the Iron Throne, and for a moment, he hesitated, as if still half-disbelieving that he stood here, before the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, being called to greatness.

“Ser Addam,” Rhaenyra began, “you have served this house with unwavering devotion. You have flown into battle, defended my cause, and remained loyal even when I doubted you. And now, I raise you higher still.”

A hush settled over the hall, breaths collectively drawn.

“Rise, Ser Addam of Hull, and take your place among my Queensguard.”

The silence broke into an uproar of applause and cheers. Ser Addam lifted his head, his face a portrait of pride and disbelief, his lips parting in something close to wonder. He had expected this, of course. She had spoken with him in private—offered him the position, made him understand that his service had not gone unnoticed. He had been wary at first, hesitant.

A bastard. A commoner. Could such a thing be?

But she had seen what so many others refused to. His loyalty, his honor, his courage.

And now, he was the very first dragonrider to serve in the Queensguard.

Addam exhaled softly, his smile breaking wide and unguarded—pure, unrestrained joy.

The hall roared with approval. Lords and ladies clapped, some even cheering his name. He stood tall, his chest swelling with pride, and when he moved to stand beside his sworn brothers, they welcomed him warmly.

Rhaenyra watched it all unfold, her expression measured, yet satisfied.

Let the realm see. House Targaryen rewarded loyalty.

And she would ensure that no dragon ever strayed too far from her throne.

But for now, she allowed herself the briefest satisfaction as she settled back upon the Iron Throne, watching the excitement settle upon those who had hoped to profit from the war.

She was not done, “Lady Rhaena Targaryen, please step forward.”

She turned her gaze upon her Rhaena, whose eyes widened ever so slightly at the unexpected call of her name. And yet, true to her breeding, true to her unshakable grace, Rhaena stepped forward without hesitation, sinking into a deep, reverent curtsey before her queen.

“Lady Rhaena has been an invaluable instrument in securing peace in the Vale,” Rhaenyra continued, her voice steady. “Lady Jeyne Arryn and her lords speak of her with nothing but admiration and praise.”

There was a murmur of approval—of curiosity—as all eyes turned toward Rhaena, who stood poised and proud despite the flicker of uncertainty in her violet gaze.

“As a daughter of House Targaryen and a scion of House Velaryon, she has proven herself time and again. And in honor of her blood relation to House Baratheon, through her great-great-grandmother, Lady Jocelyn, I decree that she shall be given Storm’s End.”

A stunned silence fell. Rhaena’s lips parted, her composure faltering for but a moment, her mouth still agape in sheer disbelief. She did not move, did not speak, until at last she recovered, her spine straightening with quiet resolve.

She curtsied once more—deeper this time, her silver head bowed low in acceptance.

“Your Grace,” she said, her voice clear though touched with emotion. “"You will not regret my appointment. The Stormlands shall now be guarded by a dragon."

Rhaenyra’s lips curved in the faintest of smiles. It was only fitting, since the beginning of the war Rhaena had been displaced—denied what was once meant to be hers. She had lost station with Luke’s death, and Storm’s End, the very seat that had been complicit in his murder, would now pass into her hands. A reckoning, a justice written in Valyrian blood.

Rhaenyra let the cheers settle before she spoke again, her voice steady, commanding.

“Lord Dondarrion, step forward.”

The Stormlander obeyed, his steps measured yet assured. He was one of the few lords who had refused Borros Baratheon's call to arms in favor of the Greens, choosing honor over allegiance. House Dondarrion, along with Houses Fell, Buckler, Errol, and Tarth, had stood firm in defiance, refusing to heed their Lord Paramount's traitorous decision. And for that, they had won not only the war but the Crown’s favor.

“Until my daughter, Lady Rhaena Targaryen, reaches her majority, Lord Dondarrion shall act as her regent.”

Rhaena, still stunned by her new title, turned slightly, watching the man who would serve as her regent.

A murmur of approval rippled through the chamber. Lord Dondarrion went to one knee, bowing his head in solemn deference before lifting his gaze to meet the Queen’s.

“Your Grace, you honor me beyond measure. I swear before you, before the court, and before the gods, that I shall rule Storm’s End in Lady Rhaena’s stead with justice and wisdom. And I look forward to ensuring that my new Lady Paramount is well prepared to lead.”

There was warmth in his voice, tempered with duty, and though Rhaena was still wide-eyed with surprise, she straightened at that.

A ruler in truth, not merely in name.

The Lords of the Stormlands—those who had fought alongside him—clapped in approval, while others exchanged murmurs of quiet acknowledgment. The storm that had once raged against the Targaryens was now firmly in their grasp.

That, of course, sent ripples through the crowd—whispers and murmurs exchanged in cautious optimism. There was an undeniable shift in the air, each one waiting to be given lands, riches and titles, expectation curling like smoke in the throne room.

And then, she spoke the words that would dash the hopes of many.

“The West rose against me as one.”

It was a simple statement, yet it fell upon them like a blade.

“Their lords are now dead, and so new lords must rise in their stead.”

There was a new kind of murmur now, louder, more eager. The men of the Westerlands—those who had, at the last, bent the knee to her cause—straightened in anticipation, their spines taut with the certainty that their long-awaited reward was at hand.

How swiftly their hopes would be dashed. Rhaenyra’s lips did not so much as twitch. “These new lords will be raised not from the West, but from the Riverlands, the Crownlands, the North, the Reach and the Vale. Those who kept true to House Targaryen from the start. “

The silence that followed was deafening.

Shock rippled through the hall, followed swiftly by barely concealed resentment. The men who had expected to be rewarded for their late loyalties—who had turned their cloaks only when the tide had shifted—now found themselves cast aside.

And Rhaenyra did not care.

“House Targaryen has no gifts for those who wavered,” she declared. “No titles for those who bent the knee only after my brothers lay dead. No castles for those who feigned loyalty when it was convenient. The West will be placed in hands that I trust—entirely.”

She could see it now—the tightening of jaws, the flicker of indignation in the eyes of those who had thought themselves clever enough to escape unscathed.

Rhaenyra let the moment stretch, allowing the weight of the last pronouncement to settle before she spoke again.

“Prince Aegon Targaryen, my son, shall be named the next Warden of the West.”

A hush fell over the chamber, as though the very air had been stolen from the lungs of those gathered. And then—murmurs, whispers threading through the hall like a gathering storm.

“Prince Daemon shall act as his regent until he reaches his majority.” she continued. 

The murmurs swelled into something greater, voices of shock, of quiet approval, of calculations made in real-time. But then, as the weight of her words took hold, the chamber shifted—claps began hesitantly, then grew in force, until the hall was filled with the sound of it, resounding off the stone walls. A queenly decision. A political masterstroke.

Rhaenyra, for her part, did not bask in it. Instead, she turned her gaze toward Daemon.

He was looking at her blankly, his face unreadable.

There was no smirk. No raised brow. No hint of amusement or challenge. Just silence.

A silence that stretched so long that she felt it pressing against her ribs.

Then, finally—a sigh. A soft exhale, more telling than a thousand words.

Daemon’s head dipped in the barest of nods. Acceptance.

She knew what she had done. She had, in essence, exiled him—cast him out from the capital, from her side, from the seat of power he had carved out for her with blood and steel. His crimes were too great to ignore, too loud to simply be forgotten, even by her. And though she was queen, though he was her husband, she could not pretend that the world would allow her to sweep it all under the rug.

This was the best she could do.

A compromise.

A way to see him gone without it being a punishment in name. The West would be his to shape, his to rebuild in their image. The Targaryens would hold dominion over the gold of the realm, and if there was any man who could turn the broken, bloodied Westerlands into a stronghold worthy of Aegon, it was Daemon.

Still, she could see it—the flicker of unhappiness beneath his mask of indifference. The restless energy barely contained in the grip of his gloved hands.

She could only hope that, in time, he would understand.

The candlelight flickered across the chamber, its warm glow doing little to soothe the storm brewing in Rhaenyra’s chest. She had been waiting for what felt like an eternity, pacing in measured strides, her hands wringing against the silk of her night robes. The night’s feast had stretched on and on, filled with too many voices, too many faces, and Daemon—Daemon had been in rare form, delighting the men of the City Watch with his bloody, fiery tales. The knights and sergeants had reveled in every gruesome detail, drinking deeply of his words, while the more refined nobility had kept their distance, their distaste thinly veiled behind forced smiles and murmured excuses.

She had tried to catch him alone, to pull him aside, but Daemon had been a force unto himself, untouchable, unreachable. And now—

A knock.

“Prince Daemon.” came Ser Lorent’s voice from beyond the door.

Rhaenyra exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down her face before straightening. “Admit him.”

The doors swung open, and there he was—sauntering in with that insufferable smirk.

“Ah, my wife! What a beautiful sight you are.”

Rhaenyra barely had time to steel herself before he pulled her into his arms, pressing her tightly against him. He smelled of taverns and fire, of smoke and strong wine and something else—something that clung to his very skin, the lingering scent of death.

“You reek.” she muttered, nose wrinkling.

Daemon chuckled, low and warm against her ear. “Ah, my Queen. There she is—always pointing out my shortcomings. It is as if it is your greatest joy in life.”

She rolled her eyes, pushing lightly against his chest until he relented and allowed her to guide him toward the couch. But as he moved to sit, he stumbled, landing heavily on the padded seat before throwing his head back with a laugh.

Rhaenyra, however, did not smile.

“Someone must remind you that burning an entire city is not something to be celebrated.”

Daemon smirked, but there was a sharpness in his gaze, a gleam of something unreadable. “Still angry over the death of those who would see you dead?”

Her patience snapped. “It was not just the perpetrators you killed, Daemon! Women, children—dead, all in the name of your so-called protection. Do you have no conscience at all?”

The mirth vanished. Daemon’s expression darkened, his smirk dropping away like a blade slipping from its sheath.

Then, suddenly, he was on his feet, so fast that the chair tipped over with a resounding bang.

“Do you think I do not wake up at night from their screams?” he demanded, voice rising like a tempest. “Do you think I am so heartless that their burning, bloodied faces do not haunt me?”

Rhaenyra’s breath caught. If they haunt you, then why do this? she wanted to scream. Instead, she whispered, “Then why?”

Daemon’s jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

“Because I am the only one who can!” he roared.

The room seemed to tremble with the force of it. His breath came hard and fast, his eyes alight with something raw and unbridled.

“Daemon Targaryen can take the hate. Daemon Targaryen can carry the burden—so that our children do not have to.”

Rhaenyra felt the sting of tears before she even realized she was crying.

Daemon exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face as if he could wipe away the weight of his words. His shoulders were tight, coiled as if ready to spring, as if he had already decided to flee before she could reach him.

She took a step forward, her hands aching to touch him, to soothe the edges of his rage. “Daemon—”

But he stepped back.

She froze.

“Where are you going?”

Daemon turned on his heel, striding toward the door. He did not look back.

“To find Larys Strong,. he called over his shoulder. “Apparently, all the morally upstanding lords you so cherish cannot get the job done. And so, once again, it falls to the monstrous Prince Daemon to haunt the enemies of the Crown.”

And then—

The door slammed shut.

Rhaenyra stood rooted to the spot, her tears trailing hot down her cheeks, her heart twisting in her chest.

She did not know how long she remained there, but when she finally moved, it was not to follow him. It was to sink onto the very couch he had abandoned, clutching the fabric of her robe as she let the weight of the night settle upon her.

And for what felt like the hundredth time, Rhaenyra wept.

Tears had come so often in these past days that she barely noticed them now, sliding hot down her cheeks, catching at the corners of her lips. She had cried in rage, in grief, in exhaustion—but never like this.

Never with this awful, aching hollowness.

She pressed the heel of her hand against her eyes, as if she could force the tears to stop, as if sheer will alone could stitch together the fractures splitting her heart. But it was futile.

She was losing Daemon.

The door still trembled on its hinges from how forcefully he had shut it. His words still rang in her ears, sharp as the edge of Dark Sister. To find Larys Strong. To do what no one else could. To bear the weight of their sins upon his shoulders so their children would not have to.

She shuddered, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

How had it come to this?

How had she let it come to this?

Chapter Text

Egg POV

Egg stood in the center of the chamber, a vision of quiet resignation, while a flurry of maids fussed over the room like a swarm of particularly persistent doves. Around him stood seven dress forms, each mirroring his height and build, draped in an array of resplendent garments.

One robe was a deep crimson, the color of garnets, its high collar lined with rubies that winked like fire in the candlelight. Another was a striking onyx, the heavy silk shimmering with every shift in the fabric, its cuffs stitched with diamonds so small they caught the light like stars in an obsidian sky. A third was a regal grey, its thick satin embroidered not with thread, but with minuscule jewels sewn so precisely that they formed the image of dragons in flight. Egg barely spared them a glance.

At his side, Aunt Aelle was nearly coming undone under the weight of preparations. The room was an endless hum of voices—maids inquiring about flowers, stewards fretting over the seating arrangements, tailors wringing their hands over last-minute adjustments. But Aunt Aelle, for all her skill, had eyes only for his attire.

"Take it to the castellan," she said without looking at the frazzled footman who had interrupted her. "And you, the head maid will see to that," she added, waving away yet another question. Her priority, it seemed, was ensuring that Egg was dressed to perfection for the coming fortnight of festivities.

Egg, meanwhile, was quite thoroughly bored. His attention drifted—not to the robes, nor the endless prattling about flowers, but to the velvet-draped table beside him, where a dazzling array of jewelry had been laid out for his selection.

Necklaces, earrings, bracelets, rings—most of them dragon-themed, fashioned in the shapes of wings, tails, and open maws clutching gems between sharp golden teeth. Ordinarily, he would have gravitated toward them. But Daenara was a Velaryon.

Vaemond Velaryon’s granddaughter.

Egg's lip curled in disdain at the memory. The fool had overstepped, challenging Lord Corlys’ wishes as if they were his to question. He had paid for his arrogance with his life, his head parted from his shoulders by Kepa’s own blade. Good riddance. Yet his folly had left Daenara burdened with the weight of a legacy that was not hers to bear.

She had spent her childhood bearing the weight of whispers, scorned for the deeds of a man she had scarcely known. Baela had done her utmost to shield her from the worst of courtly barbs, yet even Baela was not immune to the relentless scrutiny of the nobility. And so, Daenaera had learned to endure it, to weather the quiet judgments and the sharp-edged murmurs with all the grace expected of her.

He had assured her, time and time again, that she bore no blame for the past, that none of it ought to trouble her—but words, however well-intended, did little to dull the sting of a wound long since inflicted. Still, if there was one saving grace in all of this, it was that Daenaera was made of sterner stuff than most. A lesser woman might have crumbled beneath the weight of it, but she had only grown stronger, a diamond polished by the pressures of expectation.

His gaze wandered over the glittering offerings until something in the discarded pile caught his eye—a simple pendant, long forgotten among the lesser jewels. It was a circle of silver, smooth and unadorned, save for the stone nestled within—a blue-green gem, cut and polished to resemble the cresting of waves, the eternal pull of the tides, of driftwood halls battered by the tide, of salt-crusted shores where the waves whispered secrets to the sand. It bore the quiet dignity of a house that Daenaera had never been taught to take pride in, its legacy overshadowed by the sins of a man whose name clung to her like a specter.

Yet still, it was hers.

"This one." he said, handing it to the jeweler.

The man hesitated, his brow furrowing. "Your Highness, that piece is… perhaps not quite befitting a dragonlord—"

Egg waved him off. "Then it is fortunate that future wife is a Velaryon."

He gestured lazily toward the other jewels, displayed so carefully in their velvet boxes. "I’ll take all of those as well. But wrap this one separately."

The jeweler, realizing his fortune, nearly tripped over himself in gratitude, bowing and offering fervent thanks for the prince’s generosity. He barely heard him. His fingers still tingled from where they had brushed against the sea-blue gem, and for the first time that morning, his lips curved into the barest hint of a smile.

His brief moment of satisfaction was swiftly interrupted as Aunt Aelle seized him by the wrist and all but dragged him toward the raised platform before the three grand mirrors. The polished glass reflected every angle of him—the boy, the prince, the future. It was all so dreadfully tedious.

She lifted a length of black fabric against his chest, appraising it with a critical eye. "This should do." she murmured, more to herself than to him.

He smiled at her, attempting to appear enthusiastic. He supposed he ought to care about all this. After all, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms would soon arrive in Dragonrock—a name born of Daemon’s drunken whim, lacking inspiration yet stubbornly enduring—for the first time since they had seized it. But truly, what was the need for such pomp? They had seen each other barely three moons past. This was all such a bother.

His musings were cut short by a sharp yelp as Aelle unceremoniously shoved him behind a screen, where two stewards already stood waiting like vultures anticipating a feast.

"Must we?" he sighed, but he allowed them to begin their work, lifting his arms as they peeled away his current attire and redressed him in the ceremonial garments of the day.

"You should change as well, Aunt." he called out, knowing full well that women took far longer to prepare.

But Aelle, fussing over something beyond the screen, merely replied, "I am not needed for the receiving ceremony. There are too many matters yet to see to."

Aegon snorted. Excuses.

Emerging from behind the screen, he dismissed the attendants with a flick of his fingers and turned to her. "You are part of the household, Aunt. You will be there."

Aelle hesitated. Visibly. Ah. So that was the issue.

"You should not be nervous," he said, tilting his head in consideration. "It is not as if the Queen does not have lovers of her own."

Aelle stared at him, wide-eyed and unmoving. Had she truly thought it a secret?

He rolled his eyes, already weary of the dramatics. He turned toward the door and called for a maid. "See that Lady Aelle is made ready. The Court of Dragons may arrive at any moment."

His aunt was still gaping at him as if he had sprouted two heads.

Egg merely shook his own. Seven hells. Did she truly believe she and Daemon were fooling anyone? Here on Dragonrock, there was a silent understanding, an unspoken rule—people saw much, but they did not speak of it. But in King’s Landing? Oh, the tale of the beautiful Aelle Maegyr, who had warmed the Prince Consort’s bed for the better part of a decade, was well known among the courtiers and whispered about with great relish.

Just as it was no secret that the Queen herself had her own lovers—most notably Mysaria of Lys, her handmaiden. The Faith-aligned lords and ladies were positively scandalized by it all, clutching their prayer beads as if the Seven themselves would descend from the heavens to smite them for hearing such gossip.

Egg, for his part, found it all rather amusing. For who could go against the dragon and hope to live?

Just as the maid was all but dragging Aunt Aelle from the room, the door swung open once more, and in strolled Serys.

"Oh, sweetheart, that is a beautiful cloak!" their aunt cooed, pausing in her reluctant departure. "You look so handsome."

Serys flashed her a bright grin, clearly pleased, before stepping inside and collapsing haphazardly onto a nearby chair—one leg thrown over the armrest with all the grace of a cat stretching lazily in the sun. Without missing a beat, he plucked a candied apple from the tray, taking an exaggerated bite.

"I can’t believe you’re getting married the moment you and Daenaera turn six-and-ten," he said through a mouthful of sugar. "That’s madness."

Egg merely shrugged. "You’ll understand when you find the one."

Serrys snorted, chewing thoughtfully before reclining even further, draping himself over the chair as if he were already half-asleep.

“The Maester let me out early." he announced, grinning as though he had bested some great foe. “Which means, dear brother, I now have a full two weeks with no lessons. And for that, I must thank you.”

Egg, seated across from him, raised a brow. “You ought to take your studies seriously, Serys. It won’t be long before you’re the Lord Paramount of the Vale.”

That, predictably, earned a groan of protest. Viserys swung his leg down, sitting up with exaggerated exasperation. “Seven hells, you sound like Jace.” Then, with a scowl, he muttered, “How could Joffrey Arryn have died in that little rebellion? And what was Mother thinking, accepting Lady Jeyne’s offer to name me her heir?”

Egg did not grace him with an answer—he simply flicked a peanut in his direction, striking him squarely on the forehead.

Viserys hissed, rubbing the spot as though Egg had thrown a dagger.

“Cut it out.” Egg said mildly. “You should be grateful. Most fourth and fifth sons are lucky to be given anything at all, let alone an entire inheritance.”

Viserys shot him a dark glare, his lower lip jutting out just enough to betray his youth. “I am grateful.” he muttered. “I just don’t like having to sit through lessons on things I already know.”

At that, Egg simply smiled. He understood his brother well enough—the Archmaester himself had once called Viserys the brightest boy he had ever taught. His mind worked at a speed few could match, and it was hardly surprising that he found reading what he already knew to be a tedious endeavor.

Still, that did not mean Egg would let him wallow.

“Then learn something new.” he said with a smirk.

Viserys scowled, but Egg caught the flicker of amusement in his eyes.

Egg wrinkled his nose. "Aunt Aelle will be furious if you wrinkle your clothes."

But Serys only grinned, utterly unrepentant. "I’m the favorite," he said smugly. "She’ll just say I’m adorable."

He rolled his eyes. Infuriatingly, it was true.

Serys was everyone’s favorite. Even his.

The lords whispered that he was the most beautiful of their mother’s sons—save perhaps for the late Prince Lucerys, whose face Egg could barely recall.

It was a cruel thing, how war had stolen memories from him. Lucerys had been his brother, his blood, but now his face existed only in fragments—blurred at the edges, like a half-forgotten dream. 

There were portraits, of course. In the Queen’s chambers, in the family gallery, even the esteemed Targaryen Archives atop Visenya’s Hill were adorned with their portraits, alongside those of their Valyrian ancestors. But no matter how many times artists set brush to canvas, they could never truly capture the essence of Lucerys Velaryon.

Jace always said as much—that no portrait could ever paint the twinkle in Luke’s eyes, like sunlight catching the waves at Driftmark. Nor could they convey the way his smile danced between mischief and delight, as if he were always on the cusp of some clever jest. And they certainly failed to depict the warmth in his face when he laughed, bright and unguarded, as if joy itself had taken root in him.

Egg himself had no shortage of portraits upon the Rock. They adorned the great halls, the council chambers, and even the vaulted ceilings of the library. But the most important ones, the ones that mattered, he had placed along the corridor leading to his own chambers.

There was one of the Queen upon the Iron Throne, resplendent in black and red, the crown of the Conciliator heavy upon her silver-gold hair. Another of his father, standing beside Caraxes, the dragon’s long, sinuous neck curved toward him in what might have been affection—if such a beast was capable of it. A family portrait, painted from the artist’s memory, for the times Prince Daemon and the Queen had stood together could be counted on one hand, and that was in the past decade. And at the very end of the corridor, where the light from the high windows fell just so, hung Lucerys with Arrax.

Egg had placed that one himself. If he could not recall his brother as he had been, then at least he could remember that he had been loved.

But even more than the loss of Lucerys, he resented what war had taken from all of them. A complete family.

Daemon had not set foot in the capital in ten years. He had not attended Jace and Baela’s wedding before the Seven, choosing instead to travel to Dragonstone and officiate their Valyrian ceremony instead. Joff and Lara’s marriage took place in Driftmark, likewise, Rhaena and Lord Corwyn's wedding was done in Storm's End. Egg supposed he was lucky—he lived with their father. But his other siblings had to travel to the Rock just to see him on his nameday.

Aunt Aelle always said their father was a petty man.

If the Queen did not want him beside her, then he would stay away.

But the Queen had never asked him to return, either—only ever hinting at it, making her children relay strange, roundabout messages in her stead. And Daemon, in turn, had chosen to be willfully ignorant.

This would be the first time in years that they would all be together again.

Not since Joffrey’s wedding to Lady Larra Rogare.

Egg did not know whether to feel anticipation or dread.

The sun was already on its peak when the deep, resonant blast of the horn echoed through the Rock—not once, not twice, but three times.

Dragons.

Egg felt the thrill of it before his mind could catch up, the sheer excitement of the moment thrumming through his veins. But before he could so much as move, he shoved Serys’ legs off the armrest.

His brother yelped, tumbling unceremoniously onto the thickly carpeted floor.

"Seven bloody hells, Egg!" Serys cursed, rubbing at his elbow where he had landed.

Egg only laughed, already sprinting for the door. "Move faster, little brother!"

Serys did not need to be told twice.

They tore through the corridors of Dragon’s Rock, taking the stairs in twos and threes in their haste to reach the top before the dragons landed. They shoved at each other, pulled at sleeves, slammed shoulders against stone walls, and sent curses flying— all in good-natured competition. The servants barely had time to step aside before the two princes barreled past them.

"Slow down!" someone tsked.

"My Princes, please mind your heads!"

But they did not slow.

The Rock was immense, nearly a hundred levels in total, each with ceilings cavernous and vaulted, built to house the grandeur of the court that resided within. The topmost ten floors were reserved for the Lord of the Rock alone, their father’s private domain, soon to be his. Egg’s own apartments were three levels down, but his solar had been deliberately placed on the eleventh level. It was a statement as much as a strategy—any lord who wished to speak with him privately would have to brave the endless stairs to do so.

At the very peak of the Rock lay the dragonpit, its structure a masterpiece of Valyrian grandeur, it was round, its spires shaped like the crown of Queen Rhaenyra herself. Along its sides, a magnificent relief had been carved—each dragon of their family immortalized in stone.

It had taken years to erase the lion’s mark from Dragon’s Rock, but their father had been relentless. Once, lions had prowled these halls—carved into stone, woven into banners, their golden presence a testament to Lannister dominion. Now, they had been erased. Where lions had once stood sentinel, dragons coiled in their place, their wings unfurled, their presence absolute. This was no longer a seat of mere riches. This was power incarnate, draped in the trappings of fire and blood.

Even the columns they passed now gleamed with gilt, the bannisters inlaid with precious stones that caught the light like scattered embers. Chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceilings, their gilded frames shaped into dragons, each one wrought with exquisite craftsmanship, their eyes smoldering rubies that seemed to watch as they passed. The very walls pulsed with wealth, yet the opulence had been tempered with Valyrian artistry—elegant, commanding, undeniably sovereign.

Egg could not help but think that Syrax would have been at home here, her golden scales shimmering against the splendor. But Stormcloud? His dragon was young still, dark and brooding, more suited to the skies than the gilded halls of his keep.

They breached the entrance hall at last, breathless, just in time to take their place beside their father at the Hanging Courtyard.

Their father stood with the ease of a man long accustomed to command, yet he did not so much as flinch as Aunt Aelle fussed over him, plucking at imaginary lint on his red cloak, smoothing the collar of his tunic with meticulous care. Daemon Targaryen did not argue. He merely allowed it, his gaze distant, his expression unreadable. Egg knew the truth of it—she was nervous. For all her sharp tongue and unflappable demeanor, this would be the first time she met the Queen.

When Daemon finally turned to his sons, his scrutiny was swift but thorough. A single glance at their attire, an approving nod. "Impeccable."

Aunt Aelle, as ever, was not so easily satisfied.

She moved to Egg next, fussing with his shoulders, adjusting his cloak, brushing back a stray curl, and finally plucking a simple gold band from a cushion carried by a silent servant. With gentle but practiced hands, she placed it upon his head. Egg let her.

Serys, of course, was already wearing his.

Their aunt turned to him next, her lips parting for what was sure to be praise—only to pause, smile, and murmur approvingly.

Serys, ever the little menace, grinned at Egg in open triumph, his smirk full of taunt and tease.

Caraxes had been seen leaving the Dragonpit earlier that day, his long, sinuous form cutting through the sky with unmistakable purpose. It was likely, Egg thought, that he had gone to escort Syrax to the Rock.

A deep, guttural roar shook the very foundations of the Dragonpit, reverberating through stone and bone alike. The walls seemed to tremble beneath the force of his displeasure, dust falling from vaulted ceilings as if the ancient dragon might bring the whole structure down should the mood strike him.

Viserys winced, casting a guilty glance at their father before offering, with what he likely believed to be an air of reassurance, “Vermithor will behave with the others. Promise.”

Daemon’s expression remained impassive, though his gaze flicked toward his son with a skepticism so pronounced it hardly needed to be voiced. “You had better make sure of that.” he said at last, the warning evident in his tone.

Egg did not need to be reminded of Vermithor’s temperament. The old beast was as cantankerous as they came, and he and Caraxes had always teetered on the edge of outright conflict. It was said that during the Green Rebellion, the two had stood on opposite sides of the war, and when Daemon and Baela had broken the siege of Tumbleton, they had nearly come to deadly blows.

The two betrayers had been the first to die—slain by men Daemon had sent ahead to ensure they had never even mounted their dragons during the attack. However, Vermithor and Silverwing had never been particularly friendly with Caraxes and the Cannibal, and those tensions had never quite settled. Even now, the old grievances lingered, woven into the fabric of history like wounds that had never truly healed.

"Vermithor is the sweetest, swear!" Serys promised.

Egg rolled his eyes but said nothing.

Aunt Aelle, satisfied at last, stepped behind them just as the first dragon descended.

Dreamfyre was a vision of pale blue, her wings tipped with silver as she swept down in graceful spirals. The light of the setting sun kissed her hide, making her scales shimmer like ice lit by fire.

Atop her back, poised with effortless elegance, sat Jacaerys Targaryen. He was resplendent in black and red, his cloak snapping in the wind behind him, his bearing as regal as any dragonlord of old. The strong lines of his face, the proud set of his shoulders—he looked every inch a a Valyrian Dragonlord although he was denied their coloring. Before him, cradled carefully against his chest, was his daughter, little Laena.

The moment Dreamfyre, Daemon stepped forward, his arms outstretched.

Laena let out a delighted shriek and leapt from the saddle before her father could so much as dismount.

Daemon caught her with ease, lifting her high above his head before pulling her close, his usual cool demeanor cracking just enough for affection to seep through.

"Careful with Kepa’s back!"

The warning came from Baela, who had landed nearby on Cannibal, the great black beast looming behind her.

Egg barely suppressed a laugh. Viserys did not even try. His little brother let out a loud, barking laugh, doubling over at the sheer audacity of it.

Daemon turned sharply, his glare like a blade, cutting through their amusement in an instant.

Egg coughed into his fist. Viserys grinned unrepentantly.

Egg could barely contain himself.

His boots scuffed against the stone as he shifted his weight from foot to foot, watching intently as Baela assisted Daenaera in dismounting from the hulking, monstrous form of Cannibal.

The great beast was already restless, his massive wings twitching, his blackened, jagged scales shifting like a living mountain beneath them. It was no easy feat to climb down when the creature refused to be still, his claws digging impatiently into the ground, his foul mood barely leashed.

Daenaera, ever poised and graceful on solid ground, had no such ease here.

She clutched at Baela’s hand, her movements careful as she sought footing, her knuckles white as she finally slid down to safety. The cannibal had gone up to the sky Egg was already at her side.

He bowed with all the grandeur of a prince, one hand pressed to his chest, his head dipping low—too low, deliberately so. His grin threatened to spill over, the very picture of mischief barely contained.

"My lady," he intoned, his voice rich with amusement, warm as summer wine.

Daenaera, despite the paleness of her cheeks, recovered swiftly.

She curtsied, the movement crisp and precise, her gaze flitting up to meet his—shrewd, knowing, entirely unimpressed. She could see that he was enjoying himself at her expense, and he could see that she would not let him get away with it so easily.

He took her hand without hesitation.

His fingers brushed over her knuckles before he brought them to his lips, pressing a kiss that was light, fleeting—but entirely deliberate. A whisper of warmth, a touch that lingered even after he lowered their hands and, with practiced ease, tucked her arm into the crook of his own.

"Do you need to sit, my lady?"

Daenaera exhaled softly, shaking her head. "I only need to be used on ground again."

A shudder passed through her, barely perceptible, but he caught it all the same.

She was brave—he had always known that—but she was no dragonrider. The skies had never been hers to claim, nor did she wish them to be.

Still, her voice was light when she added, "I am rather glad that Stormcloud is not large enough for two."

Egg’s brows lifted, the barest flicker of a smirk curling at the edges of his mouth. "Are you?"

She leaned in slightly, just enough that only he could hear. "I will not ride a dragon again, not for a long time."

His smile deepened, a quiet thing, pleased and teasing. "Funny. I seem to recall you wanting a dragon egg once."

She turned her face toward him, eyes narrowing as she whispered back, "An egg, Aegon. Not a dragon."

A huff of laughter escaped him before he could stop it, his fingers tightening ever so slightly over hers. It was a private joke, a shared secret, a moment carved only for the two of them.

Egg did not press further. Instead, he squeezed her arm, a subtle, reassuring gesture.

She had grown up among dragons, raised beneath the same roof as Baela, but riding one was another matter entirely.

he guessed she would never quite become accustomed to it.

Still, she had done it, and that was something.

He led her toward his father, guiding her with easy confidence.

Daemon’s eyes flicked over Daenaera with the sharp scrutiny of a man who missed nothing.

"How do you fare, girl?"

"I am well, my Prince." Daenaera replied, her voice steady despite the lingering ghost of unease.

Daemon did not look convinced.

He snapped his fingers, his voice like the crack of a whip as he barked at the nearest servants.

"Wine. At once. The poor girl’s been rattled enough."

Egg bit down a smirk.

Even now, his father’s brand of care was as sharp as his tongue.

The next to arrive was Joffrey Velaryon, astride Tyraxes. His wife, Larra Rogare, rode behind him, clutching tightly to their son—the little terror, Aegon.

The moment they landed, Aegon flung himself from the saddle and latched onto Daemon’s leg.

"Kepa, up!" he demanded, his tiny hands pulling insistently.

Daemon grinned at him and obliged, lifting the boy with practiced ease. He looked content, a picture of a beloved grandsire.

It did not last long. No sooner had Aegon been settled in Daemon’s other arms did he begin squabbling with Laena. Daemon had to give them back to their parents or there will be hours of tears and shouting toddlers.

Egg merely snickered.

Serys, still recovering from his earlier fit of laughter, outright cackled.

The last to land was Rhaena, accompanied by her husband, Ser Corbray, and her son—little Lucerys.

Luke, wide-eyed and shy, clung to his mother’s skirts the moment his feet touched the ground.

Daemon crouched, his voice softer now, coaxing the boy to speak, but Luke only peered at him from behind Rhaena’s legs.

The moment might have stretched longer, but the air shifted again.

A hush fell over them as the great golden beast descended.

Syrax.

Egg could not help but smile.

As Syrax descended, her golden form shimmering beneath the sunlight, he marveled at the sheer elegance of it.

Unlike the other dragons—who descended in a cacophony of flapping wings and trembling earth—Syrax barely made the ground shudder beneath her.

It was uncanny.

How did his mother do it?

Was it because she had known Syrax for so long, their bond so deep that the dragon responded to her merest wish as if it were her own? Or was Syrax simply a gentle creature—a dragon who, despite her might, moved as delicately as her rider?

His musings were shattered the moment his father stepped forward.

Egg let out a sharp cry.

What was Kepa doing?!

Jace, Joff, Baela, Rhaena—even their mother—had always warned them never to approach a dragon that was not their own. It was a lesson drilled into their very bones. And yet—there was Daemon, stepping forward, with neither hesitation nor fear.

For a heartbeat, Egg expected Syrax to lash out, to snap her great jaws or unfurl her wings in warning.

But instead—she purred.

A deep, resonant sound, rich and warm, that reverberated through the air like a cat pleased by its master’s touch.

Egg stared, transfixed.

Syrax, the Queen’s golden dragon, curled her head toward Daemon, nudging at his outstretched hand.

His father did not flinch.

He simply laid one hand on Syrax' scales and took his mother’s hand on the other as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

And it was in that moment that Egg realized—he had never seen them like this before.

They had always been his parents—figures of authority, formidable, unshakable. They had always been bound by duty, by war, by the weight of the Crown. But here… now…

They were something else.

If he were a romantic like Rhaena or his dear Daenaera, he might have said that they took his breath away.

They stood so close, their height perfectly matched, their beauty complementing one another in a way that seemed almost unreal.

He had never seen his mother smile like that before.

So soft. So content.

Her lilac eyes held only his father’s face, as if nothing else in the world existed.

And Daemon—Daemon, who was always sharp edges and restless energy—looked… peaceful.

Egg swallowed hard, glancing at his siblings.

Jace was silent, his gaze fixed on their parents with something close to disbelief, as though he had scarcely dared to hope for such a sight.

Joff’s lips parted slightly, his breath catching as he took in the scene before him—his mother and father, together, as they had not been in so long.

Rhaena had clasped her hands together, her expression suspiciously bright.

And Baela—Baela was teary-eyed.

Egg nearly choked.

Baela? With tears?

Baela, who had the spine of steel, who had faced storms and war without so much as a tremble?

It was so odd, so unsettling, that Egg might have gawked for a moment longer—

—if not for Serys.

The moment of perfect stillness was shattered when Serys all but threw himself onto their mother.

"Muña!" he cried in Valyrian, his voice thick with emotion, as though he had been starved of her presence for years.

Egg rolled his eyes.

Serys had spent two moons in the capital before coming here just a week ago.

But there he was, clinging to their mother as if he had been lost at sea and just now found shore.

Rhaenyra laughed, a sound warm and indulgent, as she smoothed a hand over Serys’ curls.

Even the strictest lessons from Lord Leowyn Cobray, his brother’s regent—who was said to be as unyielding as the Vale itself—had yet to curb Serys’ unabashed affections.

Egg smirked.

Well.

This was certainly shaping up to be an interesting evening.

There was no grand ceremony.

No lords in their finest silks, no droning septon reciting tedious words. Just family.

The other lords and ladies who had arrived in the past month for the wedding had already been settled in their assigned apartments. They knew better than to intrude on the royal family’s afternoon. The great hall had already been prepared for them—a lavish feast laid in their honor to keep them entertained.

But this time—this moment—belonged only to them.

Egg stood a little straighter as Serys stepped forward, his chest puffed out with boyish determination.

“Muña,” he said, bright-eyed, before gesturing behind him. “May I present… Aunt Aelle, grandmother Saera's daughter.”

Egg turned just in time to see his aunt, still lingering in the back, her hands nervously wringing together.

His mother’s gaze snapped to her at once.

For a moment, Rhaenyra said nothing.

Her expression was serene, her golden crown catching the light, but her eyes—those sharp, knowing eyes—moved over Aunt Aelle with slow, deliberate assessment.

Egg swallowed.

His mother had always been able to see straight through people.

Aunt Aelle, for her part, look lovely. She was beautiful, as only those of Valyrian descent could be, but she did not possess the otherworldly sort of beauty that Rhaenyra did. There was no fire-forged radiance, no air of unshakable majesty.

And yet, she carried herself with quiet grace.

She wore a simple Volantene gown, sleeveless, with a draped scarf that cascaded from one shoulder to the other arm. It was modest, yet elegant—befitting someone of stature, but not presumption.

Egg braced himself as his mother finally moved.

She held out a hand.

“Aelle.” she said, her voice smooth, imperious yet warm.

Aelle hesitated—just for a breath—before stepping forward and curtsying deeply before holding out a hesitant hand which his mother gripped tightly.

“I thank you,” Rhaenyra continued, “for taking care of my sons—not just during the war, but even after.”

Egg let out a breath he had not realized he had been holding.

Good.

There would be no hostility. No sharp words. No unspoken tensions lingering in the air.

He had worried about this meeting, worried that his mother might resent Aunt Aelle, but truly—was there any reason for it?

His aunt and father were not in love.

They were not even romantic.

They were simply two people who sought comfort in one another’s presence.

And if Egg had to choose between his father having a single, steady lover rather than parading a dozen women through their halls, then he would happily take Aunt Aelle.

At least she cared about him and Serys. At least she would never try to monopolize their father’s affections, never try to turn Daemon away from them.

Egg’s relief, however, was short-lived.

From the corner of his eye, he caught Rhaena and Baela moving past them—deliberately.

Or rather, snubbing Aunt Aelle entirely.

Baela held her head high, her mouth pressed in a tight line, while Rhaena—usually so gentle—was brisk, her arms wrapped protectively around little Luke as she ushered him forward.

Egg winced.

So much for harmony.

Still, his attention quickly shifted as the children entered the castle—and immediately, fascination took hold.

The halls were different from what they were used to.

Even shy little Lucerys stared, wide-eyed, at the descending staircases, tracing them with his gaze. Unlike most castles, where steps led upward toward towers and turrets, these ones led downward into the heart of the keep.

Daemon barely had time to draw breath before Laena flung herself back into his arms, her small hands clinging to his neck as if he were the only thing anchoring her to solid ground.

Egg grinned.

And then—

“Cake!”

Egg groaned.

Aegon the Terrible—his most unruly nephew—had already set upon the servants, his tiny fists clenched, his little face set in determination.

“Cake!” he demanded again, his voice rising with indignation. “I want cake now!”

Before the poor servants could even think to respond, Joffrey had already swooped in.

In one smooth motion, he snatched Aegon up, setting him down with a firm grip on his shoulders.

“You will have cake when it is time.” Joff said sternly.

Aegon, still outraged, folded his arms.

“But I want it now.”

Joffrey arched a brow. “Do you want me to send you to Aunt Baela?”

At that, Aegon froze.

Even he was not foolish enough to test Baela’s patience.

Egg let out a snort.

Yes.

This was shaping up to be an entertaining afternoon indeed.

The Great Hall of Casterly Rock was nothing short of magnificent, carved from the very heart of the golden mountain itself. The chamber, located on the twentieth level of the Rock, was vast enough to fit three levels' worth of space, its ceiling so high that even Cannibal will not find the place stifling.

Unlike the black stone in Dragonstone or the Red ones in King's Landing, Dragonrock shimmered. For the walls themselves bore veins of unmined gold, untouched by pickaxe and left as ornamental splendor. The golden streaks caught the light and gleamed like dragon’s fire, lending the cavernous space an almost unearthly glow.

ssHanging from thick chains, the chandeliers were crafted entirely of gold, their twisting arms shaped like dragon claws clutching orbs of fire, each holding a hundred beeswax candles, their light catching on the golden veins in the stone until the entire hall glowed like the heart of a forge.

The torch holders, fashioned from solid gold, were shaped into dragon maws, their gaping mouths gripping blazing torches, so that the flames seemed to be exhaled by the beasts themselves. Shadows flickered across the great carvings of dragons, making them appear as though they moved, as though they might, at any moment, take flight and set the hall ablaze.

At the far end of the chamber, a great black hearth, large enough to roast a whole wyvern, burned with scented cedarwood and dragon’s breath incense, filling the air with the warmth of a dragon’s den.

The banquet tables stretched endlessly, draped in black and red banners, groaning beneath the weight of a feast fit for dragons. Great slabs of roast suckling pigs, basted in honey and dragonpepper, steamed as the carvers sliced into their tender flesh. Boar, its skin crackling with a ruby-red dragonfruit glaze, lay beside trout fillets layered in sheets of gold leaf. At the very center of the feast, a colossal pie waited to be cut open, its charred black crust hiding a secret within—when the knife finally sliced through, a flock of fire-kissed doves, their wings dyed red and black, would take flight toward the soaring ceiling.

One table was reserved for desserts alone, a gluttonous display of honey cakes shaped like dragon eggs, their sugar-glazed shells crisp beneath the touch. Deep bowls overflowed with blood oranges steeped in Dornish wine, the juices dark as dragonfire, while intricate sugar sculptures depicted the great dragons of House Targaryen in mid-flight. At another, a collection of wines and spirits gleamed in the firelight, Arbor Gold and Volantene firewine standing alongside Myrish black brandy, the latter clinging thickly to the inside of its goblet like a shadow at dusk.

The hall thundered with music, a company of fifty person bards playing upon harps and silver flutes, their melodies deep and primal, as though calling forth dragons from their slumber. Dancers twirled between the tables, diaphanous silks embroidered with dragons in flight billowing about them. Some bared golden bells at their wrists and ankles, their chiming delicate as the flap of dragon wings, while others—men dressed in scaled leathers—performed daring feats of acrobatics, juggling orbs of fire high into the air before catching them with practiced ease.

At the very heart of it all sat Egg, goblet in hand, patience thinning with every toast.

For what felt like the hundredth time that night, he raised his cup, forcing a smile as Lord Kayne Celtigar—Lord of Kayce—wished him fertility in his marriage, prosperity for the Westerlands, and strength for the Seven Kingdoms. A fine sentiment, though Egg took only a small sip, muttering his thanks before lowering himself back into his seat.

He had not even settled when Lord Bennard Blackwood, the new Lord of Deep Den, was already on his feet, goblet raised. Egg exhaled a loud sigh, but his smile remained fixed in place, weary though it was.

At his side, Daenaera’s fingers found his, a silent reassurance, though if it were up to him, they would already be in their chambers, far from dragon-lit halls and endless speeches. His mother had been firm, however. Their guests had journeyed far—some for months—just to witness their union. To refuse them the full night’s revelry would be ungracious, no matter how tempting a swift escape might be.

Still, he would have appreciated it more had they simply sent their letters and gifts instead.

Across the hall, Jace was surrounded by the great lords of the West, men eager to please their future King. Lord Westerling was particularly attentive, speaking with fervor, though his daughter—the widow of the late Jason Lannister—remained curiously absent. The massacre of the Westerlands had left few of the old bloodlines intact, most of them put to the sword, their places taken by lords loyal to Rhaenyra. Only the Westerling widow and her daughters had been spared, the women too valuable to slaughter outright.

Joff had just returned to the feast, having taken his little Aegon to bed after the boy had instigated a food fight among the noble children. Lady Lara had not returned with him, though that was no surprise—Aegon’s every indulgence was her doing, but it was Joff who remained the absolute master of his house, the one to mete out punishment as he saw fit. No sooner had he settled than Ser Luthor Darklyn of Faircastle and Jory Frey of Sarsfield accosted him, their hands dragging him into a raucous drinking game, one of the many his brother had always enjoyed.

But as the wine flowed freely, Egg’s gaze flickered, searching for his mother. She did not like it when Joff got involved in these kinds of games. Joff was temperamental, and it did no good to stoke his fire. He found her easily enough—only to see her slipping out of a side door, her gaze fixed on Daemon’s retreating form as she followed close behind.

Egg paused, watching their disappearing forms with unconcealed suspicion. His brows furrowed in distaste. The last thing he needed was confirmation of what he already suspected. Those two had spent years at odds, barely on speaking terms—why now?

Still, curiosity gnawed at him, and after pressing a kiss to Daenaera’s hand, he stood, leaving her with Baela and Rhaena as he followed their path.

Egg wove through the crowd with the practiced ease of a man who had spent a lifetime navigating courtly affairs. His shoulders were stiff, his lips pressed into a firm line, but inwardly, he cursed himself.

Skulking.

He was skulking through his own hall like some errant child, avoiding the grasping hands of lords too eager to toast his health and ladies too bold with their flirtations. He had learned early that lingering too long in any conversation meant being caught, ensnared like a stag in a hunter’s trap, and he had no intention of being delayed—not when the mystery of his parents lay just beyond that door.

He sidestepped Lord Tully’s outstretched hand, pretended not to hear the booming laughter of Lord Merryweather, and offered only the barest nod to the passing Lady Cerwin, whose golden hair gleamed under the chandeliers' light. His path was deliberate, swift, and, above all, unavoidable.

At last, he reached the door. The very one his mother and father had slipped through not moments ago. His guards, Ser Aro and Ser Alan, flanked him as always, their watchful gazes already shifting toward the closed passage. They did not need to ask—they had seen him watching. They knew.

They also knew better than to question him when he sighed and gestured for them to stay behind.

Their shoulders tensed, and for a moment, Egg thought Ser Aro might protest, but a single look from his violet eyes had them both pressing their lips into thin lines. Their nods were sharp, reluctant, but they obeyed, planting themselves at either side of the door as sentinels.

Egg slipped outside.

He felt ridiculous.

What business had he sneaking through his own halls, slinking past golden torchlight and dragon-carved archways? Yet he could not help himself. His parents were a mystery. They always had been.

He had seen them often, of course, spent time with them separately, but together? That was something else entirely.

For the past week, he had watched them with growing fascination. They strolled through the gardens arm in arm, their conversation low, intimate, meant only for one another. They hosted tea parties with the children, his father looking utterly ridiculous with a tiny porcelain cup in his large, sword-calloused hands while his mother hid her laughter behind her own. They dined with lords and ladies, their presence alone commanding the room, but even then, their attention was always… tethered.

It was the small things that caught his notice.

Last night, at dinner, his mother had absently removed the whites of a boiled egg from his father’s plate, leaving only the golden yolk behind. Daemon’s eyes had lit up like a boy presented with a prize, and he had eaten heartily. And earlier that afternoon, during tea, his father had prepared Rhaenyra’s cup exactly as she liked it—without a word, without needing to ask. She had smiled at him in a way that made Egg's stomach twist with something he did not quite understand.

He was beginning to see the people that Jace, Baela, Rhaena, and Joff often spoke of with such reverence.

The ones who had lived on Dragonstone, wholly in love, utterly indivisible.

The older servants, the ones who had survived the purge of the castle, still spoke of them in hushed, knowing tones. They told stories of how his father once left wildflowers from the Dragonmont in his mother’s chambers, how his mother had always commissioned matching garments for them—even their nightclothes. Cook, with a scandalized shake of her head, recalled more instances than she cared to count of finding them in… compromising positions.

Egg had spent most of his life trying to understand them, but it was only now, in these quiet, stolen moments, that he felt he was beginning to.

He moved carefully through the hall, ensuring his boots did not betray him upon the polished floors. Up ahead, an archway led to a balcony that overlooked the Sunset Sea, where the faint glow of golden torchlight spilled out into the night.

He approached cautiously, pressing himself into the shadows just before the threshold.

It was too dark to see much of anything.

Below, the harbor stretched endlessly, filled with the silhouettes of ships swaying against the tide. Though most of their guests had docked at Dragonsport—previously Lannisport, another unfortunate name given by a drunken Daemon—a small fleet of fifty remained patrolling their waters. From this high, the lanterns upon their decks were little more than pinpricks of flame, tiny fireflies drifting across the black sea.

It was strangely beautiful.

Beyond the archway, his mother stood near the stone balustrade, her silver-gold hair shifting in the sea breeze. His father was beside her, hands braced against the railing, gazing out over the horizon.

The silence stretched between them, but it was not uncomfortable.

Then, softly—so softly Egg almost missed it—Rhaenyra exhaled a sigh, tilting her head toward her husband.

"You have done well," the Queen murmured, her voice a quiet hum of satisfaction as she let her gaze sweep across the chamber. "I can hardly find a trace of the Lannisters."

Daemon let out a low, pleased hum, shifting his weight. "Good," he said simply, though the flicker of triumph in his expression spoke volumes.

Rhaenyra tilted her head slightly, considering him. "The locals say that trade is booming in Dragonsport—more than ever before."

Daemon exhaled, the sound edged with amusement. "Trade always booms at port cities," he remarked, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

The Queen only smiled. A knowing, pleased thing. "I have seen the plans for the bank," she said, her voice softer now. "Egg and Joff are very proud of it. You know, they are saying that we are the reason for the collapse of the Rogare Bank—especially after Joff married Larra."

Daemon smirked. "The Rogares thought they could use Joff’s unusual fondness for his wife to their advantage—push their influence further through Targaryen blood. I simply thought we would take and make it ours."

Egg exhaled, stilling against the shadowed alcove where he had been listening.

The whispers had been there for years—soft murmurs in the halls, drunken bitterness muttered by Larra’s brothers, resentful that her marriage had not brought them what they had hoped. The Rogare downfall had been a tangled, complicated thing, and there were many who whispered that it was their fault. But they were only whispers.

He did not think Joff even knew.

No matter.

The bank would open in Dragonsport, Joff would be among its main shareholders, and his wife’s knowledge of the banking system would serve as their foundation. That was what mattered now.

There were not many words exchanged but Egg could see it—the way his mother’s fingers drifted, seeking, until they found his father’s own. The way his father angled himself toward her, only slightly, as though drawn to her unconsciously.

Then, Rhaenyra’s voice turned softer. “You could return to the capital.”

Egg’s smirk faded.

There was a beat of silence before his father shook his head. “No.”

“It has been years, Daemon. The people’s wounds have healed.”

Daemon’s grip on the balcony’s edge tightened. “Have they?”

“You do not know unless you go back.”

His father exhaled through his nose, a sharp thing. “I was not sent here so the city could forget me, Rhaenyra. I was sent here so they could be rid of me. My very presence is a threat to your reign.”

Egg bristled at that.

“There are more than enough vultures circling, eager to tear you down.” Daemon’s voice was quiet now, but there was something dark in it. Not anger—no, something else. Resolve. “I will not make their task easier—I will not stand among them.”

Egg barely caught the way his mother inhaled, as if steadying herself.

Of course she knew.

They all did. Daemon Targaryen had carved his rule into the West with blood and fire. Nearly every noble house had fallen beneath his blade, their banners burned, their names erased. It had not been a battle. It had been a purge.

Egg knew why. He and his siblings had been made safe because of it.
His father had known exactly what would happen when he did what he did.
And he would do it again if given the chance.

That did not mean Egg had to like it.

The people of Dragonsport certainly did not.

History would not remember Daemon Targaryen kindly.
And his father was at peace with that.

Egg was not.

Then, he heard it.

“Egg is ready to take over lordship,” Daemon said, almost absently. “Perhaps I will travel in Essos, just as I did in my youth.”

Egg’s stomach dropped.

He barely noticed his mother’s hands curling into fists, the faint tremble in them. “If you must go, then why not to the Vale? You could look after Serys.”

Daemon let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “Serys has no need of me. He is intelligent—perhaps even more intelligent than Jace was at his age. And he has a good lord as his regent. My presence there would only cause confusion.” His lips quirked into something like amusement. “The people of the Vale do not particularly like me.”

Egg barely heard the words. His father was leaving?

His mother’s voice wavered. “You truly will not stay?”

Daemon did not hesitate. “No.”

Egg felt his heart hammer against his ribs. He had known—had always known—that Daemon had no love for the Seven Kingdoms, that he cared little for the politics, the titles, the endless games of power. But still… to leave?

“I am better off away from Westeros,” Daemon said, quieter now. “Look at what you have done in the past ten years, Rhaenyra.”

Egg did not miss the way his father spoke. There was something there, something almost reverent.

“The Queen’s Road—completed. Every castle, every keep, every village, and hamlet connected, trade flourishing like never before. King’s Landing, no longer a cesspit but a city worthy of its name. And the grain houses being built on each of the Seven Kingdoms—you have ensured the stores will never run empty again, that not a single winter will see our people starve.”

Egg barely breathed as he watched his mother’s face. Egg watched in silence, waiting for his mother to smile, to bask in the recognition of all she had built. But no such smile came.

Instead, she looked devastated.

Rhaenyra Targaryen, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, the woman who had rebuilt a realm from the ashes of war, stood before his father as if she had lost.

“I should have fought harder,” she whispered, her voice raw. “For us. For you. I should not have let fear rule me. I should not have let them tear our family apart.”

Egg had never heard her sound so—small.

His father exhaled, shaking his head, but there was no sharpness in it, no edge. Instead, his smile was uncharacteristically soft, his violet eyes unreadable.

“You did not destroy our family, Rhaenyra.”

She looked up at him, something desperate in her expression, but Daemon only took her hands, his grip firm, steady.

“You kept the kingdoms together.” he murmured. “And look at our children. All of them accomplished, upstanding members of society, each already on their way to becoming the best Lords and Ladies of the Realm. And you did that.” A ghost of a smirk. “They certainly did not get that from me.”

Egg swallowed.

His mother let out a shaky breath, her fingers tightening around Daemon’s hands as if she feared he would vanish into the night if she let go.

“Please,” she whispered. “Don’t go. Don’t leave me.”

Egg did not think he had ever heard her plead for anything before.

His father sighed, his expression unreadable as he pressed his forehead to hers, closing his eyes as if committing the moment to memory.

“You are strong, Rhaenyra.” he murmured, his voice heavy. “You do not need me.”

His mother shook her head, her fingers curling into his tunic. “I will always need you.”

Daemon let out a quiet chuckle at that, but there was no mockery in it, no jest—only something sad, something almost resigned.

And then, before Egg could process what was happening, he watched as his father leaned down to capture his mother’s lips in his own.

Egg turned around, not wanting to intrude in this intimate moment, his throat tight with something he did not have a name for.

He wanted to cry.

Why had he never known them like this? Why had Jace and Baela and Rhaena and Joffrey been granted something he had not? A family that was whole, a family that had not yet been shattered by war and duty and politics?

He barely remembered living on Dragonstone with them all together. Serys did not remember it at all. He had grown up splitting his time between Dragonrock and the capital, never truly belonging to either.

Egg had tried to be good. He had tried so hard.

He had followed every lesson, mastered every sword form, learned every name of every Lord and Lady that had bent the knee to his mother. He had done everything right, everything expected of him—because maybe, just maybe, if he was good enough, their family might be whole again.

But now, as he stood in the shadows, listening to his mother whisper, “In our next life, let us stay together for a long time.”

Egg clenched his fists. It was unfair.

But his father only exhaled softly, brushing his thumb over his mother’s cheek as if she were something fragile, something breakable. “You deserve to be happy in your next life, Rhaenyra.” he murmured.

And then—the words that shattered him.

“If we should meet again in another life…” Daemon hesitated, his eyes dark and tired and so, so sad. “pray, pass me by—as though we were strangers.”

Egg felt his breath hitch.

“You will be happier for it.” his father said gently.

His mother let out a soft, broken sound, her head bowing as her shoulders trembled.

Daemon shushed her, pulling her close, his lips brushing against her hair.

“Everything will be all right.”

Egg had never believed a greater lie in his life.

Egg dismounted from Stormcloud, his steps slow, his heart heavy.

A stable hand rushed forward, offering him a horse for the remainder of the journey, but he merely shook his head. The weight pressing upon his chest was already unbearable—he had no desire to saddle himself with more.

Before him loomed the Queen’s newer creation—a smaller dragonpit nestled behind the Red Keep, its stones hewn from the Vale and Dragonstone, its gilded embellishments paid for by the riches of Old Town who now laid in ruins. It was nothing compared to the great Dragonpit atop Rhaenys’ Hill, but it served its purpose. Here, only the Queen’s dragon and the hatchlings resided; the others remained within the grand structure beyond the castle walls.

Egg turned back, his gaze drawn to the scene unfolding behind him.

Caraxes lay beneath Syrax’s golden wings, his long, serpentine body trembling with grief. The Blood Wyrm let out a keening wail, his anguish reverberating through the air like a dirge.

Syrax echoed his sorrow, her own cry softer, soothing, as if she sought to comfort him.

Nearby, Laena’s hatchling , Morning, flapped her wings in agitation, screeching at the disturbance. But Egg paid her no mind—his eyes were fixed upon Caraxes.

His father’s dragon had flown here of his own accord, eschewing the grand Dragonpit in favor of this smaller, more secluded space. Perhaps even the great dragons of House Targaryen longed for quiet when mourning their own.

With a quiet inhale, Egg turned away, making his way past the rookery. The two guards stationed there fell into step behind him at once.

The castle gardens were in bloom, bursts of vibrant color lining the pathways, their fragrance carried by the warm afternoon breeze. A sight that would have normally brought him some measure of pleasure. But today, the beauty of the world was lost on him.

He barely noticed the roses, the lilacs, the carefully tended topiaries. The realm flourished, but he felt only emptiness.

At the entrance to the Holdfast, Jace stood waiting, a broad smile lighting up his face.

“Egg!” His voice was warm, his arms opening wide in welcome. “Why did you not send word of your arrival? We could have prepared a feast for you!”

Before Egg could reply, his elder brother had pulled him into a firm embrace.

Egg closed his eyes, swallowing against the tightness in his throat. He would not cry. He refused to.

Jace pulled back, though his smile faltered as his gaze flickered past him. “Where’s Kepa? I saw Caraxes with Stormcloud.”

Egg tried to smile, but whatever expression he managed was clearly unconvincing, for Jace’s brows drew together in concern.

Without a word, he wrapped an arm around Egg’s shoulders, guiding him inside.

“What is it?” he asked quietly.

Egg did not answer at first. His voice would betray him, he was certain. Instead, he asked, “Is Serys still here?”

Jace nodded. “Yes—he has lessons with the Archmaester at the Guild Hall. He’ll return to the Vale in a month, just in time for the Festival of the Winds. You know how he looks forward to it.”

The Festival of the Winds. Held on the first full moon of autumn, a grand spectacle of kites and races and feasts beneath the starry sky.

Egg said nothing.

Jace, sensing his silence, continued in a lighter tone. “I’ll wager Serys would rather be anywhere but the Guild Hall, though. Archmaester Vaegon is a strict instructor.”

“The only thing I was glad for upon coming of age was that I no longer had to sit through his tedious lessons.” Egg exhaled, forcing his voice to sound even. “The Archmaester never liked our father.”

Jace let out a quiet laugh. “No, he did not. But can you blame him?” He shot Egg a knowing look. “Daemon Targaryen did kidnap him from the Citadel just before he destroyed it.”

Egg huffed, shaking his head. “And Vaegon has never forgiven him—for the kidnapping, or the destruction?”

Jace smirked. “No one knows.”

For the first time since landing, Egg almost smiled. Almost.

“You should send for him. Serys, I mean.” Egg said, his voice quiet but firm.

Jace glanced at him, his easy smile fading into something more serious.

“You should send for Rhaena and Joff, too.”

For a moment, his brother simply looked at him, searching his face, as if weighing the depth of what he was truly asking. Then, with a solemn nod, he said, “Yes. But first, let’s get you to the Queen. I’ll send the ravens later.”

Jace’s strong arm remained a steadying presence at his back, guiding him through the winding halls toward the Queen’s solar. Egg let himself lean into his brother’s side, pressing his face against Jace’s chest, as if he were still a small babe seeking comfort. As if he were still that frightened five-year-old boy, torn from the only home he had ever known and thrust into a kingdom he could barely remember, surrounded by strangers who claimed to love him but whom he did not know at all.

Joff and the girls had smothered him and Serys in their affection, hugging and kissing them, telling them over and over how much they had been missed. It had been too much, too soon. Too overwhelming.

But Jace had known. Jace had been the only one who understood, who had not tried to drown them in warmth they had yet to trust. He had given them space, had allowed them time to grow into their places within this fractured family.

And now, Egg clung to him once more, drawing from his strength as he had so many times before.

But as they neared the Queen’s solar, he straightened himself, swallowing down the lump in his throat. He could not let himself break. Not yet.

The doors opened, and there she was—his mother, smiling so brightly, her entire face alight with joy.

“Oh, my sweet Aegon!” she exclaimed, crossing the room swiftly to embrace him. She kissed both of his cheeks, her hands lingering on either side of his face, warm and reassuring.

Then, she glanced past him, her eyes scanning the corridor. Searching.

She was looking for Daemon.

When she did not find him, her shoulders dropped ever so slightly, the gleam of excitement dimming in her eyes. But she said nothing of it, merely motioning for him to sit beside her.

Egg hesitated. He looked to Jace, whose steady nod urged him forward.

Swallowing, he sat.

Then, with shaking hands, he reached for his mother’s, clasping them tightly in his own.

“Mother,” he began haltingly, his voice already raw, “a moon ago, Kepa flew West, toward the Sunset Sea. He said he was only going on a trip.”

Rhaenyra’s expression sharpened, her fingers tightening instinctively around his.

“A week ago…” Egg took a breath. “Caraxes came back without him.”

His mother’s lips parted, her brows knitting in concern. “What have you done to look for him?”

“The entire fleet is scouring the sea and the islands,” Egg answered. “I tried to coax Caraxes to show me where he left Kepa, but he would not move.” He hesitated before adding, “This morning, when he flew, I thought… I thought he might be going to him. So I followed.”

He exhaled shakily. “But he came to King’s Landing instead. He’s with Syrax now.”

Rhaenyra stood at once. “We need to find him,” she declared. “Jace, call for Baela and Ser Addam—we leave now. It will be faster on dragonback.” She turned sharply toward the door. “Send ravens to Driftmark and Storm’s End. They must go west. We need—”

“Mother.”

Jace caught her hand, his grip firm.

She looked at him, and Egg could see it—the moment she truly saw him. The moment she noticed the tears spilling freely down his cheeks.

He swallowed thickly. “I think Kepa is gone.”

His mother’s breath caught, her face twisting with something close to fury. Denial.

“No!” she said fiercely, shaking her head. “That is not true.” She turned to Jace, searching for reassurance in his face, but found none. “Just a week ago, I saw him,” she insisted, her voice breaking. “I saw him atop Caraxes, flying high in the sky.”

Her desperation hung thick in the air, suffocating.

Egg said nothing.

Jace said nothing.

The only sound was the distant, mournful keening of Caraxes.

Rhaenyra turned to Jace, her eyes brimming with unshed tears, her grip on his hand tightening to the point of pain.

“Please,” she whispered. “Please, Jace. You must look for him. We need to look for him.”

Her voice broke on the last word, raw and pleading.

Egg reached for her then, his fingers slipping around hers, anchoring her as she unraveled before them. Slowly, hesitantly, he unfurled his clenched fist, revealing what he had been holding onto for three days now.

Rhaenyra’s gaze dropped, and her breath hitched the moment she saw it.

A simple bracelet, woven from strands of silver and silvery gold, braided so seamlessly that it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.

Daemon’s hair. And hers.

Rhaenyra reached for it with trembling hands, her fingers grazing over the familiar texture, the strands interwoven so tightly—so lovingly—that it had surely taken hours of patience to braid.

Egg’s voice was barely a whisper.

“I had never seen Kepa without it,” he said hoarsely. “Not once.” He swallowed. “I found it on his table, along with Dark Sister.”

A single sob broke from his mother's lips as she clutched the bracelet to her chest. She was crying now, openly, desperately, her entire body shaking with the force of it. Jace caught her before she could fall, bearing the full weight of her grief, guiding her gently to a chair.

Egg could not stand to see her like this. Could not bear to see his mother, his strong, fierce mother, so utterly shattered.

So he did the only thing he could—he sat beside her, lowered his head, and pressed it against her shoulder, bowing beneath the weight of his own sorrow.

Tears blurred his vision, hot and unrelenting, spilling freely down his cheeks.

“I do not think we should look for him,” he whispered, barely able to hear himself over the sound of his mother’s weeping.

He closed his eyes, the words tasting like ash on his tongue.

“I think… I think he needed to rest now.”

Rhaenyra cried harder now, the sound wretched and unrestrained, echoing through the solar like a heart breaking in two. It was the kind of grief that came from the soul, from the marrow of her very bones, raw and uncontainable.

But it needed to be said.

Daemon had spent his entire life carrying burdens too great for any one man to bear. He had fought, he had bled, he had sacrificed—always for the Crown, always for their family. He had borne it all alone, as though he believed himself unbreakable. As though he had never been a man, but a sword, a shield, a dragon meant only to serve, to protect, to conquer.

But even dragons grew weary. Even dragons needed to rest.

Egg held her hand tighter, willing her to understand.

“He has given enough, Mother,” he whispered. “We should let him rest.”

Rhaenyra clutched the braided bracelet to her chest, her fingers curled so tightly around it that her knuckles had gone white.

“I saw him,” she wept, shaking her head in defiance. “Just three days ago, I saw him in the sky. He was still here. I thought he was being cheeky—He would not—”

But she could not finish.

Because even she knew that Caraxes would never have left Daemon behind unless there had been no other choice—unless he had been bid to go.

Jace was kneeling before her now, his own eyes damp, his hands warm and steady as they covered hers.

“We will search for him, if you wish it,” he said gently. “But Mother… you must prepare yourself. If he is truly gone…”

Rhaenyra’s breath came in sharp, painful gasps, as if she could not bear to let the thought take root.

Egg bowed his head against her shoulder, his own tears slipping silently onto the fine embroidery of her gown.

They all knew it. Even if none of them could say it.

Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince, the Bloody Sword of Westeros,, the fiercest warrior of his age… was gone.