#greensickness | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

zeciex · 10 months ago

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A Vow of Blood - 72

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 72: Ill Tidings

AO3 - Masterlist

Rhaenyra settled herself on the edge of her son’s bed, admiring the exquisite craftsmanship that depicted a dragon majestically ascending the bedpost, its tail artfully coiling around it. The creature seemed to perch atop the structure like a vigilant guardian watching over the bed’s occupant, its eyes fashioned from rubies that glinted, casting a protective gleam. The intricate detail of the carving gave life to the dragon, making it appear as though it could leap into the air at any moment.

With a gentle motion of her hand, she swept Luke’s dense, dark hair from his pallid forehead, her fingers caressing him with the tenderness only a mother could provide. She caught herself reminiscing about the days when his hair curled playfully, lending him an mischievous, cheeky appearance, particularly when his grin widened in excitement.

Their return to Dragonstone had been anything but easy for the boy. Despite the heavens being clear and the ocean’s temperament calm, Luke had been severely afflicted. The ghost of greensick had clung to him, bleaching his cheeks of their usual pink vibrancy and replacing it with a sickly green pallor. Every wave that collided with the ship’s side seemed to send spasms through his delicate frame as sickness seemed to curl in his stomach.

His younger siblings had fared better with the sea’s capricious nature, but traveling with young children, particularly those just beginning to explore the world on unsteady legs, brought its own set of challenges.

Now, Luke rested on the bed, its fine silken linens forming a sharp contrast with his pale complexion. Candlelight danced across his face, illuminating beads of sweat that made his skin glisten. Damp locks of hair adhered to his forehead, and a visible tiredness pressed upon his features, dimming the usual spark in his blue eyes to a mere flicker of their former vibrancy.

With a hard swallow, Luke expressed his doubts, his voice a mere fragile quiver, “How can I ever be fit to command a fleet of ships as the Lord of Driftmark if merely boarding one turns my stomach and persistently ails me?”

Rhaenyra chuckled softly, her fingertips tenderly sweeping through the damp locks, her touch lingering on his skin, wishing to soothe his worries away. Her fingers gently descended to his cheek, offering a tender caress, filled with compassion for the boy.

“Oh, sweet boy,” she spoke, her eyes sparked with a sliver of amusement, “No one is forged into greatness overnight. You have much to learn, give yourself time. And no one expects you to fill out Corlys’s shoes while he still wears them.”

“But if he were to… not make it…” Luke’s voice waned into silence. The weight of such thoughts clouded his eyes, the dark circles under them speaking of the strain of restless days spent at sea.

“Luke…” With a soft shifting of her position, Rhaenyra made herself more comfortable, mindful of the unborn child nestled against her ribcage, making its presence known in the shortness of her breath. The whisper of her gown against the silken linens filled the quiet room, as she sought a momentary relief from the gentle but persistent pressure.

“I’m not cut out to be the Lord of the Tides,” Luke murmured, his head shaking in denial. A visible cloud of fear and apprehension enveloped him, pulling at his features, casting a shadow over him. “Grandsire was the greatest sailor to ever live. And I get greensick before the ship even leaves the harbor.”

“Lord Corlys stands apart from others,” Rhaenyra responded. “I’ve had the privilege of knowing him for years. His resilience is unparalleled, outmatching even those half his age. Believe me, a mere ailment won’t be his downfall. He has much to teach you, and you’ll have ample time to learn.”

“If he dies, I will have to take his place,” Luke countered, his eyes burning. “I can’t be lord of the Tides–I–I don’t want Driftmark, it should have passed on to Ser Vaemond… I will ruin everything.”

“We don’t choose our destiny, Luke, it chooses us.” Rhaenyra once more brushed his hair from his brow, a tender gesture amidst the tension. As Luke turned his face away in an act of petulance, there was a distinct undercurrent of exasperation in his movements, a defiance fueled by fear.

“Grandsire let you choose whether you’d be his heir,” Luke persisted, pushing himself up to lean against the headboard, a stubborn defiance etching his brow. “You told us so.”

Rhaenyra drew in a measured breath, her gaze sweeping over her son noting the turmoil within him. His expression mirrored the tumultuous seas' relentless waves crashing against the cliffs beneath their castle–a sight all too familiar to her, evoking memories of her own moments of doubt and fear on the edge of her own destiny.

“And would you like to hear the truth of it?” Gently taking Luke’s hand in hers, she sought his eyes with her own, ensuring he felt the sincerity in her words. “I was frightened. I was… four and ten. Same as you are now. I wasn’t ready to be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. The thought of wearing the crown was overwhelming. It was a responsibility I felt unprepared for, but… it was my duty.”

She paused, allowing her confession to sink in. “And, in time, I came to understand I had to earn my inheritance–I had to prove myself worthy of it.”

Luke’s expression tightened, a visible tension as he bit his lower lip and looked away, his voice wavering as he whispered, “I’m not like you.”

“In what way, sweet boy?”

“I’m not so…” He hesitated, his eyes flickering around the room, avoiding direct contact as though ashamed–and perhaps he was when he finally admitted, “Perfect.”

A gentle warmth bubbled up inside her chest, a fond amusement at the words of her son. Her smile widened as she leaned forward, her hand gently sweeping his hair back from his forehead. She drew him closer, pressing her forehead against his in a moment of reassurance, then left soft kisses on his cheek. Her thumb stroked the blush that spread across his skin. “I am anything but… My father looked after me, and helped to prepare me for my duties. Your mother will do the same for you.”

“I’m not ready for the responsibility, but I will try and make myself worthy of it,” Luke admitted, his spirit evidently lifted, if only a little, by her assurances.

“We have years, sweet boy,” Rhaenyra said, “Now, try to rest and get some sleep.”

Luke nestled back into the comforts of his bed, his hand absently rubbing at his eye while he stifled a yawn. His eyelids seemed to grow heavier by the moment, slowly succumbing to the inviting embrace of sleep. Rhaenyra continued to smooth his disheveled hair with gentle strokes, leaning down to plant a loving kiss on his forehead. Despite his growing frame, in her eyes, he remained her precious little boy.

With the utmost care, she began to lift herself from the bed, her movements delicate to avoid waking Luke from his peaceful slumber. Standing beside the bed, she paused, taking a deep breath while her hand instinctively cradled the swell of her belly. It seemed the child within her, too, was asleep.

Despite offering unwavering reassurance to Luke, Rhaenyra couldn’t shake a persistent unease about Corlys’s wellbeing. Such uncertainties, however, she would keep buried, hidden from her son. It would only worry him if he knew that she was worried. The path of succession had been set for all the kingdom to know. Whether or not he felt ready for it, the burden of leadership would fall to him upon Corlys’s death. Her deepest hope was that when the time came for him to carry the mantle of Lord of the Tides he would be ready.

Wandering the dimly lit halls of Dragonstone, the intermittent light from torches guided her way. Occasionally, beams of sunlight broke through the grand windows, casting a warm, golden glow over the ancient stone corridors.

Upon her arrival in the great hall, her attention was immediately captured by the sight of Daemon, seated near the vibrant hearth. The play of light and shadow across his features revealed him deep in thought, seemingly adrift in a private ocean of contemplation.

Her gown whispered against the stone floor as she moved closer, her presence breaking the hush that filled the room. Ascending the stairs to his side, she spoke with a blend of softness and authority, “Luke finally rests, though uneasily.”

Daemon hummed, shifting his gaze from the flames to her as she approached.

“He’s troubled by the thought of ruling Driftmark,” Rhaenyra continued, “And more so by the prospect of commanding the fleet from the deck of a ship.”

A flicker of amusement crossed his features, dispelling the heaviness of contemplation entirely. He extended his hand, inviting her to draw nearer. “It seems it will be sooner than later that he becomes the Lord of Driftmark.”

With a teasing nudge against Daemon’s shoulder, Rhaenyra playfully scolded him, her tongue clicking in reproach. Daemon’s hand, those of a weathered warrior, was tender as it encircled her wrist, drawing her near. He tenderly pressed his forehead against the swell of her expecting belly, his hands gliding over the contours of her hips with a touch that was loving. She responded by lovingly cradling his head, weaving her fingers through his hair. There was a certain reverence in his actions, an adoration not just for the child she carried but for the act of creation itself.

“He feels unprepared,” Rhaenyra confided, “Believes he is not up for the task. He even mentioned that Vaemond might have been a better choice.”

“Vaemond?” Daemon’s response was laced with disdain. “He was nothing but a sea slug, dreaming of grandeur beyond his merit. By staking a claim on what was never his, he dishonored his brother and their house. My daughters hold a stronger right to the seat of Driftmark than he ever did–and Lucerys more so.”

“His hesitation is not without reason,” Rhaenyra remarked, her voice tinged with weariness. Luke’s sensitivity to the rumors of illegitimacy had always been more pronounced than with Jace or Daenera. Growing up shadowed by accusations of bastardy had been challenging, a challenge only intensified by the Hightowers’ readiness to openly oppose them. While Jace shouldered the malicious gossip with unwavering resolve and Daenera with indifferent defiance, Rhaenyra knew that Luke found the weight crippling–more so, as he thought himself unworthy of Driftmark.

“Luke is the blood of the dragon,” Daemon asserted, his gaze lifting to meet hers. “By right and by choice, he is Corlys’s successor. He will carry on the Velaryon name, whether he shares the blood or not, and with Rhaena as his wife, his children will carry on the name both in right and in blood. He is the heir, he cannot deny his rightful claim.”

“He is aware of this, yet I fear that Vaemond’s outright accusation has unsettled him,” Rhaenyra responded, a gentle rebuke in her tone as her fingers grazed his neck softly.

A sigh escaped Daemon, his frustration momentarily visible, though he restrained any verbal expression of it. “Vaemond’s challenge ended with him, as did his claims. Viserys has made his position known, unequivocally. If the Sea Snake was to succumb to his wounds, Luke would ascend to the lordship of Driftmark whether he is ready or not. Rhaenys yet lives–”

“Rhaenys might have consented to the betrothals, but her affection for us is hardly warm.”

“We needn’t have her affection,” Daemon said. “Rhaena will be the Lady of Driftmark and Baela will become Queen. It’s reasonable to assume she’d be inclined to protect this union and support Lucerys, should he step into his role as Lord of Driftmark. Under such circumstances, he’d be surrounded by allies prepared to impart the knowledge he lacks. He’s still young, but I have no doubt he’ll grow into his role. He’s bound to gain his sea legs some day.”

“I certainly hope so,” she responded with a light laugh. “Otherwise, he might find himself leading from atop a dragon instead of a ship.”

“The better choice,” Daemon drawled, a subtle smile on his lips. “Laenor excelled in dragon-mounted combat during the war. It earned him great respect among the men. However much he doubts it, he will come into his own.”

With a sigh of contentment, Rhaenyra allowed herself a moment of peace, her eyelids closing as she rolled her neck, easing the tension.

“Given a choice,” she reflected, her tone light and wistful, “I, too, would choose a dragon over the confines of a litter or the swaying of a ship.”

Daemon’s answering hum, deep and resonant, was a wordless concord, acknowledging both the sentiment and the shared experience they held. “After such an exhaustive journey, you ought to rest here for the night. King’s Landing can wait until dawn.”

Rhaenyra’s lips parted, ready with a rebuttal, “I gave Alicent my word–”

“The hag can wait,” Daemon sharply cut her off, his features settling into an annoyed scowl, his disdain for Alicent barely concealed. “Your health is the priority.”

Their exchange was suddenly interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps, the rhythmic clatter of armor breaking the tension in the room. A figure, cloaked in the gleaming white of the Kingsguard, approached them. “Good day, Princess.”

Rhaenyra’s focus shifted from Daemon to the knight standing before them with an urgent expression on his face. “And to you, Ser Lorent.”

“Princess Rhaenys has just arrived on dragonback. She urgently requests an audience with you and Prince Daemon,” Ser Lorent informed, his tone imbued with a sense of importance.

Rhaenyra exchanged a glance with Daemon, an unspoken current of concern passing between them. Recognizing the gravity of the moment, she gave Ser Lorent a nod of acknowledgement, a silent command to proceed. The knight bowed respectfully, then turned to usher in the newly arrived guest.

The unexpected presence of Rhaenys cast a palpable sense of foreboding throughout the room, the atmosphere charged with anticipation as thick and ominous as a dense morning fog. The Northerners hold to the adage ‘dark wings, dark words,’ yet one could only wonder what importance was ascribed to messages delivered on the wings of a dragon.

Rhaenyra, lowering her voice to a whisper fraught with apprehension, confided in Daemon, “Could it be that… he has truly succumbed?”

Daemon responded with a subtle, assured shake of his head. “The old Sea Snake is made of sterner stuff. A mere blood ailment wouldn’t be enough to claim him.”

Rhaenyra harbored her doubts, why else would Rhaenys be here?

As the grand doors creaked open once more, their echoing sound filled the expansive hall. The quiet that followed was slowly engulfed by the wind’s relentless currents outside, which at times rose to a haunting howl as it wound through the castle’s ancient battlements. Over time, the sound had become as familiar as the walls – unnoticed until silence magnified its presence, making it seem as though the elements themselves were voicing their dissent.

Rhaenys entered with determined strides, her footsteps echoing a steady rhythm on the stone. Her riding gear, reminiscent of battle armor, hugged her figure, its deep crimson leather designed to mirror the scales of her dragon, Meleys. The riding leathers were complemented by iron shoulder guards, lending her an aura of indomitable strength.

And perhaps that, in itself, was what sowed the seed of dread within Rhaenyra.

“The Princess Rhaenys Targaryen,” Ser Lorent declared with a formal tone, stepping aside to let Rhaenys pass.

“Thank you, Ser Lorent.” With a nod of gratitude from Rhaenyra, the esteemed Kingsguard discreetly withdrew to the edges of the room, blending into the shadows as Rhaenys advanced to stand before the elaborately carved table of Westeros. Her searching gaze swept across its surface, then finally settled on Rhaenyra, her expression grave.

“Princess Rhaenys,” Rhaenyra began, her hand instinctively moving to caress her belly, “might we hope for news of Lord Corlys’s recovery–”

“Viserys is dead,” Rhaenys cut in, carrying a sharpness that seemed to penetrate the very essence of Rhaenyra.

The ground seemed to falter under her feet, her breath caught in her throat. Rhaenyra felt her heart pause, a momentary halt in its rhythm before it plummeted, becoming as dense and immovable as a boulder lodged within her ribcage. The shock of the words was so profound, so utterly disorienting, that for a fleeting moment, the world itself appeared to bend, leaving her suspended in a state of disbelief. She struggled to reconcile the news with the world she knew as her eyes locked on Rhaenys, a crease of confusion forming on her brow.

Rhaenys spoke again, her tone imbued with a shared sorrow and pressing a sense of urgency, “I grieve this loss with you, Rhaenyra. My cousin, your father, possessed a kind heart.”

With every step Rhaenys took towards her, Rhaenyra felt an overwhelming sensation, as though each footfall carried the force of a tidal wave poised to shatter her resolve, her composure fraught. The space between them closed, bringing into sharp focus the solemnity etched into the woman’s features.

“There is more,” she uttered, words that seemed an attempt to soften the devastation she had yet to reveal.

A profound sense of dread engulfed Rhaenyra, her heartbeat escalating to a frantic rhythm, as if it sought to escape the prison of her chest. The air around her thickened with an impending sense of despair, each breath she took shallow as the world seemed to press in around her. She battled the surge of tears that prickled at her eyes and the swell of fear that threatened to drown her.

What more could there possibly be? Deep down, Rhaenyra knew what was to come, though she fiercely hoped to be proved wrong – she clung to this sliver of hope with a desperate tenacity, only to have it cruelly torn from her as Rhaenys spoke again.

“Aegon has been crowned his successor,” Rhaenys revealed, her voice steady yet laden with the weight of the news she bore. This revelation struck Rhaenyra with the force of a physical blow, each word a heavy chain adding to the grief she already bore.

A visceral, sharp pain tore through Rhaenyra, as if claws made of steel were shedding her insides. A soft, involuntary sound of distress slipped past her lips as she clutched the swell of her stomach, feeling another sharp stab shoot through her. She rubbed her stomach, attempting to soothe the pain and as the initial wave of agony subsided, she mustered the strength to look up at Rhaenys again, her face etched with devastation.

“They crowned him?” She managed to utter, her voice a fragile echo of its former strength, no more than a mere whisper.

In the dim light of the room, her gaze found Daemon, his figure slumped in a display of utter desolation. As he raised his head, a raw, youthful vulnerability surfaced in his voice, reminiscent of a boy grappling with the loss of his brother. “How did Viserys die?”

Rhaenys regarded Daemon with a slight lift of her brow, a subtle expression of surprise at his question. After a brief pause, she responded with measured words, “I could not say.”

“How long ago?” Rhaenyra inquired, urgency sharpening her tone as waves of panic and sorrow began to surge within her. The memory of their last farewell to him was hauntingly fresh; they had left with promises of a swift return.

“Three days past, perhaps four. I was made a prisoner in my quarters while the Queen made her preparations.”

At this, Daemon’s grip tightened on the hilt of his sword, his knuckles whitening with the force of his grasp. “Viserys has been slain.”

“Alicent demanded you declare for Aegon.”

“She did,” Rhaenys answered, a note of pity in her tone.

Rhaenyra felt a gentle sway of disbelief, a tightening in her throat as the stark reality of betrayal bit at her senses, igniting a painful burn within. The taste of hope, once so sweet and alive, now turned vile and rotten in her mouth. Betrayal, though not unfamiliar, never ceased to shock with its bitterness. She had foolishly believed that the fractures in her relationship with Alicent could be mended, that the closeness they once shared could be reclaimed. Yet, this egregious act of disloyalty had shattered such illusions, tearing open scars that had barely begun to heal.

A sharpness took root in her gaze, as her perception of Rhaenys teetered on shifting.

Rhaenys seemed to realize this and continued with a firm tone, “I refused her.”

“And yet you are alive,” Daemon observed, the remark carrying a note of skepticism and accusation. His nature was to preempt, to approach others with caution and a measure of distrust – to demand loyalty and respond to any measure of disloyalty with the cold precision of a blade, and if not that, then with firm condemnation. His circle of trust had always been tightly drawn, extended to only a few. And with the death of Viserys, that circle had shrunk. The notion that his brother would depart this world without a final farewell seemed an especially cruel jest.

“The High Septon crowned Aegon in the Dragonpit,” Rhaenys elaborated, moving closer to Rhaenyra, the movement catching her attention as she struggled to reconcile with the magnitude of the betrayal she was hearing. The pain she felt was visceral, as though someone was tearing at her insides, wrenching her very soul. She barely managed to stifle a cry of agony.

Rhaenys pushed forward with her account, “I witnessed it myself just before I fled on Meleys.”

“They dared crown him before the masses?”

“So that the masses would see him as their rightful king–”

“That whore of a queen murdered my brother and stole his throne,” Daemon spat venomously, his anger as palpable as the crackle of the fire behind them and the howl of the wind outside the walls. “And you could have burned them all.”

“A war is like to be fought over this treachery, to be sure,” Rhaenys admitted, her tone steady in the face of Daemon’s fury. “But that war is not mine to begin. I only rushed this warning to you out of loyalty to my husband and my house, and out of love for Daenera.”

“And what of Daenera? Was she able to flee as you did? Is she here?” Another surge of pain coursed through her, as if clawing at her very being from within. Her heart ached, wrenching with worry and fear for her daughter at the possibility–of the likelihood that she was ensnared within the walls of King’s Landing while all of this unfolded. The sight of sympathy in Rhaenys’s eyes – a look tempered by years of her own losses and hardened by the chill of enduring grief – sent a fresh wave of panic through Rhaenyra. It felt as if fear seized her heart, squeezing it with a merciless force. The sharp pain left her gasping for air, her fingers clawing at the table’s surface in a feeble search for stability.

Her voice grew more insistent and desperate as she demanded answers, “What has become of my daughter?”

There was a moment’s pause, a hesitation from Rhaenys that seemed to stretch into eternity before she finally spoke, “She stood with the Greens as they crowned Aegon… And… They announced her betrothal to Aemond.”

Rhaenyra’s reaction was immediate, a sharp intake of breath as her fingers clenched around the table’s edge. Briefly, she screwed her eyes shut, battling the surge of fear that threatened to overwhelm her and the sharp, distinct pain twist within her like a blade mercilessly opening her up.

“She sided with the Greens?” Daemon’s incredulity was palpable, his tone imbued with a sense of betrayal as keen as the sword he wielded.

“Yes, she–”

“She has forsaken us! Betrayed us for the sake of those vipers!” Daemon sneered.

“No,” Rhaenys countered firmly, seeming to take a moment to steady herself against the tide of Daemon’s fury. “Like me, she was held captive, and she made an attempt at escape–one that I had hoped she was successful in, until I saw her on the stage. The Hightowers understand the significance of her presence, and it is of my belief that they coerced her into a show of support.”

“But you cannot be sure,” Daemon sneered.

Rhaenys’s demeanor hardened, “She was ready to meet her end with the Greens, urging me to unleash Meleys fire upon all of them.”

“You should have,” Daemon retorted sharply, his gaze fierce and unwavering, eyes burning with rage.

Rhaenys held his gaze, her resolve unshaken. “War is not mine to begin, and certainly not at the expense of Daenera’s life. If you want war, you will have to start it yourself.”

Locking onto Rhaenyra with an intensity born of urgency and concern, Rhaenys shifted her gaze. “I only rushed this warning to you out of loyalty to my husband and to my house. The Green’s are coming for you, Rhaenyra. And for your children. You should leave Dragonstone at once.”

The air seemed to thicken with tension following Rhaenys’s admonition, the words echoing ominously in the chamber. Rhaenyra’s fingers tightened around the edge of the table, her knuckles whitening with the grip. Her heart thrummed wildly against her ribs, a chaotic melody of fear and stress, as the matter of the threat coiled in her stomach like a serpent.

Without another word, Rhaenys turned, her movements deliberate and somber, as she walked towards the doors.

The heavy echo of the warning lingered, a palpable presence in the room, as Rhaenyra remained motionless, save for the rapid rise and fall of her chest. And suddenly, a sharp, unyielding pang of pain lanced through her, drawing an anguished cry from her lips. The cry echoed, a haunting sound of sheer distress that bounced off the smooth stone walls. The tears she had fought so hard to keep back, dripped from her lashes as she instinctively wrapped her arms around her pregnant belly, a protective gesture amid the torrent of pain – accompanying this agony was a chilling fear, sparked by the sensation of unexpected wetness seeping between her legs.

Trembling, Rhaenyra reached down, her hands unsteady as she lifted the fabric of her gown. Her fingertips grazed the wetness, tracing the chilling trail it left on her skin. When she looked at her fingers, the sight that greeted her was one stark, horrifying truth: they were smeared with a vivid red of fresh blood.

She drew in a shuddering breath at the realization of what this meant, “The babe is coming.”

Daemon’s response was immediate and instinctive; he let go of his sword, the sound of metal meeting stone barely registering as he swiftly moved to his wife’s side. The clatter of his discarded weapon was lost to him as he kneeled beside her, offering her support as she began to falter, clutching the table for stability.

“Summon the midwives, immediately!” He commanded Ser Lorent, glaring up at him as the knight quickly withdrew to do his bidding. His gaze fleetingly locked with Rhaenys’, the worry within her eyes unmistakable. Nevertheless, he quickly redirected his attention, brushing aside any further interaction with her as he concentrated solely on Rhaenyra, his concern for his wife eclipsing all else.

Feeling Rhaenyra’s fingers clutching him, her grip tightening in a desperate search for stability, he guided her arm around his neck and swiftly lifted her up. One arm supported her legs while the other encircled her back, ensuring she was held with care yet firmly enough to provide the support she needed.

As he made his way to their private chambers, the seriousness of the moment bore heavily upon him. Each step echoed ominously through the corridors, Rhaenyra’s labored breathing filling the silence between them. Her heartbeat, rapid and strong against his chest, served as a harrowing reminder of what was at stake. Having already faced the profound loss of his brother, the thought of facing another loss so soon – that of his wife and their child – was unbearable.

Daemon had traversed this path before, an experience he hoped never to repeat. As he gently placed Rhaenyra on their bed, the fine embroidery and the silk bedding contrasted starkly with the direness of the situation. Rhaenyra’s eyes, awash with a tumult of pain and fear, wandered over her stomach, her fingers lightly drawing circles in what seemed like a feeble attempt to offer solace to their child within.

“What are you going to do?” She inquired, extending her hand to intertwine with his. Her hold was at once delicate and determined, and in her gaze he found an unvoiced entreaty for assurance, for something to hold onto amid the uncertainty.

“All I can do,” He assured her with sincere resolve. “Prepare for what comes next.”

A wave of pain then seized Rhaenyra, her expression twisting in torment. Witnessing this, Daemon felt his heart tighten, as if caught in the merciless grip of a storm, each surge of wind poised to hurl him into oblivion.

A sense of powerlessness gnawed at him, which could only give way to frustration and restlessness. In the midst of this helplessness, a fierce rage kindled within him, craving for something to burn against. It was a harsh realization – that while he could confront his enemies on the battlefield, in the confines of these walls, there was little he could do. This vulnerability, this inability to act, was an adversary unlike any he had ever faced or would ever face. It was in this powerless fury he found himself ensnared, surrendering to the blaze of his indignation.

Drawing a deep breath to steady himself, he leaned in, pressing a tender kiss to Rhaenyra’s sweat-slicked forehead. “Umbagon kostōba ñuha jorrāelagon”

Stay strong, my love.

Rhaenyra leaned into the comfort of his touch before permitting him to pull away, seeming to understand that he could not stay.

Daemon stepped back, casting a final, solemn look at the midwives who had gathered to assist his wife. With a nod of acknowledgement, he entrusted them with her care, his mind shifting towards the tempest brewing beyond the castle walls.

The looming prospect of war bore down on him, a burden both familiar and oddly comforting in its clarity of purpose.

Moving through the winding corridors of Dragonstone, Daemon was enveloped by the grandeur of the ancient fortress. Carved from the same stark, imposing rock that formed its foundation, the castle was a testament to the enduring legacy of his ancestors. Stone dragons coiled around pillars, their sculpted eyes catching the flickering torchlight, casting shadows that seemed alive, moving with the flames. The pervasive scent of the sea filled the air, a salty reminder of the island’s isolation and strength.

These halls whispered of bygone eras, of dragons and the bloodline of House Targaryen – a lineage now under siege.

Daemon’s ascent up the spiral staircase, which twisted upward as if reaching for the heavens, opening up into a corridor which finally led to the Maester’s chambers. Crafted from aged oak and adorned with iron dragons, it stood as a barrier to the knowledge held within. Gathering his resolve, Daemon knocked firmly, the sound resonating through the silent corridor, a clear call for counsel in the face of what lay ahead.

The moment Daemon pushed the door open, he was greeted by a surge of warm air and the comforting smell of wood smoke. Maester Geradys, with his maester’s chain clinking softly, stood before him. Initially, there was a trace of warmth in the old maester’s expression, a stark contrast to Daemon’s grim visage. However, as the maester fully registered Daemon’s presence, his welcoming smile faded into a look of concern.

“My brother, the King, is dead,” Daemon announced, finding the words filled with resentment.

“Where have you heard such a thing?” Maester Geradys’s questioned, a confused frown deepening the line between his brow. “I haven’t received–”

“Rhaenys arrived on dragonback, directly from King’s Landing,” Daemon explained impatiently, moving into the herbally scented room as Maester Geradys stepped aside to welcome him in. “The Hightowers have seen fit to usurp Rhaenyra and have made a show of crowning Aegon as king.”

“By the gods…” Maester Geradys placed his hands on the surface on his desk, the gravity of the situation seeming to sink in. “This… This is an act of treason! This is preposterous! This–this will surely lead to war.”

Maester Geradys, seemingly overwhelmed by the prospect, staggered slightly before sinking into the chair behind his desk. “My prince, what would you have me do?”

Daemon’s response was swift and decisive, urgency treading through his composed delivery. “We’ve been taken by surprise, that won’t happen again. The Hightowers may have seized a momentary advantage, but it’s the last they will gain from us. Send words to our allies nearby, call for an assembly. We’ll need Lords Celtigar, Staunton, Massey, Emmon, and Darklyn. Inform them that their Queen summons them for their counsel.

“The ravens will be sent without delay. With favorable winds, our allies will arrive at dawn on the morrow,” Maester Geradys assured him, quickly grabbing the quill, the maester’s chain jungling with the movement. “I will also send word to Driftmark, in the hopes that when Lord Corlys recovers, he will be informed and set sail.”

“Once you’ve dispatched the ravens, make haste to Rhaenyra,” Daemon instructed, his voice laden with a sense of pressing need. “It seems the news of her father’s passing and the treachery has brought on labor.”

At this, Maester Geradys snapped to attention, his reaction a mix of alarm and readiness. In his rush, the inkwell was knocked over, sending a cascade of ink across the desk, staining the parchment below. “But the time is not yet right. It’s too early.”

Daemon brushed aside the maester’s words, making his way towards the exit, but the clinking of chains and Maester Geradys’s call stopped him. “And the fate of Princess Daenera?”

Pausing at the threshold, Daemon’s silhouette framed against the door. “She remains in King’s Landing. We assume she’s been made a hostage.”

The Maester’s complexion visibly paled at the implications, a somber understanding flashing across his features. With a grave nod, he conceded, “I will reach out to your friends and allies for any information they are willing to impart.”

“I will patrol the skies until our allies arrive, and ensure that it remains ours,” Daemon declared. “The guards will be informed to keep vigilant, we do not know if the Hightowers decide to strike now that we know.”

A sense of grim satisfaction welled up in Daemon, a resonance with the imminent conflict that felt natural to him. Warfare was a realm in which he thrives, a domain of clear rules and brutal honesty that the Hughtowers would soon learn was perilous to invoke. Exiting the maester’s chambers, he encountered Ser Lorent and Ser Brandon Piper, the captain of the guard, their presence a reminder of the duties that lay ahead.

As they moved down the serpentine steps of the Sea Dragon Tower, heading back to the heart of the castle, their footsteps resonated against the ancient stone, a drumbeat to war’s looming overture.

“Increase the watch on the ramparts and keep an eye on the seas,” Daemon commanded, his voice embodying the essence of leadership. “We’ll be sending out ravens. Lord Celtigar, Staunton, Massey, Emmon, and Darkly will be joining us. The Hightower’s next move remains unseen. If Otto Hightower is as callous and honorless as I believe him to be, he will be sending men to cut our throats in our sleep. Treat any unknown faces with caution; detain and interrogate if you must.”

“Understood, Your Grace.”

Turning to face them squarely, Daemon’s expression was one of stern resolve. “Rhaenyra is the Queen now, and her safety is paramount, as is the protection of her heir, Jacaerys.”

The men nodded solemnly.

“Will you be with the Queen, now that she has gone into labor?” Ser Brandon Piper asked, his voice cautious and hesitant.

Daemon gritted his teeth. “I will patrol the skies.”

It was the only thing he could do.

Returning to the great hall, Daemon adjusted Dark Sister, picking up the sword from the floor where he had left it to carry his wife to their bedchambers. Its cool steel provided a familiar, reassuring presence. An undercurrent of restlessness stirred within him, akin to the fervor he’d felt during his campaign in the Stepstones, particularly when he had received his brother’s missive announcing reinforcements. Back then, he’d been eager to demonstrate his independence and capability to conclude the conflict he had refused to acknowledge.

Drawing Dark Sister from its sheath, Daemon allowed the blade to catch the light, its dark steel shimmering ominously. The weapon’s edge was unparalleled in sharpness, its rippled dark metal having tasted the lifesblood of countless foes. It was not merely a sword; it was a legacy. It had safeguarded the House against traitors, usurpers, and all who wished its downfall. Now, it seemed destiny called upon it to fulfill its purpose once more.

With a fluid motion born of countless battles, Daemon twirled the sword, taking a moment to appreciate its craftsmanship before sheathing it once again. The thought of the Hightowers daring to usurp what belonged to the Targaryens ignited a fierce resolve within him. They would soon learn the folly of provoking the wrath of the dragon.

Convinced of the Hightower’s guilt in Viserys’s demise, Daemon believed they had orchestrated the slow erosion of what set above the Targaryen house from all others. They had poisoned his brother’s mind against his own blood to consolidate their power. Years of manipulation had estranged him from Viserys, and now with his death, they robbed them of any chance for reconciliation. Despite Viserys’s weaknesses, he was still his brother, one he would have defended against all threats, including those from within. If only Viserys had placed as much trust in Daemon as he had the Hightowers they wouldn’t be where they were now.

A fierce sense of anger burned within him, spreading through his veins and amplifying his restlessness. Clenching his teeth, he made his way towards the doors, and before he could emerge into the corridor, Jace’s voice cut through the air.

“What is happening?”

“I don’t know,” Baela answered him, her voice tinged with confusion.

“I saw Meleys on the beach,” Rhaena added.

“Rhaenys is here?”

As Daemon stepped through the doors, converging on their little gathering, their gazes immediately locked onto him, quickly followed by a barrage of questions.

“What has happened?” Jace pressed, his brow set in a firm, albeit confused line.

“Is it Corlys?” Baela interjected, with Rhaenya further inquiring, “Is that the reason for Rhaenys’s visit?”

Faced with their eager demands for answers, Daemon responded with a weary hum, “Come with me.”

Daemon moved through their midst, his grip on the sheath unyielding, acutely aware of the worried and inquisitive stares that seemed to bore into him, an almost tangible sensation against his skin. The air hung dense with a palpable sense of dread, reminiscent of the ominous anticipation of watching a storm gather strength over the ocean. Dark clouds, vast and threatening, seemed to loom on the horizon, and it was as if the world held its breath, waiting for the inevitable deluge that the growing storm promised to unleash.

With swift, deliberate steps, Daemon guided the children into Luke’s chambers, determined to unite them for this discussion. The sudden entrance roused Luke from his slumber, his hair disheveled, framing his face as he squinted, seemingly perplexed and irritated by the abrupt disturbance. As Daemon urged then to gather on the bed, Luke’s expression twisted into a confused scowl, filling the air with questions.

Jace, Baela, and Rhaena joined Luke on the bed, excluding a blend of impatience that bordered on childish petulance. Daemon’s hand clenched tighter around the sheath of his sword, his eyes meticulously assessing each of them–the determined glint in Jace and Baela’s eyes, Rhaena’s measuring gaze, and Luke’s growing confusion that seemed to slowly grow into apprehension.

“Viserys has passed,” Daemon told them, his voice measured as he let the information fall around them. The room fell into a profound stillness, a silence so dense it seemed tangible until it shattered under the weight of their barrage of inquiries. Their voices merged into a cacophony of confusion and worry, leaving Daemon scarcely a moment to interject.

The news of his brother’s death was surreal. He felt as though he should have known, should have felt his death as keenly as the loss of a limb, but there was no such sensation, just a hollowed echo of memories and the pain of not having been there.

“Has mother been told?” Jace pressed, perched on the edge of the bed with a tension that suggested he might leap to action at any second. Beside him, Rhaena’s unease was palpable, her frown deepening as she speculated, “Is that the reason for Rhaenys’s presence?”

Interrupting, Baela sought more clarification, “So, Corlys lives?”

Her question barely hung in the air before Jace speculated about their mother’s new role, “With Viserys gone, that means that mother is Queen now.”

Luke, struggling to shake the weariness in his tone, voiced his concern, “Are we to return to King’s Landing then?”

“Has something happened with the Hightowers?” Rhaena asked and was then quickly followed by her sister's voice, seeking the reasons for the heightened vigilance of the guards, “Is that why the guards seem so on edge?”

“Does that mean we have to sail back to King’s Landing?” Luke asked apprehensively, seeming to already dread the journey on the waves. “Can’t I take Arrax instead?”

“If mother is Queen–” Jace started, but Daemon had reached his limit with their relentless questioning, not allowing him to get a word in.

“The King is dead, and the Hightowers have usurped the crown,” Daemon declared, his voice cutting through the chaos, decisively silencing the room with the finality of his words. “Aegon has been crowned King.”

This revelation hung in the air, leaving a stark silence in its wake as the significance of the situation began to dawn on them.

Rhaena’s voice was laced with a tremble, betraying her understanding even as she posed the question, “What does this mean for us?”

“War,” Daemon replied succinctly. His voice was firm, brooking no room for doubt. “We’ve sent ravens to our closest allies; they should arrive by dawn. Until then, I will be patrolling the skies. I will not have us be caught unawares should the Hightowers decide to strike.”

His statement was more than a declaration; it was a reassurance of his readiness to protect them, a promise of vigilance in the face of a looming threat.

“This is treason!” Jace declared, his voice thick with scorn. Frustration etched a deep furrow between his brows, his expression darkening as he leaped to his feet. “They have no right!”

“Sit down,” Daemon instructed, his patience wearing thin.

“We should take our dragon’s to King’s Landing,” he argued, fueled by a righteous fury on his mother’s behalf. “Demand their submission or remove their traitorous heads. With Caraxes, Syrax, Vermax, Arrax, and Moondancer, we can force them into bending the knee. We cannot stand idly by while they steal our mother’s throne!”

Daemon’s response was measured, despite his own desire for immediate action. “Much as I share your urge to reclaim the throne, rash actions will not serve us now–”

“But we have more dragons than them!” Jace interrupted.

“We need to gather our forces,” Daemon countered calmly. “The number of guards we have are insufficient to protect the castle, much less against an assault from the Hightowers should they choose to attack us now. While we wait for our allies, we need to defend Dragonstone – and protect your mother, our Queen…”

Daemon allowed his words to sink in before he continued, “The unexpected news of Viserys' passing and the subsequent usurpation has hastened your mother into early labor. While she is abed, and we wait for our allies, we must remain here.”

“She is going to be fine, right?” Luke’s voice hung heavily in the air, pulling the tension taut as worry settled on them.

Daemon hesitated, his eyes lingering on Luke’s anxious expression, a mirror to his own internal worry. He found himself at a loss for comforting words. The danger of childbirth was well-known, its risks amplified under the circumstances of this premature and abrupt labor. As if to underscore the severity of the situation, their mother’s cries of distress echoed through the castle corridors.

“The master is with your mother now,” Daemon said, offering some semblance of reassurance amidst another distressed cry reverberating down the hall. “She is strong. Stronger than many give her credit for.”

“What of Daenera? Was she able to flee King’s Landing alongside Rhaenys? Is she here?” Rhaena inquired, concern etching her features.

Daemon’s response was heavy with implication. “Daenera was unable to make her escape. She was at the coronation – she stood with the Hightowers in an apparent show of support–”

Before they could all erupt into yells, Daemon decisively held up a finger, silencing them before they could ever finish their sentences. “For now we are to assume she has been made a hostage.”

Jace’s reaction was immediate, his statement underscored by the nodding agreement of Baela and Luke. “We cannot just abandon her there. We need to devise a plan to rescue her.”

“And how do you propose we execute such a plan?” Daemon challenged, feeling the twist of exasperation and frustration in his chest. “Shall we take to the skies on our dragons and storm King’s Landing, leaving your mother undefended? Do you plan to threaten the destruction of the Red Keep to secure her release? Should Daenera indeed be their hostage, they’d likely end her life rather than return her to us. If we want your sister back, we must be clever about it.”

“Then what are we supposed to do?” Jace demanded, his frustration as palpable as his fear for his sister.

“For the moment, patience is our only recourse,” Daemon responded, his tone laced with understanding. He saw a reflection of Ser Harwin Strong in Jace’s fervor–equally headstrong and impulsive, with a fierce need to protect his loved ones. Yet, Daemon also recognized that Jace would likely arrive at the same pragmatic conclusion. “You will attend to your studies and continue your training. Help me patrol the sky if you must.

“You want us to proceed as though nothing has happened?” Baela countered apprehensively, a tightness of disbelief around her mouth.

“What else can you do?” Daemon answered, drawing in a weary breath. “In tales of war, they seldom mention the waiting, but wait we must.”

Rhaenys made her way along the corridors of Dragonstone, her footsteps echoing against the ancient floors, each sound magnified in the silence of the stronghold. The light that streamed through the grand windows bathed the hallway in a brilliance that no flame could ever mimic. Yet, despite the sunlight, shadows clung stubbornly to the crevices, creating pockets of darkness that seemed almost alive.

A call broke the quiet, “Grandmother!”

At the sound, Rhaenys paused and directed her gaze towards the source.

With a sense of urgency, Baela advanced towards her, the folds of her dress catching the light streaming through the windows, making the beads adorning it shine like tiny stars on a red sky. Her silver hair spilled wildly over her shoulders, reminiscent of her mother’s–she was an echo of her.

“I’ve just been informed,” Baela began, her tone laden with significance. The brevity of her statement left no room for doubt; the news she referred to had undoubtedly made its way through the castle, propelled by the urgent tidings Rhaenys had delivered not long before. This news, now spreading like wildfire through the corridors, was further fueled by the haunting, distant sounds of Rhaenyra’s labored cries, resonating with a foreboding echo throughout the castle.

“We must collect Rhaena and leave Dragonstone at once,” Rhaenys told, her voice tinged with a determination that matched the unease that seemed to chase at her heels. She wished to escape Dragonstone, to retreat to the safety of Driftmark and take solace there. She had no inclination to be swept up in the brewing storm, nor did she wished her grandchildren to be ensnared by it. “A storm is coming, we must leave before it ensnares us all in its tempest.”

“And go where?” Baela countered, her posture unyielding as she faced Rhaenys.

“To the safety of High Tide–”

“High Tide won’t be safe,” Baela interjected sharply. “The Greens will assume we’ll declare for Rhaenyra.”

“High Tide is safer than Dragonstone,” Rhaenys contended, her voice treated with desperation. High Tide wasn’t just another castle; it was her home, a place where they could be safe and fortify against the gathering storm of war. With Corlys making his way there, its walls promised not just safety but a strength to stand against what was coming their way. Dragonstone would be swept up in the brewing tempest before long–if it hadn’t already.

Baela, however, stood firm, her resolve unshaken by the plea. “If war is coming, it is coming for all of us. We cannot hide from it.”

“I’ve suffered too much loss, Baela!” Rhaenys snapped, her voice trembling as she locked eyes with Baela, the pain in her gaze as palpable as the sunlight that flooded the room. “I cannot endure another.”

Her confession laid bare the depths of her dread, a mother and grandmother haunted by the specter of loss, pleading for a reprieve from the specter of further despair.

The memory of receiving Daemon’s letter, bearing the devastating news of her only daughter’s death, remained etched in Rhaenys’s heart, a scar that refused to heal. The anguish had been so overwhelming that she had found herself crumpling to the floor in front of the hearth, her sobs echoing in the cold chamber as the warmth from the gire failed to touch her grief-stricken form. Concerns for her health had summoned the maester, who feared the sorrow might break her heart so completely it ceased beating. Yet, her heart persisted, continuing its relentless beat, each pulse a reminder of her loss.

In the days that followed, a stone coffin, painstakingly sculpted to resemble Laena, was commissioned from the finest mason within the Seven Kingdoms–and yet, it had not resembled Laena as she remembered her. Rhaenys could still recall the icy touch of the stone as she laid her hands upon it, the chill seeping into her bones, mirroring the void Laena’s death had left in her soul.

Corlys had remained by her side, a silent pillar of strength, having seen men perish in the whims of war. He grieved Laena like the loss of his blood–and she grieved her as only a mother could.

Corlys had made the decision to bar Rhaenys from seeing their daughter being enclosed within the casket, sparing her the torment of those final images. Instead, Rhaenys clung to the last memories of Laena–her vibrant smile and the color of her cheeks from flying, a juxtaposition to the unyielding coldness of the stone that held her body. Laena had been laid to rest in the depths of the ocean, joining the lineage of their ancestors, and not long after, her brother would join her in that silent, watery embrace.

The loss of her son had shattered something deep within Rhaenys, a break that time could not mend. A pervasive fear, previously unknown to her, had begun to grow, watered by the harrowing memories of discovering his body. The scent of charred flesh, the sight of a face so consumed by flames that all features were obliterated, leaving behind nothing but blackened skin and empty eye sockets.The acrid smell of burning flesh lingered in her nostrils, a cruel reminder, rekindled with every whiff of smoke that crossed her path.

And unlike Laena, there was nothing of Laenor left in the world. There was nothing to remember him by, no echo or trace of him in others. His absence was a void, an erasure so complete it was as if his essence had been wiped from existence. This absence, this nothingness where once there was laughter, love, and life, perhaps cut the deepest–a son who vanished as though he had never been at all.

Baela moved closer, her expression softening, her voice gentle yet imbued with an underlying strength.

“I am a dragonrider,” she declared, tracing the lineage of fire and resolve of those who came before her, “like my mother and father, and you.”

In Baela’s gaze, a fierce determination ignited, reminiscent of the blazing heart of a dragon’s breath–intense, unwavering. And as she spoke, her conviction seemed to resonate through the hall, echoing the ancestral call to arms. “If the Greens wish to usurp our Queen’s throne then they must be answered in fire and blood.”

In that fleeting moment, as the echoes of Baela’s words lingered in the air, Rhaenys saw not her granddaughter before her but a reflection of her own daughter. It was as if a piece of her soul burned brightly in Baela. Laena had had the spirit of a dragon–fierce, resolute, and as untamable as the beast she rode. Her essence was marked by an indomitable will and a fiery heart, traits that now lived on in Baela.

“Do you think I jest?” Baela’s challenge came with a frown, her face etched with seriousness.

Rhaenys’s smile was tinged with a bittersweet joy–a reflection of the sorrow of loss and the sweetness of love. “I just glimpsed my daughter in you, the first time in years…”

Baela blinked in astonishment at the depths of Rhaenys’s admission, momentarily caught off guard by the bluntness of it and the image it painted. A bloom of pride and confidence seemed to grow within her as she stood up a little straighter.

“Laena would have been proud of you,” Rhaenys continued, her pride evident despite the sorrow that laced her words. “And so am I. But this conflict isn’t ours.”

“Mother would have us stand our ground and fight,” Baela said, her determination softened by an underlying tenderness.

“She would,” Rhaenys conceded, fighting back her tears and steadying her voice. “Yet, you’ve yet to grasp the full horror of what war means–the destruction it brings, the price it exacts.”

Baela’s response was sharp and carried the weight of conviction. “I understand what would happen if we don’t fight. Should we falter, our Queen will be usurped, perhaps even slain, and her children with her–Jace, Luke, Joffrey, Aegon, and Viserys would all meet the same grim fate. And us, we would spend our days looking over our shoulders, forever beneath the heel of the Greens, condemned to a life devoid of significance or security.”

Baela moved closer, her face a blend of empathy and unwavering determination. “My fate is entwined with Jace’s. As his future queen, this usurpation by the Greens threatens not just Rhaenyra but also Jace, and by extension, me.”

Rhaenys looked down as Baela gently took her hands, the warmth of her touch a stark contrast to the cool air of Dragonstone.

“If we do not fight for those who we love, then what do we fight for?” Baela implored, her question cutting to the heart of the conflict.

Rhaenys’s gaze lingered on her granddaughter. With a heavy heart, she acknowledged the resolve in Baela’s eyes, offering a solemn nod. “It is not my place to commit the forces of House Velaryon to this cause. However, I shall remain here on Dragonstone. I stand with you and your sister in spirit and, should Rhaenyra seek my counsel, I will offer it. But I will not take up arms. This battle is not mine to fight.”

A shadow of disappointment passed over her granddaughter’s face, prompting Rhaenys to gently cup her cheek, her touch tender, conveying a silent entreaty for understanding. “You are wise beyond your years, and brave. You will be a great queen.”

Baela’s expression softened under her grandmother’s comforting gesture, momentarily leaning into the warmth of her hand. However, it wasn’t long before a hint of apprehension crept into her demeanor.

“Father mentioned you saw Daenera.”

“Yes, I saw her.”

“He told us she stood with the Greens…”

“She stood with them,” Rhaenys confirmed, her voice carrying a note of resignation as she withdrew her hand. “But I do not believe that she had a choice. As I fled on Meleys, she cried out, imploring me to engulf them in flames, fully prepared to embrace her own demise.”

Rhaenys’s thoughts were a tumultuous sea, recalling the harrowing chain of events over the last days. She had been jolted awake by a scream–a sound so filled with agony that it was barely more than a whisper, yet potent enough to wrench her from her sleep. The raw anguish in that cry had sent a shiver down her spine, prompting her to try and leave the room, only to find her door locked from the outside. The screams had receded down the hallway, diminishing into an eerie silence, until a faint, muffled voice penetrated the wood and stone barriers of the walls. Daenera’s voice.

She had sincerely implored the gods for Daenera’s safety, hoping they would aid her in her escape. And then she saw her standings among the Greens as they crowned the usurper king.

In the throes of her escape from the Dragonpit astride Meleys, her deepest wish was to rescue her granddaughter. But the one-eyed boy wrapped his arms around Daenera, refusing to let her go. His determination had been clear in his gaze–a resolve that wouldn’t falter, not even under the threat of dragonfire. Daenera had understood this too. She had called out to Rhaenys, not for rescue, but for retribution, a plea to end it all in flames. The resignation and desperate yearning for release in her granddaughter’s eyes were a vision of both courage and despair, deeply etched in Rhaenys’s memory.

And yet, Rhaenys couldn’t bring herself to do it.

The choice to unleash destruction, even at Daenera’s behest, was a burden too grievous to bear.

Rhaenys held firm in her convictions, refusing to cross the line into becoming a kingslayer or, far worse, a kinslayer. The conflict engulfing them wasn’t hers to ignite or extinguish.

And the thought of subjecting Daenera to the same fate her children had suffered – to be consumed by flames – was unbearable. The haunting image of her granddaughter reduced to a charred corpse, her bright blue eyes liquified leaving dark hollows of despair where they should have been, as her children had been, was a specter she could not face.

“We must retrieve her,” Baela’s voice broke through her thoughts. “We can’t leave her at the mercy of the usurpers.”

Rhaenys allowed herself a moment of closure, her eyelids shutting briefly as if to ward off the painful reality before opening them again, a newfound resolve hardening within. “Daenera is brave and clever. She will find a way to survive this ordeal, of that I am sure. Just as I once was, she is now a hostage, a pawn in their grand scheme. The Green recognize the value of keeping her alive, and they will exploit her situation to undermine Rhaenyra’s resolve. If Rhaenyra values the life of her daughter, she will yield to their demands.”

“Rhaenyra cannot afford to give in to them,” Baela countered.

“If she doesn’t, it may very well cost her daughter’s life,” Rhaenys said, her heart heavy. “And it will certainly start a war.”

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