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novaursa · 2 months ago

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The Price of Fire (13)

- Summary: In the shadows of the Red Keep, the daughter of the Mad King, Princess Y/N Targaryen, finds herself caught between duty, love, and survival. As her father’s madness deepens and political intrigue swirls, she seeks solace in a forbidden romance with her sworn protector, Ser Arthur Dayne. With King Aerys plotting to use her as a pawn and her brother Rhaegar maneuvering to shield her from their father’s grasp, Y/N must navigate a web of deceit and desire. As tensions rise, secrets ignite into fierce passion and dangerous alliances, where the wrong move could mean the end of them all.

- Paring: targ!reader/Arthur Dayne

- Note: For the rest of the parts of the story, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Word count: 8 000+

- Previous part: 12

- Next part: 14

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @lightdragonrayne @onlyrealjoy @hajmola-vs-aamchaska @alyssa-dayne

The sun was setting over the vast expanse of Dorne as you and Arthur rode toward Starfall, the ancestral seat of House Dayne. The long journey had been grueling, but the sight of the pale stone walls of the castle rising against the desert landscape brought a sense of relief. Starfall, nestled near the shores of the Torrentine, shimmered in the fading light, the Sword of the Morning’s ancestral home looking like a beacon of safety amidst the chaos you had fled.

Arthur rode beside you, his gaze sharp and focused as always, but there was a heaviness in the air between you, a shared understanding of what you had left behind and what awaited you here. His hand, warm and steady, had gripped yours tightly for much of the journey, a silent promise that he would see you through this. But even Arthur, as confident and unwavering as he had been, knew the gravity of what was to come.

As the gates of Starfall opened before you, a small party emerged from the castle to greet you. At the forefront stood Ashara Dayne, her violet eyes wide with anticipation. Her dark hair, flowing freely over her shoulders, caught the last rays of the sun, and her expression—though composed—betrayed a mix of emotions as she saw you and Arthur approaching.

She had received the letter, of course. She had known they were coming. But seeing it unfold before her eyes—the dragon princess, you, and her brother, the famed Sword of the Morning, now a man branded a traitor to the crown—was something else entirely.

Behind her, several retainers of House Dayne stood, their expressions somber but respectful. The atmosphere was heavy with the weight of what was happening. Here, even in Dorne, word had spread like a storm of King Aerys' descent into insenity, of his obsession with his daughter, and of the dark ritual that had led to the hatching of a dragon—a miracle, some whispered. But others, even here, spoke of it with a shiver of unease. The way in which the dragon had been brought into the world—the burning of men, the wildfire—it cast a shadow over what should have been a wonder.

As you and Arthur dismounted, Ashara stepped forward, her eyes flickering between you and her brother. She was beautiful, as she always had been, but there was an intensity in her gaze that spoke of understanding and concern.

“Arthur,” she said softly, her voice carrying the weight of both affection and caution. Her eyes moved to you, and she gave a respectful nod. “Princess Y/N.”

You managed a faint smile, though you could feel the tension in your chest, the exhaustion of the journey and the enormity of what you had fled catching up to you. “Lady Ashara,” you replied, your voice quieter than usual.

Ashara’s eyes softened, and she glanced at her brother again, as if searching for something in his expression. “I received your letter,” she said, her voice careful. “But seeing you both here...”

Arthur, ever composed, stepped forward. “We had no choice,” he said quietly, his voice steady but filled with an unspoken weight. “The situation in King’s Landing has grown far worse than you know.”

Ashara sighed, her eyes darkening with concern. “It is all anyone can speak of, even here in Dorne. The king’s madness... his obsession with his daughter.” She glanced at you then, her expression softening. “The birth of the dragon. It’s seen as a miracle in some corners, but...” She trailed off, and the unspoken truth lingered in the air.

“But the manner of its birth,” she continued after a moment, “has unsettled many. The burning of men with wildfire... it casts a dark shadow, even on a miracle.”

You looked away, the memories of that ritual flashing through your mind, the heat of the wildfire, the sight of the men burning, feeling fires on you skin, the scent of their flesh still resides in your soul. It was something you could never forget, a nightmare that clung to you even now.

Arthur reached for your hand again, his fingers curling around yours gently. “We’re not here for miracles,” he said softly, his voice filled with the kind of tenderness he only ever used with you. “We’re here because the king’s obsession has reached its peak. Rhaegar... Rhaegar had no choice but to take action. And now, we must protect Y/N.”

Ashara’s face tightened as she heard her brother’s words, the weight of them settling over her. “Rhaegar has started a war,” she murmured, her eyes searching Arthur’s. “And you... you’ve broken your oath to the crown.”

Arthur’s jaw clenched, but his gaze remained steady. “I’ve broken no oath that matters. My loyalty is to her, to protecting her from a fate worse than any betrayal to the crown.”

There was a long pause, the silence filled with the heavy weight of what lay ahead. Ashara, torn between her own loyalty to her brother and the reality of what this all meant, finally nodded.

“I understand,” she said softly, her voice filled with sorrow and resolve. “Come inside. We will keep you safe here, for as long as we can.”

She turned and led the way toward the gates of Starfall, her retainers following closely behind. You and Arthur exchanged a glance, and for a moment, despite everything, there was a sense of relief. You had made it to Starfall. For now, you were safe.

But as you walked through the gates and entered the shadowed halls of the ancient castle, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this was only the beginning.

The halls of Starfall were cool and dim, a sharp contrast to the scorching Dornish sun outside. Ashara led you and Arthur through the shadowed corridors, her movements swift and graceful, though her face was etched with worry. Arthur remained close to you, his presence a steady comfort as your steps echoed through the ancient stone halls. Starfall’s very walls seemed to carry the weight of history, of long-forgotten battles and the legacy of House Dayne.

As you walked, you couldn’t help but glance at Arthur, his jaw tight, his hand brushing against yours in quiet reassurance. But just as you were about to speak, a familiar voice broke the silence.

“Well, well,” the voice drawled, smooth and unmistakable. “The princess of dragons graces us with her presence. It’s been too long since we’ve seen that pretty face.”

You stopped, your heart skipping a beat as you turned to find Prince Oberyn Martell leaning against one of the stone pillars, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement. His lips curled into a slow smile, and he stepped forward, his gaze flicking between you and Arthur with a knowing look. He was dressed as casually as ever, but the power and confidence he exuded made the air around him feel charged.

“Oberyn,” you greeted with a small, tired smile, surprised to see him here. The last time you had seen him was at the festival of the Mother in King’s Landing, when the court had tried to match his sister, Elia, with Rhaegar. It felt like a lifetime ago now. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

Oberyn’s smile widened, his eyes flicking over you, taking in your travel-worn appearance but with no less warmth. “And I wasn’t expecting to find the famed dragon princess on my doorstep, but here we are,” he said lightly, his voice teasing but not unkind. “You’ve certainly brought a bit of excitement to Dorne, though I suppose that’s no surprise for someone with dragon blood.”

You chuckled softly, despite everything, and offered a light jest, your words more out of habit than ease. “You flatter me, Prince Oberyn. Though I’m sure there’s plenty of excitement in Dorne without me.”

Oberyn’s eyes sparkled with amusement, but then his gaze shifted to Arthur, who had remained by your side, ever watchful. The prince’s expression turned more thoughtful, his smile turning into a smirk. “I must say, Arthur, you’re looking... particularly attentive,” he remarked, his tone dripping with suggestion. “And very close to the princess.”

Arthur straightened, his face calm but unreadable as always. “I’m protecting her, Oberyn,” he said, his voice steady. “That’s my duty.”

Oberyn raised an eyebrow, the smirk on his lips deepening. “Oh, I remember,” he said smoothly. “At the festival in King’s Landing, you and I spoke, and I noticed it then—the way you looked at her. The Sword of the Morning, in love with the dragon princess.” His eyes gleamed mischievously. “It seems I was right.”

Your heart skipped a beat, heat rising to your cheeks at Oberyn’s words. You glanced at Arthur, who remained composed, though there was a faint tension in his jaw. He didn’t deny it. And neither did you.

Before the moment could stretch on further, Ashara cleared her throat, giving the prince a sharp look. “Your Grace,” she said firmly. “This is not the time.”

Oberyn shrugged, though his smile remained. “Very well, Lady Ashara,” he said, though his gaze lingered on you and Arthur for a moment longer. Then, with a graceful step, he turned to face you more fully, his expression softening.

“You’re safe here, Princess,” Oberyn said, his tone turning serious. “Starfall is well-guarded, and if Aerys sends men to Dorne, we will respond. Dorne does not bow easily to the will of mad kings.”

You frowned, the weight of everything pressing down on you again. “Why are you protecting me?” you asked, the question escaping your lips before you could stop it. There was gratitude in your voice, but also confusion. “I don’t... I don’t understand why you’re taking such a risk.”

Oberyn smiled, but there was a flicker of something more in his eyes—something sharp and calculating. “I have a passion for protecting damsels in distress,” he said with a smirk, though his voice was softer now. “But more than that... it’s the right thing to do.”

He paused, his gaze thoughtful as he considered his next words. “And perhaps,” he added, his tone more deliberate, “saving you could be beneficial to Dorne in the long run. Once Rhaegar secures the throne, there will be... opportunities for future alliances. A free princess, safe and sound, could open many doors.”

You felt a pang of unease at his words, a reminder of the political games that had always surrounded you. Even now, far from King’s Landing, you were still a piece on the board—a tool for others to use.

But more than that, Oberyn’s words stirred something deeper, something painful. You shifted uncomfortably, the conflicting emotions swirling inside you. No matter how deranged Aerys had become, he was still your father. Your blood. And despite everything, despite the fear and the horrors you had witnessed, you could not shake the love you still felt for the man he once was. The father who had once held you close, who had smiled at you with genuine affection before the madness consumed him.

“I... I understand,” you said quietly, your voice faltering slightly. “But it’s still... difficult. He’s still my father, no matter what he’s become. And all of this... it still feels alien to me.”

Oberyn’s expression softened, and for a moment, the playful, teasing prince was gone, replaced by someone who understood the weight of loss, the pain of family. “I don’t envy your position, Princess,” he said quietly. “But remember, you didn’t choose this. None of this is your fault.”

Arthur’s hand found yours again, a silent comfort, and you squeezed it gently, grateful for his steady presence.

Ashara stepped forward, placing a hand on your shoulder, her expression kind. “You’re safe here,” she repeated softly. “You have people who care for you.”

You nodded, though the knot in your chest remained. The love you still carried for your father, the man he had once been, warred with the reality of what he had become. And the uncertainty of the future hung over you like a dark cloud.

But here, in Starfall, surrounded by those who had chosen to protect you, you knew you were not alone.

The journey to Dragonstone had been long and weighed down with silance, the heavy skies mirroring the burden that hung over Rhaegar’s heart. The sea winds whipped around the island fortress, carrying the salt of the Narrow Sea, but they did little to cleanse the worries from his mind. He had successfully escorted his mother, Queen Rhaella, to safety with the aid of Varys' men, ensuring she was far from the madness of King’s Landing. Yet even here, in the ancient stronghold of House Targaryen, the shadows of his father’s madness loomed.

Rhaegar stood on the terrace overlooking the stormy sea, his silver hair blowing in the wind, his violet eyes dark with the weight of the world pressing upon him. His thoughts drifted to you—to the sister he had sent away with Ser Arthur Dayne, trusting him with your life. His heart ached at the thought of you, far from him, but safer in the hands of the man he trusted most. But the weight of keeping you hidden, even from his own mother, gnawed at him.

Behind him, the door to the chamber opened quietly, and his mother, Queen Rhaella, stepped out to join him. She was pale and fragile, her face lined with worry. The toll of years spent under Aerys’ madness was clear in her eyes, though she carried herself with the dignity of a queen.

"Rhaegar," she called softly, her voice filled with concern.

Rhaegar turned to face her, his expression softening as he saw the worry etched into her face. She was his mother, the woman who had endured more than anyone should ever have to. And now, as he stood on the precipice of war, he knew the pain he was causing her—the uncertainty, the fear for her children.

"Mother," Rhaegar said gently, stepping forward to take her hands in his. "You’re safe here, at Dragonstone. No harm will come to you."

Rhaella’s eyes searched his face, and though she nodded, her worry was not so easily dismissed. "But what of you?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly. "And your sister? Where is Y/N, Rhaegar? I don’t even know where she’s been taken. How can I be at peace when I don’t know if my children are safe?"

Her words hit Rhaegar with the force of a storm. He had expected this, had known his mother would ask. But now, standing before her, he could feel the weight of his decision bearing down on him. He could not tell her where you were. He couldn’t risk it. Not with his father’s insanity growing, not with Aerys' wrath so unpredictable. If she knew, and if Aerys ever turned his wrath on Rhaella again, she might suffer because of the knowledge.

"Y/N is safe," Rhaegar said softly, his voice steady but filled with the burden of what he withheld. "She’s with Ser Arthur. He will protect her."

Rhaella’s eyes flickered with relief, but also with a trace of doubt. "Arthur is a good man," she said, her voice still soft, "but why must I be kept in the dark about where she’s been taken? What danger is she in that you can’t share with me?"

Rhaegar exhaled slowly, his heart aching for the truth he couldn’t share. "The less you know, Mother, the safer you are," he said, his tone gentle but firm. "Father’s instability... it’s growing worse. If he turns his attention to you again, if he seeks to punish you for what has happened... I can’t risk you being harmed because of knowledge you shouldn’t carry."

Rhaella’s face tightened with fear, her grip on Rhaegar’s hands tightening. "Your father..." she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath. "He won’t let this go, will he? He’ll come for her. For you."

Rhaegar nodded slowly, his expression grim. "He will. But I won’t let him take her. I won’t let him destroy us."

Tears welled in Rhaella’s eyes, but she blinked them back, her fingers gripping her son’s hands as though she could anchor herself to him. "I’ve already lost so much," she said, her voice trembling. "I can’t lose you, Rhaegar. I can’t lose Y/N. I’ve lost your father, the man he once was... but not you. Not my children."

Rhaegar’s throat tightened, and he pulled his mother into a gentle embrace, holding her close as the stormy winds whipped around them. "You won’t lose us," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I swear it. I will protect Y/N, and I will do everything in my power to protect you."

They stood there for a moment, mother and son, bound by shared pain and love, both knowing that the storm that had begun in King’s Landing was only just gathering strength.

After a long silence, Rhaella pulled back slightly, searching her son’s face. "What will you do now?" she asked softly.

Rhaegar’s eyes darkened as he looked out over the sea, his thoughts already turning to the war he knew was coming. "I will prepare," he said, his voice resolute. "The North is already moving. The Riverlands will follow. Father has ignited the flames of rebellion with his madness, and there’s no turning back now."

Rhaella’s hand trembled as she reached up to touch Rhaegar’s face, her eyes filled with sorrow. "Be careful, Rhaegar," she whispered. "I know your destiny, your dreams... but be careful. You and Y/N are all I have left."

Rhaegar nodded, his heart heavy with the weight of his mother’s love and fear. "I will," he promised.

The warm air of summer clung to the open field, the sun hanging high in the sky as Rhaegar Targaryen stood, watching the approaching banners of House Baratheon. The grass swayed gently in the breeze, but there was a sense of foreboding in the air that even the heat couldn’t dispel. Across the distance, Robert Baratheon rode forward with his men, the stag on a field of gold flying proudly behind him. The meeting was inevitable, a consequence of all that had transpired.

Rhaegar stood tall, his silver hair catching the light, his violet eyes focused ahead. Though stripped of his title as Prince of Dragonstone, branded a traitor by his father, none of that concerned him as much as the accusations leveled against him—the claim that he had stolen his own sister. The gravity of those words hung over him, even as he prepared to face Robert.

The two had not met since that fateful festival in King’s Landing, when the court had tried to match Elia Martell with Rhaegar. But now, they faced each other under very different circumstances.

As Robert and his men came to a halt, Rhaegar's thoughts momentarily drifted to you. You were safely hidden with Ser Arthur Dayne, far from the madness that had engulfed the realm. But that safety had come at a price, and now the consequences were unfolding before him.

Robert dismounted, his powerful frame towering over the men who stood behind him. His face was hard, his blue eyes filled with anger and accusation. His warhammer, which had already claimed many lives in this rebellion, hung at his side, a menacing reminder of the brute force he commanded.

"Rhaegar," Robert said, his voice carrying across the field like a growl. "Last time we stood together, we were in King’s Landing. Now look at what you’ve become."

Rhaegar remained calm, his hands resting on the hilt of his sword as he met Robert’s gaze. "Much has changed since then, Robert," he replied. "But we both know why we are here today."

Robert’s expression darkened as he took a step closer. "Aye, I know exactly why," he said, his voice thick with contempt. "You’re a traitor to the crown. You’ve turned your back on your own father, and you’ve dragged the realm into chaos. You’re no prince anymore—you’re just a thief."

The accusation hit like a blow, but Rhaegar had expected it. His hand tightened slightly on the hilt of his sword, though his face remained composed.

"I’m no thief, Robert," he said firmly. "I’ve protected my sister from a king who has lost his mind. My father is no longer the man he once was. His obsession with power, his madness, has poisoned the realm. I couldn’t let him drag Y/N into that madness."

Robert’s fists clenched, his anger bubbling just beneath the surface. "And you thought it was your right to take her away?" he spat, stepping closer. "To defy the crown? You think that makes you better than Aerys?"

Rhaegar stood his ground, his eyes never leaving Robert’s. "It wasn’t about defiance—it was about doing what was right. Y/N was never meant to be used as a toy in my father’s delusions. He wanted to take her as his wife, Robert. His own daughter. I couldn’t let that happen."

Robert’s face twisted in disgust, but his rage remained unchecked. "So you decided to start a war to protect her?" he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "You think that makes you some kind of hero? You think this rebellion is about saving your sister?"

Rhaegar’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t rise to the bait. "This isn’t about me," he said quietly. "It’s about protecting her from becoming another victim of my father’s madness. The man who sits on the Iron Throne will burn the realm to the ground if it means keeping his twisted grip on power."

Robert’s eyes narrowed, and he took another step closer, looming over Rhaegar. "You think you’re better than him? You think you can just claim her for yourself and call it protection?"

Rhaegar’s breath caught for a moment, but he forced himself to remain steady. He knew the truth of his actions—knew the purity of his intentions when it came to you. His love for you, his desire to keep you safe, had driven him to do things he never thought possible. But Robert’s insinuations cut deep.

"I love my sister," Rhaegar said, his voice low but filled with conviction. "But not in the way you think. I would die before I let Aerys destroy her, or destroy the realm. Everything I’ve done, I’ve done to protect her from a fate worse than death."

Robert scoffed, shaking his head. "You’ve already brought death, Rhaegar," he said coldly. "You’ve dragged the realm into war, and now it’s going to destroy everything you think you’re protecting."

For a moment, the only sound was the distant rustling of the wind through the grass. The tension between them was shimmering, both men knowing that the words exchanged here were only the beginning.

Robert took a step back, his face hardening once more. "This isn’t going to end well for you, Rhaegar," he said, his voice quiet but full of menace. "You’ve made your choice. Now you’ll face the consequences."

Rhaegar met Robert’s gaze, his expression resolute. "The consequences have already begun, Robert," he said. "But they won’t end with my death. They’ll end with a mad king removed from the throne."

Robert’s lip curled, and without another word, he turned and strode back toward his men, his warhammer swinging heavily at his side.

As Robert’s men mounted their horses and prepared to leave, Rhaegar remained standing in the field, the wind brushing through his hair. The meeting was over, but the battle that lay ahead was only just beginning.

The throne room was suffused with an uneasy warmth, the late summer heat mixing with the heavy dread that clung to the walls of the Red Keep. Behind the Iron Throne, Terrax lay coiled in the shadows, the massive black dragon’s slow breaths audible in the otherwise silent hall. His golden eyes, half-lidded but ever watchful, glowed faintly in the low light. The courtiers and council members stood still, their attention split between the maddened king and the restless creature behind him, each movement of the dragon a reminder of the volatile situation they faced.

King Aerys II sat upon the Iron Throne, his silver hair wild, eyes blazing with anger. His thin frame seemed to tremble with barely contained fury, and the small council could feel it in the air, crackling like the heat of a fire about to blaze out of control. Lord Owen Merryweather, his face pale and drawn, stood at the center of the storm, the weight of the king’s rage fully upon him.

“You have failed me, Merryweather!” Aerys shouted, his voice sharp and cold. “The rebellion grows stronger, my enemies multiply, and my daughter—my daughter—remains out of reach! What good are you as Hand if you cannot stop even this?”

Behind the throne, Terrax shifted, his tail scraping against the stone floor with a low, rumbling sound that sent shivers through those gathered. The dragon’s presence had always unnerved them, and now, with the king’s madness growing unchecked, it felt as though the beast was an extension of Aerys' wild temper, ready to erupt at any moment.

Merryweather swallowed, sweat beading on his forehead. “Your Grace, I—"

“Silence!” Aerys barked, cutting him off. “You were meant to serve me, to keep order in my realm. Instead, you have allowed chaos to spread! You have let my son steal away my daughter, and you have done nothing to stop it!”

The entire council stood frozen, none daring to meet the king’s gaze for fear of drawing his ire. Even the smallest glance toward Terrax could betray fear or hesitation, which Aerys would certainly seize upon. The dragon’s breathing grew heavier, and the oppressive heat in the room seemed to intensify.

“You are no longer fit to serve,” Aerys continued, his voice lowering into something more menacing. “I strip you of your title as Hand of the King. You are banished from my sight and from this court. Leave now, before I decide to deal with you more harshly.”

Merryweather, ashen-faced, bowed low and backed away from the throne, his departure marked by the soft clinking of armor and murmurs from the court. The doors closed behind him with a resounding thud, leaving the room in a stifling silence.

The king’s eyes swept over the remaining council members, his gaze wild and dangerous. His fingers gripped the arms of the Iron Throne so tightly that the sharp blades beneath his hands dug into his skin, leaving thin trails of blood. But Aerys paid no mind to the pain—his thoughts were consumed by other matters, chief among them your absence.

“Jon Connington,” Aerys called, turning his attention to the man who now stood before him. “You will be my new Hand. Bring my enemies to their knees, bring my daughter back to me, or suffer the same fate as your predecessor.”

Jon Connington, calm and composed, bowed deeply. “I will not fail you, Your Grace,” he said in a measured tone. His words were confident, but the gravity of his new role was evident. He knew the dangers that lay ahead, both from within the court and beyond its walls.

As Connington took his place, Aerys’ gaze snapped to Varys, who had been standing silently at the edge of the room. The Master of Whisperers, ever composed, offered a slight bow, his hands hidden within the folds of his robes. But Aerys was in no mood for silence or patience.

“You!” Aerys hissed, his voice sharp and filled with venom. “You claim to know every secret in this kingdom, to have spies in every corner, yet you still have not found her! Where is Y/N?”

Varys, unmoved by the king’s outburst, responded in his usual soft, unflappable manner. “Your Grace, my little birds are searching every corner of Westeros. There are whispers, but—”

“Whispers?!” Aerys’ voice rose to a fever pitch, the madness in his eyes flaring. “I do not want whispers, Varys, I want my daughter! You will find her, or I will burn every spy of yours alive! Do you hear me?”

At the mention of burning, Terrax’s tail twitched again, his golden eyes narrowing slightly. The dragon, though bonded to you and not Aerys, sensed the turmoil in the room. His presence was a constant reminder of the thin line between power and destruction that Aerys walked so carelessly.

Varys bowed his head, his voice smooth and deferential. “Your Grace, I assure you, we are close. The princess will be found, and she will be returned to you.”

Aerys stared at Varys for a long moment, his breathing heavy and erratic. “You had better,” he muttered darkly. “Or I will feed you to the flames myself.”

As Varys bowed again and stepped back, Grand Maester Pycelle, standing nearby, cleared his throat nervously, hoping to ease the king’s temper. “Your Grace,” he began cautiously, “perhaps if we—”

“Quiet, you old fool!” Aerys snapped, turning his anger on Pycelle. “I have no use for your weak counsel! We are beyond diplomacy—this is a time for fire and blood!”

At the mention of fire, Wisdom Rossart stepped forward, his lips curling into a thin smile. “Wildfire, Your Grace,” he said, his voice eager. “With wildfire, we can cleanse your enemies from the earth. Rhaegar, the traitors, all of them can be burned away.”

Aerys' expression shifted, a gleam of dark satisfaction lighting his eyes. "Yes," he murmured, as though Rossart’s words had calmed his storm. "Wildfire. I will bathe them in flames, and they will know the wrath of the dragon."

Terrax’s head lifted slightly, his golden eyes gleaming as if in acknowledgment of the words. His massive body remained coiled behind the throne, a shadow of danger that made every man in the room acutely aware of their own mortality.

Ser Gerold Hightower stood silently, as stoic as ever, but even he could feel the weight of the king’s madness pressing down upon the room. His presence, once that of a steadfast protector, now seemed to waver as he witnessed Aerys descend further into darkness.

Aerys, seemingly appeased for the moment, sat back on the Iron Throne, his bloody fingers gripping the metal as he spoke in a low, dangerous tone. “Find her,” he commanded, his voice filled with malice. “Bring Y/N back to me, or you will all burn for your failures.”

The small council exchanged brief, uneasy glances before bowing and retreating from the hall. The tension in the air was almost unbearable as they filed out, leaving Aerys alone with his twisted thoughts and the ever-watchful dragon behind him.

The doors closed with a heavy thud, and Aerys remained seated, his mind racing with thoughts of betrayal, fire, and the daughter who had been taken from him.

The night was calm at Starfall, the vast Dornish skies speckled with stars, but inside the cool stone walls, your mind was anything but still. You lay curled in Arthur’s arms, his warmth against your back a comfort, yet sleep did not bring you peace. Instead, it dragged you into darkness—a darkness that twisted and churned with an ancient and foreboding sense of doom.

In the nightmare, you stood in the heart of a desolate, frozen wasteland. The air was heavy, and the sky above you was a bruised, sickly green, swirling with strange lights that seemed to whisper as they danced across the horizon. The world around you was coated in thick layers of ice and snow, a cold so deep it seeped into your bones, making your breath come out in ragged puffs of white.

There were figures in the distance—vague shapes moving across the horizon, their forms blending with the howling winds. The cold gnawed at your skin, yet you felt something far worse in the air: a creeping sense of dread, as if something ancient and evil was stirring beneath the ice.

"The Long Night," a voice whispered, soft and mocking. "It’s coming again, princess. It’s always coming. And there’s nothing you can do to stop it."

You turned, searching for the source of the voice, but found nothing. Only the endless expanse of ice and shadows, stretching out as far as the eye could see. The winds screamed around you, carrying with them whispers—fragments of words, lost promises, broken oaths. The cold grew sharper, more painful, until it felt like knives slicing through your skin.

“You will fall.”

The voice was clearer now, slithering through the winds like a serpent’s hiss. “You cannot escape what is coming. Not even with a dragon by your side.”

Suddenly, the ground beneath your feet cracked, and with a sharp jolt, you were falling—plunging into a chasm of ice and darkness. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see, but the voice followed you, laughing softly in your ears.

“Do you hear it? The dead are coming for you, princess. They always have.”

The terror rose, thick and suffocating. You could feel the icy hands of the dead clawing at you, pulling you deeper into the frozen abyss, their empty eyes staring through you, their mouths twisted into grotesque smiles. The dead were all around you now, their bodies rising from the snow, their skeletal fingers grasping for you, dragging you down.

"Look how far you’ve fallen."

The voice was taunting, gloating, as you struggled to break free, but your limbs felt heavy, useless. You couldn’t escape. The cold was everywhere now, inside you, freezing your very soul.

"There is no escape, little dragon. You belong to the darkness."

And then, piercing through the nightmare, came a sound—a deep, thunderous roar that shook the very ground beneath your feet. The dead scattered, their twisted forms retreating into the shadows as the roar echoed through the icy wasteland. The sky above cracked with a brilliant light, and in the distance, you saw him—Terrax, your dragon, his golden eyes blazing as he cut through the storm with a fury that shattered the nightmare’s grip.

With a sharp gasp, you woke, your body trembling and drenched in sweat. The darkness of the dream still clung to you, the voice’s taunts lingering in your mind like a poisoned whisper. But the warmth of the real world was there to greet you. Arthur’s arms tightened around you protectively, his voice soft in your ear.

“Y/N,” he whispered, his tone filled with concern as he held you close. “You were dreaming again.”

You turned in his embrace, your breath still ragged from the fear that lingered in your chest. Your eyes met his, and the depth of his affection and worry was clear in the moonlight that filtered through the window. Arthur’s hand gently brushed your hair away from your face, his thumb tracing soothing circles against your temple.

“I’m here,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “It’s all right. You’re safe with me.”

The warmth of his body against yours was grounding, pulling you away from the icy grip of the nightmare. You rested your forehead against his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of him, allowing his steady heartbeat to calm the storm still raging inside you.

“I saw it again,” you whispered, your voice shaking. “The Long Night... the dead...”

Arthur’s hand moved gently along your back, his touch a constant source of comfort. “It’s just a dream,” he said softly, though there was a weight in his voice, a worry that he couldn’t fully hide. “It’s not real.”

But even as he said it, you both knew that your dreams, your visions, were never just dreams. You had seen too much, felt too much for them to be dismissed so easily. The weight of your dragondreams always lingered, their warnings carried deep within your soul.

“And the voice,” you murmured, your fingers curling into his shirt. “It keeps taunting me, Arthur. It... it says things that feel too real.”

Arthur’s brow furrowed, and he held you tighter, his hand moving to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing softly across your skin. “You’re stronger than whatever that voice says,” he said, his voice filled with quiet determination. “You’re stronger than the darkness, Y/N.”

You looked up at him, your heart swelling with gratitude and love for the man who had stood by your side through all of this madness. In his eyes, you found the safety and strength that the nightmare had tried to take from you. With him, you knew you could face anything, even the shadows that haunted your dreams.

Gently, you leaned in and pressed your lips to his, a soft, lingering kiss that spoke of the bond between you. Arthur responded with tenderness, his hand resting at the small of your back, holding you close as he deepened the kiss, his affection pouring into the simple act of being with you.

When you pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm and comforting against your skin. “I love you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible in the quiet of the night. “And I will protect you from whatever comes.”

You nodded, your heart steadying in his arms, the terror of the dream fading as you found solace in his embrace. Terrax’s distant roar echoed faintly in your mind, a reminder that you were never truly alone.

As you lay back down, nestled safely against Arthur’s chest, his arms wrapped around you protectively, you knew that no matter how dark the dreams became, you had the strength to face them.

Because with Arthur—and with your dragon—you would never be lost to the darkness.

The soft light of dawn spilled through the open window of the solar, casting a warm glow on the smooth stone walls of Starfall. You sat by the window, looking out at the Torrentine River below, its waters gleaming in the early morning light. The sound of the river’s gentle rush echoed faintly, but the quiet peace of the moment did little to calm the storm that churned within you.

Ashara Dayne sat across from you, her long dark hair falling loosely over her shoulders, her violet eyes filled with understanding as she watched you. She was patient, allowing the silence to stretch as she waited for you to speak. You had asked to talk, but now that you were here, the weight of everything seemed too heavy to put into words.

Finally, you let out a breath, your voice quiet but laced with frustration. "I feel so helpless here, Ashara."

Ashara’s gaze remained steady, but she tilted her head slightly, encouraging you to continue.

“I can’t just sit here while Rhaegar fights this war alone,” you went on, your hands clenched in your lap. "He’s out there, risking everything, and I’m... I’m hiding here, waiting for it all to be over. It feels like I’m abandoning him. I can’t let him do this by himself."

Ashara's expression softened, and she leaned forward slightly, her tone gentle but firm. "You’re not abandoning him, Y/N. You’re protecting yourself, and Rhaegar wants you to be safe. That’s why he sent you here."

You shook your head, the frustration bubbling up again. "I know that’s what he wants, but it doesn’t feel right. I’m his sister—his blood. I should be out there, doing something. I should be helping him, not hiding away like some helpless... damsel."

Ashara’s lips curved into a small smile at your choice of words, but her eyes remained serious. "You’re far from helpless, and you know that."

You met her gaze, your mind racing. The nightmares had grown worse, and with each passing day, the weight of the war pressed heavier on your shoulders. Rhaegar had always been the one to protect you, the one to fight for you, but now… everything was different. Aerys’ wrath, the rebellion, the shifting loyalties across the realm—it felt like you were drowning in it all, powerless to change anything.

"I can’t let him fight for me," you murmured, almost to yourself. "Not alone."

Ashara was quiet for a moment, considering her next words. She leaned back slightly, folding her hands in her lap. "There are many ways to fight, Y/N. Not all battles are fought with swords and armor. Your presence here, alive, free—that is something Rhaegar is fighting for. He needs to know you’re safe. You being here isn’t just hiding away—it’s part of the larger plan to keep you away from your father’s madness."

Her words were logical, and you knew she was right in some ways. But it didn’t lessen the weight of your guilt, or the desire to act. "I understand that," you said quietly, "but I still need to do something."

Ashara gave you a thoughtful look, her violet eyes searching your face. "You have power, Y/N," she said softly. "More than you realize. You have your dragon, you have your lineage, and you have the strength that’s been passed down through the Targaryen line. When the time comes, you’ll know how to use that power."

You looked away, your eyes drifting back to the window. The wind stirred the curtains gently, carrying the scent of the river and the warmth of the sun. Ashara’s words lingered in your mind, but they didn’t dispel the ache in your chest, the need to do more than simply wait.

After a long silence, Ashara’s voice broke through your thoughts, her tone shifting slightly as she changed the subject. "Speaking of strength," she said, her lips curving into a knowing smile, "Arthur seems to have found something special with you."

You blinked, startled by the sudden change in topic. Turning back to her, you saw the warmth in her eyes, the subtle teasing behind her words. Your heart skipped a beat, and you felt your cheeks warm.

"Arthur..." you began, but words failed you for a moment. "Arthur has been... my anchor through all of this."

Ashara’s smile widened slightly. "I can see that. And I can see how deeply he cares for you. It’s not every day that the Sword of the Morning risks everything for a princess."

You felt a swell of affection as you thought of Arthur, his steady presence, the way he had held you through your nightmares, the way he had promised to protect you, no matter what. He had been your protector, your confidant, and now, something more.

"I don’t know what I’d do without him," you admitted softly. "He’s been there for me through everything, and... I love him."

Ashara raised an eyebrow, her smile turning playful. "Oh, you love him, do you?"

You laughed softly, feeling a bit of the tension leave your chest. "Yes, I do. It’s... it’s not something I ever expected, but it’s real."

Ashara’s gaze softened, and she leaned forward again, her voice quieter now. "Arthur is one of the finest men I’ve ever known. And he’s chosen you. That’s not something to take lightly."

You nodded, feeling the truth of her words settle in your heart. "I know. And I won’t."

There was a comfortable silence between you for a few moments, the bond between you and Ashara strengthened by shared understanding. She reached out, placing a hand on yours, her smile filled with sisterly warmth.

"You have the strength you need, Y/N," she said softly. "And when the time comes, you’ll know what to do. But for now, let Arthur be your strength, too."

You squeezed her hand in return, the ache in your chest easing just slightly. Ashara was right—Arthur was your strength, just as much as you were his. You weren’t helpless, and you wouldn’t let Rhaegar face this war alone.

But for now, you would gather your strength, and when the time came, you would fight—however that battle would unfold.

The battlefield stretched before Rhaegar like a sea of metal and banners, the morning mist lifting to reveal the grim reality of war. The sun barely broke through the thick clouds overhead, casting a gray pallor over the land, as though the very sky was mourning what was to come. He could hear the clank of armor, the snorting of horses, and the murmur of men preparing themselves for the bloodshed that was about to unfold.

Rhaegar sat tall on his white stallion, his violet eyes scanning the ranks of his forces. His armor gleamed with silver and black, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen emblazoned on his chest. Beside him stood the loyal bannermen of the Riverlands, the men of House Tully and their allies, their faces grim but determined. Further along the line, the northern forces were just beginning to arrive, banners of the direwolf of House Stark flapping in the wind, led by Eddard Stark’s forces marching south to support Rhaegar in defiance of King Aerys.

The wind carried the faint scent of blood and steel, and Rhaegar could feel the weight of his decisions pressing heavily upon his shoulders. His rebellion, ignited by the need to protect you and free Westeros from his father’s tyranny, had led to this moment. There was no turning back now.

Ahead, the forces of King Aerys were already arrayed on the field, their banners rippling in the wind—the crowned dragon of House Targaryen, the royal sigil of his father, flanked by the soldiers of the Crownlands and the Gold Cloaks of King’s Landing. The forces were led by those loyal to Aerys: Ser Jon Connington, now Hand of the King, and Ser Gerold Hightower, who had taken the field despite his growing unease about Aerys’ madness. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard had brought with him some of the most fearsome knights, including Ser Jonothor Darry, and those who still believed in their king’s right to rule.

The tension in the air was palpable, the calm before the storm. Rhaegar knew that the battle would be fierce, and the stakes were higher than ever. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, but his mind remained clear. This was no longer just about him or his sister. This was about the realm, about saving Westeros from the fire that Aerys threatened to unleash.

Rhaegar turned to one of his commanders, a grizzled man from the Riverlands, his face marked by years of battle. “The North has arrived to avenge its father and son,” he said, his voice low but steady. “Eddard Stark’s men will flank Aerys’ forces from the west. We hold the center and press forward when the moment comes.”

The commander nodded, his eyes flicking toward the northern banners. “The Starks have always been slow to move, but when they do, they move like a storm.”

Rhaegar gave a grim smile at that. “Then let us hope they bring the storm today.”

As he looked over the battlefield, his thoughts flickered to you—safe, for now, with Arthur Dayne at Starfall. The knowledge that you were out of Aerys’ reach gave him strength, but it also fueled the fire inside him. He couldn’t fail. He wouldn’t.

A sound like thunder broke through the murmur of the armies—horns blaring from the other side of the field. Aerys’ forces were moving. The distant figures of knights and foot soldiers began to march, their steel glinting in the dull light as they advanced. At the forefront, Rhaegar could see the royal banners, the sight of them stirring a mixture of anger and resolve within him.

Jon Connington rode at the head of the force, his armor bright, his expression set in determination. He had always been fiercely loyal to Aerys, and Rhaegar knew that Connington would fight until the last breath to uphold the king’s claim. But Rhaegar could see the uncertainty in the ranks behind him—the men who fought because they were sworn to, but perhaps not because they believed in their king.

Rhaegar glanced at his own commanders, giving a short nod. “Hold your ground until we have them where we need them.”

The battle lines were drawn, and the moment stretched out, tense and silent, before the storm of steel and blood began.

Suddenly, with a roar that seemed to shake the earth itself, the two forces collided. Men shouted, swords clashed, and the sound of steel on steel filled the air. Rhaegar spurred his horse forward, charging into the fray, his blade flashing in the sunlight as he cut down the first man who came at him.

The chaos of battle surrounded him—screams of the wounded, the clash of swords and shields, the stampede of horses as cavalry units smashed into the lines of infantry. The smell of blood was thick in the air, and Rhaegar’s heart raced as he fought, each blow driven by the knowledge that this battle could decide the fate of the realm.

He found himself facing a knight in gold-plated armor, one of Aerys’ personal guards. The knight swung his sword with a vicious cry, but Rhaegar parried the blow, his own blade flashing in retaliation. The force of the impact sent a shock through Rhaegar’s arm, but he pushed forward, his strikes precise and deadly. Within moments, the knight crumpled to the ground, his armor stained with blood.

Around him, the battle raged. The Riverlands forces, led by Lord Tully’s bannermen, were holding the line, but Aerys’ men were pressing hard. Rhaegar could see Jon Connington at the forefront, rallying his men, his sword flashing as he cut through the lines of northern soldiers who had joined the battle. Ser Gerold Hightower was there as well, his white cloak stained with blood as he fought with the cold precision of a seasoned warrior.

Amid the chaos, Rhaegar found a moment to breathe, his eyes scanning the battlefield for signs of the northern reinforcements. The men of the North were slow to move, but when they did, they came with a fury that was unmistakable. Eddard Stark’s forces, now fully engaged, were sweeping in from the west, flanking Aerys’ troops and cutting through their lines with brutal efficiency.

Rhaegar saw Eddard himself, his long sword in hand, moving through the chaos with deadly purpose. The two men’s eyes met briefly across the battlefield, a silent acknowledgment passing between them. They were fighting for the same cause, though the stakes were personal for each of them.

But the battle was far from over.

As Rhaegar drove deeper into the heart of the fight, he caught sight of Jon Connington, who had dismounted and was now fighting on foot, his face set in determination. The two men locked eyes, and Rhaegar knew that this confrontation had been inevitable.

"Traitor!" Connington roared, his voice cutting through the chaos of the battle. "You’ve brought this ruin upon the realm!"

Rhaegar spurred his horse toward him, leaping down with a fluid motion, sword in hand. "No, Jon," Rhaegar called back, his voice cold and resolute. "It is Aerys who has brought ruin. He is no longer fit to rule."

Connington’s face twisted in fury as he charged, their swords meeting with a loud, ringing clash. The force of the blow reverberated through Rhaegar’s arms, but he held his ground. The fight was brutal, a dance of steel and fury, each man driven by his own sense of duty.

"You would destroy your own blood for your selfish rebellion?" Connington spat, swinging his blade with ferocious power.

"I fight to save my sister, to save the realm!" Rhaegar countered, parrying the blow and spinning to deliver a strike of his own.

Their blades clashed again and again, the fight raging around them as the two men battled for control of the field. Connington’s strikes were wild, fueled by anger, while Rhaegar’s movements were controlled, precise, as if every swing of his sword was driven by a higher purpose.

With a final, brutal thrust, Rhaegar found an opening, his sword sliding through Connington’s armor and sending the man to his knees. The Hand of the King gasped in pain, blood seeping through his mail, but his eyes burned with defiance even as he fell.

Rhaegar stood over him, his breath heavy, his sword dripping with blood. "Aerys is done, Jon," he said quietly. "The time of his reign is over."

Connington’s eyes darkened, and with his last breath, he spat at Rhaegar’s feet, refusing to yield even in death.

As Rhaegar turned back to the battlefield, he saw that the tide was shifting. The northern forces, bolstered by the Riverlands, were cutting through Aerys’ troops. The royal banners were falling, and the lines of the Crownlands were beginning to break.

The field was slick with blood, the cries of the wounded and dying filling the air, but through the chaos, Rhaegar could see victory on the horizon.

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