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Chapter Text

PROLOGUE

The Tower of Joy
The air was thick with heat and sorrow. Within the crumbling tower, the scent of blood mingled with the acrid smoke of a struggling fire. The room was dim, lit only by the flickering light of the hearth, where three dragon eggs, black as obsidian, green as summer moss, and white like snow-veined marble, rested in the flames, pulsing faintly with life.

Lyanna Stark lay upon a bed soaked with sweat and blood, her breaths shallow and labored. Her face, once flushed with Northern fire, had gone pale as milk. Each exhale rattled like wind through dead leaves.
Ser Arthur Dayne, Sword of the Morning, knelt at her side, his greatsword Dawn set carefully aside. He grasped her hand, calloused fingers wrapped around her own trembling ones. Her grip, though fading, still held the strength of purpose.

“She’s fading,” whispered Ser Oswell Whent from the shadows, voice cracking beneath the weight of helplessness. “We are losing her.”

The newborn in Lyanna’s arms wailed, sharp and defiant, a cry not of fear, but of life declaring itself.

“His name…” she gasped, blood bubbling at her lips, “his name is… Rhaenar.”

Arthur bowed his head. “Rhaenar… Targaryen?”

A flicker of a smile touched her lips. “A new name… for a new beginning,” she whispered. “Rhaegar thought he would be a girl. He dreamed of Visenya reborn, but this child… this child will be something else entirely.”
She turned her head, sweat-drenched strands of hair falling across her brow. Her grey eyes locked with Arthur’s, fierce despite the haze of death closing in.

“You must protect him, Arthur,” she said, voice stronger for a breath, as if sheer will pushed it forth. “Raise him to be more than a prince. Prepare him for fire and war… for the throne… for the Dawn. Promise me. Promise me, Arthur!”

“I promise, my Queen,” Arthur said, his voice breaking as he bent his forehead to hers. “I will raise him in honor. I will prepare him, and I will die before harm reaches him.”

Lyanna’s smile returned, softer now, tinged with sadness.

“You always did speak like a knight from the songs…” she murmured. “But songs lie. This… this is real. Tell my father… tell Ned I’m sorry. I hope Rhaegar is waiting for me.”
Her last breath slipped between her lips like a whispered wind, and then she was still.

The fire cracked. A snap echoed in the room, sharp and alien. One of the dragon eggs split with a hiss, releasing a gout of steam and a shimmer of red flame. Then the second. Then the third.

Arthur rose slowly, child in arms, eyes wide with wonder as three hatchlings, one as dark as midnight, another pale as moonlight, and the third gleaming green, pushed free of their shells.

Oswell gasped. “Gods… the dragons…”

“No,” Arthur whispered. “The blood has returned.”

And with it, the world would change.

Dragonstone
Winds howled around the jagged towers of Dragonstone, sea spray lashing the black stone like angry ghosts. The Velaryon ships bobbed in the harbor below, offloading crates, wounded soldiers, and those few who remained loyal to House Targaryen.

Ser Arthur Dayne stood upon the battlements, a heavy black cloak wrapped around the infant Rhaenar. Beneath the folds, the three newborn dragons stirred, drawn to his warmth, their scaled hides radiating heat.
Below, in the great chamber, Queen Rhaella screamed.

Ser Oswell Whent burst through the door, his hands slick with blood. “She lives, for now,” he said breathlessly. “And the child, she is born. A girl.”
Arthur strode inside, past the septon and maesters, straight to the queen’s bedside. Rhaella lay pale and shaking, sweat plastering silver hair to her brow, but her eyes blazed with familiar fury.

A nurse took the wailing babe from her arms. “Daenerys,” Rhaella whispered. “Another dragon.”
Arthur knelt beside her, unfurling his cloak. From within, he revealed Rhaenar and the three dragons, chirping and hissing, wings trembling in the firelight.

Rhaella’s breath caught. “By the Seven…”
“No,” Arthur said. “By the gods of old Valyria.”

The queen wept silently, not in grief, but in awe. “Then the prophecy lives. The dragon has three heads.”
Thunder cracked over Blackwater Bay. But in the halls of Dragonstone, a storm of a different kind had already begun.

Outside Blackhaven
Rain fell like tears from the grey sky.
Ser Gerold Hightower rode alone, his horse plodding through churned mud. Draped across his saddle was the body of Lyanna Stark, wrapped in wool, bound in honor. Her face was serene now, untouched by pain or fear.
At the rise ahead, Eddard Stark appeared atop a black steed, his face hard with grief. Six companions waited behind him, silent as the grave.

Gerold dismounted slowly and uncovered Lyanna’s face. “She died in childbirth,” he said, voice low. “The babe… did not survive long.”
Ned dismounted, crossing the space between them in measured steps. He knelt, cradled his sister’s still form, pressed his brow against hers.

“She was all I had left,” he murmured.
“I grieve with you, Lord Stark,” Gerold said.

Ned rose. “And where will you go now, Ser Gerold? King’s Landing? Robert would pardon a knight of your honor.”

“My vows do not bend to kings,” Gerold replied. “My sword was Rhaegar’s. My duty… lies elsewhere.”

“To Dragonstone, then?”
Gerold inclined his head. “To what remains.”

“I will not stop you,” Ned said quietly. “But go swiftly. Robert’s wrath is deep and will follow to the depths of the Seven Hells.”

Gerold mounted again. “So do the gods,” he said, and rode into the mist.

King’s Landing
The stench of ash and rot still clung to the streets of the capital. Ser Gerold wore a merchant’s cloak, his white armor hidden beneath layers of dust and deception. The Red Keep loomed ahead, and beneath it, the training yard rang with steel.

Ser Barristan Selmy watched two squires clash with blunted swords. His posture was still straight, though his eyes bore the weight of loss.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said without looking.

Gerold said only one word. “Rhaenar.”
Barristan turned. “He’s dead. They’re all dead.”

“One lives,” Gerold said. “Born beneath dragon song. And fire. And death.”
A long silence stretched between them.

“You ask me to betray my king,” Barristan said.

“I ask you to remember your oath...to the rightful king.”

Slowly, Barristan reached up and unclasped his white cloak. He folded it with reverence and set it on the bench beside him.
“I remember,” he said.

The Stepstones – Dragon's Lair
The fortress stank of old smoke and older blood. Dragon Lair, once the seat of Daemon Targaryen, now flickered with new fire. Its black walls bore the scars of war and time alike.

Queen Rhaella sat upon a high-backed chair of dark oak, her body frail, but her gaze unyielding. Around her stood the last of the loyal, Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Gerold Hightower, Ser Oswell Whent, Ser Barristan Selmy, and Lord Lucerys Velaryon.
“The world believes us dead,” Rhaella said.

Arthur nodded. “Let them believe it. The dragon must rise in silence.”

Barristan stepped to the window, peering toward the dark sea. “When we return, it will be with fire and blood.”

A wetnurse rocked Rhaenar gently in her arms. The babe cooed, oblivious to the weight of a world being shaped around him. At the hearth, the three dragons curled together, smoke rising from their nostrils.
Rhaella looked at them all, knight, lord, guardian, friend. “We are the last flame.”

Gerold raised his head. “Then let us burn bright.”

In the shadows beyond the firelight, the blood of the dragon stirred once more.

Chapter Text

Fifteen Years Later

The world believed the blood of the dragon had died at the Trident.
The lords raised cups to Robert Baratheon’s hammer, their voices thick with wine and triumph, their halls echoing with the false chorus of peace. Banners once sewn with fire and blood were torn down, cast into gutters or burned in the name of the new order. Maesters wrote of a new age, of freedom won, of tyranny ended.
But peace is a liar.

Far to the east, across the Narrow Sea and deeper still into the black waters of myth, rose the jagged, volcanic bones of the Bloodstone Isles; a place half-lost to time and shadow. There, cloaked in mist and legend, stood the Dragon Lair, an ancient fortress carved into basalt cliffs and sealed in oath and secrecy. Black stone walls bore the heat of the world’s wound. The air always smelled of ash, as if the dragons that once ruled the skies had never truly gone.
And in its highest hall, beneath a dome wrought with stained glass depictions of Old Valyria, a king waited.

The wind howled through the high arches, tugging at the tattered red-and-black banners that clung to the walls like dying memories. The hall’s heart was lit by a great iron brazier, flames dancing wildly, casting long shadows across the obsidian armor of King Rhaenar Targaryen.

He stood alone.
Tall, solemn, his features cut sharp as broken prophecy. His hair, black as crowfeather and unbound, fell past his shoulders, a striking defiance of the silver-gold so known to his kin. Yet his eyes, steel-grey, rimmed in sorrow and wrath, betrayed the blood of the dragon within.
He stared into the fire as though it might speak to him.

“You are certain they’re ready?” he asked, voice low, quiet as distant thunder. He did not turn.
A figure emerged from the darkness behind the pillars, Ser Aurane Velaryon, his white cloak whispering against the stone floor like the hush before a storm. His silver hair had shined with youth and smoke, but his bearing remained proud, unbroken. He knelt.

“Aye, my king,” Aurane said, rising slowly. “The dragons grow restless. They glide the skies as if they remember what it means to rule. And the men… they whisper your name like a prayer. Some say you are the Conqueror come again. Others say you're fire made flesh.”

Rhaenar’s lips did not smile, but his eyes burned with quiet fury.
“Let them speak,” he said. “We begin at dawn.”

In the courtyard below, torches hissed in the wind as a storm gathered on the horizon. And beneath that storm waited Vhagar, the great green dragon, fifteen years old and twice as cruel. Her wings stretched from tower to tower, vast and leathery and terrible, her emerald scales glittering like blades in the firelight.

Her breath steamed in the night air. Her claws gouged the stone as she turned toward her rider.
Rhaenar approached her without fear. He moved like a man walking into destiny. With practiced ease, he climbed the saddle set into the armored ridge of her back, leather creaking beneath his gloved fingers.

Vhagar snarled, low, pleased, and reared, launching herself into the air with a thunderous crack that shook the keep.

From the eastern wall came another roar, high and fierce, Balerion, black as a moonless night, wings like shrouds of mourning, fire flickering between his teeth. On his back sat Daenerys Targaryen, her silver hair braided in the ancient Valyrian style. She wore no crown, but her gaze was regal and unrelenting. Her eyes, twin pools of amethyst flame, scanned the skies like a conqueror returned.

And behind them, the pale form of Shrykos took flight, wings like bleached parchment, gleaming under moonlight. Viserys Targaryen, more scholar than warrior, clutched the reins tight, his jaw clenched with quiet resolve.
They rose together into the stormclouds, three dragons and three riders, fire reborn.

Later, in the war-room, they gathered around the map of Westeros carefully displayed across the table.
The fire crackled behind them. Vhagar’s roars echoed faintly beyond the walls.
Rhaenar planted a dagger into the map, its tip landing just above Storm’s End.

“I will take back what was stolen,” he said, his voice steel. “The stag sits on a throne meant for dragons. House Baratheon will burn. The Lannisters will fall for their treachery, and they will die in their gold-plated tombs.”
Viserys, seated to the left, sipped quietly from a cup of Arbor gold. He set it down with care, then looked to his nephew.

“And the North?” he asked. “They are Stark’s. They are your kin, even if they don’t know it.”
Rhaenar’s stare didn’t waver. “They bent the knee to the Usurper. Kin or not, if they raise arms against me, they fall.”

Daenerys sat apart, cross-legged beside the fire, her face lit by flickering light.
Her voice was quiet. “And the people?”

Rhaenar turned.

She met his gaze, steady and unblinking. “They remember fire, nephew. But not kindly. They remember ashes. What will they see when you come with wings and war?”

“They will see truth,” Rhaenar said, stepping toward her. “Truth wrapped in flame. Truth with a voice strong enough to burn lies from the world.”

“Truth does not always bring peace,” she said.

“No,” he replied, reaching for the hilt of his sword. “But it brings justice, justice for my brother and sister.”

The Pact of Roses

The sun was setting when they rode through the gates of Highgarden.
Clad in simple armor, dulled by dust and travel, Rhaenar looked every inch the squire he pretended to be. His proud gait tempered to the shuffle of a servant. Yet beneath the disguise, his blood sang with fire.

Highgarden rose before him like a bloom of stone and ivy, its towers crowned in green and gold. The air smelled of lavender, damp moss, and roses; thousands of them, trailing from walls, bursting from hedges, tended like treasure. It was beautiful. It was soft. And he had not come for softness.
He had come for war.

Ser Gerold Hightower rode beside him, white cloak trailing behind his steel shoulders. The years had lined the Old Bull’s face, but his eyes were still sharp beneath his brow. He said little as they crossed the courtyard, but his presence was declaration enough, the Kingsguard had returned, and not for idle words.

They were led into the great hall as the evening feast began. Gold torches flickered on walls draped in rich tapestries; verdant scenes of harvest, of jousts, of lovers entwined beneath blooming trellises. Courtiers turned at the sight of Ser Gerold, their laughter dipping into whispers.

Lord Mace Tyrell sat high upon his seat, goblet in hand, robes of gold and green spilling around him like a second throne. His cheeks were flushed with wine and heat, and his mouth was split in a broad grin.

“Well, well. Ser Gerold Hightower. A ghost from the past!” Mace boomed, setting down his goblet. “No one has seen or heard from you since the end of the Rebellion. To what do we owe this... unexpected pleasure?”
Ser Gerold stepped forward, offering no platitudes.

“I come with an offer, Lord Tyrell. One that could see your house rise higher than it ever has.”
Mace’s smile cooled. “Is that so? From a man who vanished with a dead prince and not seen in all these years.”

Gerold’s eyes swept the hall. Then, he stepped aside.

Rhaenar stepped forward, fingers tight on the clasp of his helm. For one moment, he hesitated. He thought of his mother’s scream as she brought him into the world, of his brother’s cold corpse in the Red Keep. Of dragons sleeping across the sea, waiting for their master's call.

Let them see. Let them remember.
He pulled the helm from his head.
Gasps echoed through the chamber. A lady dropped her cup; a boy stumbled back into his father’s arms. Even the rose banners above seemed to flutter in hesitation.
Black hair cascaded over his shoulders. His eyes, stormy grey, burning with purpose, swept the stunned hall.

“I am Rhaenar of House Targaryen,” he said, his voice like distant thunder.
“Blood of the dragon. Son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. Heir to the Iron Throne.”
Silence. Deep and watchful.

“And I offer you alliance—” he paused, eyes like molten steel, “—or ruin.”
The words hung in the air like a drawn blade.

Mace Tyrell leaned forward, fingers steepled. “Then you are either mad… or the most dangerous man in Westeros.”
“I am what the realm needs,” Rhaenar said. “And what it cannot stop.”

Mace studied him for a long moment, expression unreadable.

“Rhaegar had a wife,” he said at last, voice cool. “Why should I support a bastard?”
“Because my father took Lyanna Stark to wife, as witnessed by my Kingsguard,” Rhaenar snapped, anger sharpening his tone.

“His Grace speaks truly,” Ser Gerold said, stepping forward. “Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Oswell Whent bore witness when Prince Rhaegar wed Lyanna Stark beneath the heart trees of the Isle of Faces, before the Old Gods of her House.” Gerold stepped forward again. “Storms gather. The crown sits uneasy on a stolen brow. The North remembers, the Reach watches, and dragons stir across the sea. Join us, Lord Mace, and your house will not merely survive the coming storm, it will flourish in it.”

Mace was silent for a long moment. Then he laughed, rich and deep, but no longer careless.

“You speak of storms, boy, but this hall was built for calm. What does a rose need with dragons?”

Rhaenar’s eyes narrowed. “Because winter comes for all things soft. And I would rather see roses bloom in fire than rot beneath snow and iron.”
Mace leaned back, swirling his wine. “You want our swords. We’ll have your blood. A daughter of Tyrell for a prince of your line. That is the price.”

Rhaenar nodded. “My uncle Viserys will wed your daughter. And I will take what is mine by fire and blood.”
The flickering shadows danced along the walls of the high hall as firelight flared in the hearth. The mood had shifted. The conversation of dragons and war had ebbed into a quieter tension, the stillness that comes not before a storm, but before a bargain.

Lady Olenna Tyrell, the Queen of Thorns, had remained silent throughout the exchange. She sat with her back straight, hands folded around the stem of a goblet, her eyes half-lidded yet watchful as a hawk’s. The Tyrell green glinted on the bodice of her gown, though beneath it she wore armor of another kind, wit honed to a blade’s edge.
She spoke at last, her voice cutting clean through the room like a silk-wrapped dagger.

“My Margaery is worth more than the hand of an uncle to a would-be king.”

The words fell like stones into water, but Rhaenar did not bristle. He turned toward the old lioness, considering her with something like amusement, though only just.
Olenna leaned forward, setting down her cup with an audible click against the stone table.

“The Iron Throne is not some trinket to pluck off a shelf. And if we are to earn its ire, if Margaery is to be wagered in your grand design, then you’ll have to offer more than legend and smoke.”
Rhaenar stepped toward the old lady, his eyes gleaming in the firelight. He did not raise his voice, but his presence filled the room like rising heat.

“I offer your granddaughter not the hand of an uncle,” he said calmly, “but a crown. Not in name, but in right. When I sit the Iron Throne, Margaery’s daughter or granddaughter will be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms one day, not consort to some lesser lord playing at dragons. Her children, or grandchildren will wear the Conqueror’s steel. That is my offer.”

Olenna tilted her head, feigning contemplation as she swirled the dark wine in her goblet. The firelight caught the glint in her eyes, sharp as cut emeralds.

“The Reach can bring you a large army,” she said slowly, her voice honeyed but lined with steel. “But if Westeros unites against us? If the lion, the wolf, the stag, and the falcon all remember how to march in step; if they see dragons as a threat, not salvation, we’ll be buried beneath the banners of a hundred houses.”
She set the goblet down gently and leaned forward, her gaze fixed on Rhaenar like a blade pressed to the throat.

“What are you not telling us?”
“Where does this confidence stem from?”

The silence that followed was deep and deliberate. Even the fire seemed to quiet, its crackle softening like breath held too long.
Rhaenar stood still, tall, immovable, his presence a silent storm. His grey eyes, veiled and inscrutable, flicked toward the balcony windows. Then, with the slow, deliberate grace of a man who understood power and how to wield it, he moved towards Lady Olenna.

He drew back his black cloak with a smooth sweep of his arm, the metal of his gauntlet catching the firelight.
“Come,” he said, voice low and commanding. “Come and see why the Reach is enough.”

He paused, letting the room fall quiet before adding:

“Look out the window… and see what will unite the Seven Kingdoms once more under Targaryen rule.”
The words hung in the air like smoke as he stepped toward the tall, arched doors of the balcony and pushed them open. Warm sunlight poured in, golden and blinding after the dim hall, and the Tyrells hesitated before following him into the light.

Lady Olenna, ever cautious, narrowed her eyes as she stepped outside.
Mace Tyrell followed behind her, puffing slightly with the effort, his cheeks already flushed with anticipation.
Margaery, quiet and poised, walked with the stillness of a cat, her gaze flicking briefly to Rhaenar before turning skyward.

Then the sound came. a rushing of wind and thunder, like a great storm breaking across the mountains.
From the clouds above, Vhagar descended.

She broke through the sky in a flash of emerald brilliance, wings wide enough to cast a shadow over the entire courtyard below. Sunlight lanced across her scales, setting them ablaze in shades of jade and gold. Her roar cracked the sky, primal and ancient, a song not heard in Westeros in generations.
Mace gasped aloud, stumbling a half-step back.

“Gods be good,” he breathed, one hand clutching his chest. “It's… enormous.”
Rhaenar did not smile, but his voice rose with pride as Vhagar wheeled above them, her wings scattering birds and clouds alike.

“That is but one of my dragons,” he said, his voice carrying over the wind. “My mount. The war-serpent, Vhagar, named for the old goddess of wrath and sky, the God of War. Named after Queen Visenya's own mount.”
The dragon circled once more, then soared toward the mountains to the east, her cry trailing behind her like a comet’s tail.

“My uncle Viserys rides Shrykos, pale and swift,” Rhaenar continued, his tone growing stronger. “And my aunt Daenerys commands Balerion, the Black Dread reborn, as legendary as the dragons that helped raise up Old Valyria. As the Conqueror came with his sisters and united the realm, so shall I and my kin.”

Olenna watched Vhagar vanish into the clouds, her lips pursed tight.
“Three dragons. Three riders. And an oath wrapped in fire.”

Rhaenar turned to face her, hair lifted by the wind, eyes like cold steel.
“You asked where my confidence comes from,” he said. “It comes from the sky. From blood. From fire that never died.”
“No matter what banners rise against me, they will burn or bend. And when the smoke clears, there will be only one King.”

Margaery stepped beside her grandmother then, her eyes never leaving Rhaenar’s face.
“And what kind of king will you be?” she asked softly.

He held her gaze. No dragon, no crown, just a man now, laid bare in her question.
“One who remembers what was lost,” he said. “And what must never be lost again.”

Olenna said nothing. But for the first time, she looked not at the dragon, but at the man who rode it.
“And if you fail?” she asked. “If your dragons fall from the sky and your army bleeds out on the Rose road? What then? Will Margaery be a widow in exile? Or worse; burned alive by Cersei’s vanity, or whatever beast sits beside her?”

“If I fall,” Rhaenar said, “then the war will have already burned through every keep from Storm’s End to the Neck. There will be no safety left for queens of any name. But I do not intend to fall.”
His grey eyes met hers, hard as forged steel.

“I ask for the Reach. For your banners. For your word. In return, I offer justice, delivered by fire. I offer your house the throne beside mine.”
Lady Olenna’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. Not quite.
“Well,” she said after a moment, reaching again for her wine, “that’s better.”

She sipped her wine, nodding slowly, "and the character of Visery’s? Is he like his father, or his brother?”
The wind stirred the crimson drapes behind them, letting shafts of sunlight spill across the balcony floor. The faint cry of a dragon echoed in the distance, a ghostly reminder of the power hovering just beyond sight. But now, all eyes were fixed not on the sky but on Rhaenar Targaryen.

He turned to face Lady Olenna fully, his dark cloak settling behind him like a shadow. For the first time since the meeting began, he allowed a flicker of warmth to show, not theatrical, not false, but something deeper. A truth given freely.

“Viserys is my most loyal supporter,” Rhaenar said, his voice steadier now, grounded in memory. “He is kind. A man of learning. He reads the histories, studies the law, walks with wisdom instead of blades.”
Lady Olenna arched a brow but said nothing. She listened. Intently.

“Yes, he is proud,” Rhaenar continued. “And he knows his worth. But that pride is not empty. He’s earned it, through exile, hunger, and fire. And now, he is a dragonrider. One of three in the world.”
He took a breath and glanced, briefly, toward the horizon.

“I never knew my father,” he admitted. “Nor my grandfather. I was born into silence. Into hiding. But my Kingsguard, men who fought beneath my father’s banners, who bled for Rhaegar Targaryen, they tell me Viserys reminds them of him.”
He stepped closer to the table, his armored fingers resting lightly on the wood where the seven-pointed star of the faith had been carved.

“Calm. Collected. Dutiful.” A faint smile touched his lips now, soft, unguarded. “They say he would have made a fine prince had fate been kinder.”
Then he looked to Olenna again, and this time his voice carried not command, but promise.

“He would honor your granddaughter. Treat her not as a pawn in some game of thrones, but as a lady of the Reach… and a princess of House Targaryen. With all the dignity, safety, and standing that title affords.”
For a heartbeat, there was silence.

Lady Olenna watched him, her eyes still sharp, but unreadable. Then, slowly, she turned her gaze not to Rhaenar, but to Margaery, who had stood quietly through the storm of words, a rose between lions and dragons.
The younger Tyrell met her grandmother’s gaze, then Rhaenar’s. Her expression was unreadable, lips parted slightly as if to speak, then closed again in thought. If she was surprised by the sincerity, or moved, she gave no sign. But something had shifted.

Olenna tapped the rim of her goblet once.
“Well,” she said finally, “you speak more plainly than most men with a crown in sight. That alone is rare enough to impress me.”

She straightened, the wine forgotten.
The light shifted as the sun began its slow descent beyond the sea, casting long shadows across the war table. The fire within the hall still crackled, but the mood had turned from heat to ice, calculated, deliberate. The kind of cold that only came after terms were struck.

Mace Tyrell adjusted his belt, chest puffed but silent for once. His face was still red from awe, but his eyes, uncharacteristically, searched Olenna’s.
She met his gaze. A moment passed between them. A thousand unspoken words in a single glance.
Then they nodded.
It was done.

Olenna turned to leave, robes brushing against the stone with every precise step. The guards at the door moved to open it, but she halted at the threshold.
Just long enough for the thorn to prick.

“One more thing, Your Grace,” she said without turning her head, her voice as sharp as a needle dipped in honey.
Rhaenar did not respond immediately. He watched her, arms behind his back, the light glinting faintly off the dark steel of his armor.

Olenna glanced over her shoulder, her eyes cold and ancient.
“Pride may be earned,” she said. “But it must still be reined. If your uncle forgets that…”

She left the rest hanging, unspoken, yet unmistakable. A threat not made, but promised.

Rhaenar inclined his head slightly, his expression unmoved.
“Then he’ll remember it,” he said. “Or I’ll remind him myself.”

There was no arrogance in his tone, just certainty. Like the weight of a sword unsheathed.
Olenna studied him one last time. The curve of her lips hinted at something between approval and warning.

“Then I suppose the Reach is yours.”
She took a step forward, then paused again.

“But be careful, Your Grace.”
Her eyes glinted in the dying light.
“A rose has thorns. Even for dragons.”

With that, she turned and vanished into the shadows of the corridor, her cloak flowing behind her like a banner in retreat, but not defeat.
Behind her, Mace followed, shoulders square, suddenly walking as if the Reach itself had grown heavier on his back.

Rhaenar stood alone in the hall, the scent of ash and wine still lingering. Far above, Vhagar’s cry echoed through the clouds like a war-drum.
He did not smile. But he turned to the open balcony and whispered,
“Let the realm remember this day. The fire has roots now.”

The Thorn of Dorne
Far to the south, where the sands whispered of blood and sunfire, Queen Rhaella Targaryen rode beneath a blazing sky. The heat shimmered off the dunes, bending the horizon like glass over flame. Her silver-gold hair was veiled beneath a deep crimson scarf, her face shaded, but her poise untouched by exile. She rode tall, proud, even here, even now. A queen, though no throne yet bore her name.

At her side rode Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. The hilt of Dawn, pale and luminous, jutted over his shoulder, its presence a silent warning. In his violet eyes there was calm, and in his silence, promise.
They had come to Sunspear, where salt mingled with spice and shadow, and every breeze seemed to carry secrets. The scent of cinnamon, sweet pepper, and hot stone wafted from the open chambers of Prince Doran Martell’s palace in the Water Gardens, where water flowed through narrow channels in the floor to cool the room but did nothing to temper the heat in the air.

The Prince of Dorne sat reclined on silk cushions, one hand resting on the arm of his carved wooden chair, the other clutching a small goblet of iced wine. His face was calm, unreadable, his voice, slow and deliberate.
“You ask for much,” Doran said, dark eyes never leaving hers. “But offer little.”

Rhaella did not bow, nor did she raise her voice. Her bearing alone was answer enough.
“I offer vengeance,” she said. “For Elia. For her children. For a house betrayed under the pretense of alliance.”

Doran’s brow lifted slightly.
“Words. Many men have offered vengeance. Most were fools.”

“I am not most men,” Rhaella replied. “And I offer more than words. I offer names.”

She stepped forward, a strip of parchment unrolling from her fingers, bearing sigils, titles, and the bloodlines of the Usurper’s supporters. Names of those who stood by as Elia Martell’s screams echoed through the halls of the Red Keep. Names marked for fire.

Doran took it. Read. Said nothing.

“And the throne?” he asked, quietly. “If my daughter Arianne is to be queen, if Dorne is to rise, Viserys must wear the crown.”
Rhaella’s mouth curled into something cold and knowing.

“The dragon does not beg, Prince of Dorne. And Viserys is not the dragon.”
Her voice sharpened like a drawn blade. “He is the ember. My grandson, Rhaenar, is the flame. And flames burn brighter than shadows.”

“Grandson,” Doran said suddenly, and his voice, normally soft, deliberate, now held venom.
“Lyanna Stark birthed a bastard, and you would crown him a king.”

The words struck the air like a slap, silencing even the birds outside.
Rhaella did not flinch. But Arthur’s eyes narrowed, his hand hovering subtly near the hilt of Dawn.

Doran leaned forward now, the pain in his joints forgotten in the weight of his rage.
“Elia Martell was your daughter-by-law,” he spat. “A princess of Dorne, wedded and bedded by your golden son. She bore him two trueborn children, Aegon, Rhaenys. only for them to be butchered like dogs in the Red Keep. And now you come here, offering crowns and riddles, and speak not of Elia’s son, but of Lyanna’s whelp? Of the wolf’s bastard?”
He slammed his hand onto the arm of the chair. Wine sloshed in his goblet.

“Tell me, Queen of Ashes, is that what Targaryen loyalty means now? That we bury Dorne’s dead and raise the North’s mistakes in their place?”

Rhaella’s voice, when it came, was cold iron wrapped in silk.
“You speak of blood as if it obeys borders. That boy is Rhaegar’s son. His heir. Born of love, not war.”

“Born of betrayal,” Doran snapped. “While Elia suffered in a marriage arranged to heal kingdoms, Rhaegar followed prophecy into another’s bed. He left Elia alone to face fire and steel while he chased ghosts and stars.”

“He believed he was saving the realm,” Rhaella said.

“And in doing so, doomed his house,” Doran growled.
The silence that followed was sharp and brittle.
Then came a soft sound, sandals on tile, and Oberyn Martell stepped forward from the shadows of the room, where he had been leaning against a pillar, arms crossed, eyes blazing.

“Enough,” he said. “You speak as if vengeance and justice are the same thing, brother, but we know better.”

Doran glared at him. "You would defend this?”

“I would avenge Elia. And her children,” Oberyn replied, stepping closer. “But if you think clinging to old wounds will change the world, then you are already buried beneath them.”
He looked to Rhaella, then to Ser Arthur.

“If the boy lives, Rhaegar’s son, then he must choose what kind of king he will be. Not because of Lyanna, not because of prophecy, but because the realm needs him more than it needs our grief.”

Rhaella said nothing, but the air around her tightened like a bowstring.

Doran turned away, his face in shadow.

“A bastard in all but name,” he muttered bitterly. “And yet you place him above Elia’s memory.”

"No,” she said softly, but firmly, her voice cutting through the heavy air like a blade sheathed in silk.
“Rhaegar took Lyanna to wife. His Kingsguard, Arthur Dayne, Oswell Whent, they witnessed it. They guarded her not as a prisoner, but as a queen.”

Doran's expression flickered, a tremor of something unspoken passing behind his eyes.
“A secret ceremony. A stolen girl. That is not marriage, it is treason.”

“It is precedent,” Rhaella countered. “Targaryens have taken more than one wife before. Aegon the Conqueror stood between Visenya and Rhaenys. The line we all hail from comes from Aegon's second wife, Rhaenys. The realm was born in the bed of three, not two.”

“And what did that bring us?” Doran hissed. “Dragons. Fire. Death. You speak of ancient rights while the ashes of my kin still stain the Red Keep.”

Doran closed his eyes. For a moment, he looked every year he had carried his silence like a shroud.
“Then may your fire not consume what little we have left.”

And with that, he dismissed them with a wave of his hand, slow and weary.
But Oberyn remained behind.

A long silence followed. Doran said nothing. He merely looked at the list again, then folded it in half and handed it to a servant with a nod. The air grew heavy.
As they turned to leave, disappointment beginning to settle like dust, a voice rang out, loud, smooth, and dangerous.

“You may leave Dorne,” he said, striding forward with the ease of a man who had already killed for less, “but not without fire. I will ride with you.”
Rhaella turned, appraising him.

“You would defy your brother?” she asked.
“He rules,” Oberyn said with a shrug. “I avenge.”

Behind him stood the Sand Snakes, Nymeria, tall and elegant with her braided whip; Obara, stern and silent with a spear slung over her back; and Tyene, all softness and smiles with blades hidden in lace.
They said nothing. But they were armed. And ready.

“I will see Elia avenged,” Oberyn said. “And Rhaenys. And Aegon. The Mountain still breathes. So does the lion who gave him leave. Let the world burn. So long as their ghosts are satisfied.”

For the first time, Rhaella’s expression shifted. Not surprise, but approval.

“Then ride with us, Prince of Dorne,” she said, her voice low and regal. “Let the realm tremble.”

Ser Arthur said nothing,his gaze turned north.
In Dorne, the sun had always burned bright.
Now it would burn red.

Chapter Text

The Dragon’s Lair, Bloodstone
The black stone of the Dragon’s Lair was warm beneath Rhaenar’s boots. Heat rose through the floor like the breath of some great, slumbering beast. Smoke coiled from unseen fissures in the walls, lending the chamber a hazy red glow. The keep, buried in the volcanic heart of the island, pulsed like a forge. This was a place of fire, of birth, of death, of dragons.

He stood at the head of the war table, gauntleted hands braced on either side of Westeros. The old map was cracked and curling at the edges, scorched in places where fire had gotten too close. Small carved pieces marked positions of fleets, armies, allies and enemies.

“Fifteen years,” he murmured, his voice low and rough with memory. “Fifteen years since I vanished in a river of blood… and still, the realm wears the crown of the usurper.”

A figure stepped forward from the shadows, her boots striking the stone floor with quiet command. Rhaella Targaryen, cloaked in the colors of her house, black and red, moved like a specter of Old Valyria reborn. Her armor was forged of dragon-scale steel, each plate burnished to a dull sheen, dark as obsidian and trimmed in crimson. The flames of the brazier caught on the sharp edges of her pauldrons, casting flickering light across her face.

Her hair, silver-white and shimmering like moonlight on a black river, was braided into a coronet, a crown of lineage, not ambition. She carried herself with the ease of command, every motion steeped in poise and precision. Her violet eyes burned with a quiet intensity, less the wild fire of youth, more the slow, smoldering coal that had waited years to ignite.
She looked at Rhaenar as one might gaze at a long-lost star, brilliant, necessary, and dangerous.

“You’ve returned,” she said, her voice smooth as velvet, yet edged in steel. "Not as a boy. But as a king come to claim what was stolen.”

“We haven’t waited idly, my darling grandson. You’re not returning to an empty cause. We’ve gathered fleets, allies, gold. The realm hasn’t forgotten who you are. The dragon’s blood still stirs hearts.”
Behind her, laughter echoed, s aharp and sun-warmed.

“Aye,” said Oberyn Martell, lounging against a black stone pillar, a goblet of deep red wine cradled lazily in his hand. “The realm remembers. In whispers. In taverns. In brothels, too. They speak of ghosts and dragons, of kings who were never crowned. And they all wonder; where the missing Targaryens vanished to... and when they will return to reclaim the kingdom they lost.”

He stepped forward, the firelight painting his face in flickering shades of bronze and shadow. His eyes, sharp, unblinking, drank in every detail of Rhaenar, as though trying to strip him bare with a glance.

“You look more like a Stark than a dragon,” Oberyn mused, swirling his wine. “But I see your father in you, too. That distant gaze. That princely posture. You have his height, his grace… though none of that saved him.”
He paused, voice dropping to something colder. “I wonder, if you were worth it. All the lives lost. The war he lit like a funeral pyre. My sister Elia. My niece. My nephew. Stabbed and broken so your father could make you.”

A silence fell, taut as a bowstring.
Rhaenar turned sharply, his grey eyes flashing like tempered steel. The air around him seemed to hum. Behind him, Arthur Dayne stepped forward without hesitation, Dawn singing from its scabbard with a whisper of pale light, the sword’s edge catching the firelight like moonlight on ice.

“Careful,” Arthur warned, voice even, but deadly.

Oberyn raised one brow, amused, unflinching. “Ah, the Sword of the Morning still plays nursemaid to dragonspawn.”

But Rhaenar lifted a hand, stopping Arthur with a gesture.

“My father made many mistakes,” Rhaenar said, voice low but steady. “That much I will never deny. But we’ll never know his true mind, will we? He died believing he was forging a weapon for a war none of you saw coming. A child for a prophecy no one understood.”

He let his gaze sweep across the room, over the scorched war map, the old banners, the carved obsidian dragons that flanked the walls.
His eyes landed on Nymeria, cool and composed with arms crossed and one dagger glinting at her hip. On Obara, whose expression was a clenched fist. On Tyene, who watched him with a sweet smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Why are you here, Prince Oberyn?” Rhaenar asked, each word deliberate. “Why bring your daughters into the dragon’s den? To insult me? Or to take the measure of the man who would be king?”
Oberyn drained his goblet slowly, then tossed it aside, the silver cup clattering across the stone floor.

“To see if there’s anything left worth following,” he said, blunt as a knife. “To know if the son of Rhaegar is more than a shadow with a claim. And to teach my daughters that vengeance means nothing if it’s given to a fool.”

Nymeria stepped forward then, her voice calm as still water. “He is no fool, Father. You see it. You just don’t want to.”

Obara scoffed. “We came here for war, not words. Either he leads us to fire and blood… or he dies forgotten, like so many bastards with silver hair.”

Rhaenar met her glare without flinching. “I don’t need you to like me, Obara. I need you to bleed beside me when the dragons fly.”

Tyene’s smile widened. “We’re quite good at bleeding. And better at making others do the same.”

Oberyn chuckled, dark and rich. “The vipers bite, my prince. Be sure you know what nest you've stepped into.”
Rhaenar turned back to the war table and placed a hand over Dragonstone’s marked outline.

“I was born in war,” he said. “Raised in shadow. And now I return in fire. If you’re here to test me, Prince Oberyn, know this: I have no patience left for ghosts, only graves.”
A pause.

Then Oberyn gave a slight bow, just enough to be courteous, just sharp enough to be defiant.
“Very well... Your Grace.”

Rhaenar took a step forward, the glow of the brazier casting molten gold across his face. His voice, though calm, carried the weight of fire and expectation.

“Will House Martell rise for me?” he asked, eyes locked with Oberyn’s, sharp as a drawn blade. “Does Prince Doran call his banners for war? Or is your presence here a game of vipers with no teeth?”

A long silence followed. Oberyn’s usual smirk faltered.
He glanced down at his boots, lips tightening, not with fear, but with memory.

“No,” he said quietly. “My brother... does not raise the banners. Not yet.”
He looked up again, and in his eyes was something harder than fire: grief forged into steel.

“Doran is still angry, at the realm, at the crown, at the ghosts of Elia and her children. He dreams of justice wrapped in patience. I do not. I will not die an old man on a cushioned chair in Sunspear while the killers of my kin still walk free in the Red Keep.”
He stepped closer, his voice growing stronger with each word.

“I will fight for you, Rhaenar Targaryen. Not for thrones. For vengeance. For the chance to see Elia’s death, made right.”
A silence settled over the war room like a drawn breath.

Rhaella studied Oberyn from the side, her arms crossed. Arthur Dayne’s hand remained near Dawn’s hilt, though tension eased from his shoulders.
Rhaenar regarded Oberyn not with triumph, but with solemn understanding.

“You may fight for vengeance,” he said at last, voice quiet, steady, “but I will fight for a kingdom that remembers mercy, not just retribution. I’ll not rebuild my house on ash and bones alone. If we do this, if we take back Westeros, it must be for more than settling old scores.”

Oberyn’s expression darkened slightly, but there was no anger, only begrudging respect.
“You sound like your father,” he said. “Idealism dressed in steel.”

Rhaenar didn’t flinch. “I sound like someone who’s lived long enough in shadow to know what fire can destroy.”

Oberyn gave a wry nod.
“Then perhaps,” he said, “this dragon is worth following after all.”

Nymeria, elegant and unreadable, her eyes like polished onyx. “We will bleed for you. And others will bleed more.”
Obara, armored and sullen, fingers twitching near her spear. “I want Lion blood.” Tyene, deceptively sweet in her silk and gold, gave Rhaenar a honeyed smile. “We’ll help you take back your throne… and punish those who tore your family apart.”

Rhaenar’s eyes scanned them all. “Not for vengeance alone. This isn’t about bloodlust. It’s about restoration. The Seven Kingdoms deserve a just king, not a drunken butcher.”
Oberyn raised his cup, the firelight catching the deep red of the Dornish wine like blood in glass. “Then let’s begin,” he said, with the ghost of a grin. “What’s our first step?”

Rhaella stepped forward, her voice cool and commanding. “Driftmark. Daenerys and Viserys are already there, marshaling the Velaryon fleet. The last pieces are falling into place.”
Rhaenar’s gaze drifted upward to the vaulted ceiling of obsidian stone, where smoke curled softly through fissures. Somewhere far above, dragons roamed the thermals of the volcanic sky, restless, waiting.

Oberyn followed Rhaenar’s gaze to the thin plumes of smoke curling up through cracks in the obsidian ceiling. His voice, when it came, was edged with both curiosity and a hint of unease.
“You have dragons?”

Rhaella turned to him with a faint smile, one touched with pride, and danger. “We have dragons. Born beneath the mountains of Dorne, raised in shadow and fire. My daughter, Daenerys, rides Balerion, the dread reborn. My son, Viserys, flies Shrykos. And Rhaenar—” she gestured toward the King “—rides Vhagar, the green flame.”

She let the words linger like smoke.
“Your king does not march alone. He flies.”

Rhaenar’s voice was quiet, but carried a gravity that pulled the room taut.

“They answer to fire.” His eyes glinted in the brazier light. “And fire... is not so easily tamed.”
A long silence settled. The air grew dense, weighted with prophecy, with memory, with names spoken only in whispers, Meraxes, Caraxes, Vermithor, Meleys.

Nymeria Sand tilted her head, her expression calculating and intrigued.
Obara crossed her arms, a scowl buried beneath a flicker of awe she would never admit.
Tyene simply watched Rhaenar, drumming a slow, deliberate rhythm on the pommel of her blade.

Rhaenar turned from them all, stepping back to the war table. The carved map of Westeros lay before him, studded with red wax markers and blackened soot trails. His gaze swept it like a general’s… or a predator’s.
“Send word to Driftmark. We sail with the next tide.”

He moved his hand with precision over the eastern coast of Westeros, tracing the arc of invasion.
“The Velaryon fleet will descend upon Dragonstone from the sea.”

Then his fingers hovered over Blackwater Bay and clenched slowly into a fist.
“And I, with Daenerys and Viserys...”

“From the sky,” Tyene whispered, her voice soft, like the strike of a dagger in the dark.
Rhaenar turned to her, the barest flicker of admiration in his smile. “Exactly. The dragons strike from above. When Dragonstone falls, the realm will know the truth, the Targaryens have returned.”

Oberyn chuckled, a dark rasp that tasted of old grudges and blood. “And the lions in King’s Landing will piss gold when they see the skies on fire.”

“Let them,” Rhaella said, stepping beside Rhaenar. Her gaze burned. “We bring not just dragons… we bring reckoning.”

Rhaenar’s eyes swept the war room one final time, Arthur Dayne, still and silent like a sword unsheathed; Rhaella, regal and unyielding; Oberyn and the Sand Snakes, snakes in human form; and the old banners overhead, bearing the red three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.

He spoke not as a fugitive prince.
But as a king reborn.
“Let the storm rise.”
Above them, as if summoned by the words, the mountain trembled with a deep, guttural roar.

And far above, Vhagar answered.

Driftmark — The Seat of House Velaryon

The sea air here was different, thick with brine and memory, carrying the weight of old storms and older blood. Driftmark, with its jagged cliffs and tide-lashed shores, had never forgotten its roots. Here, the sea whispered in Valyrian tongues, and every crashing wave sounded like the beat of a war drum.
In the deep, shadowed harbor, ships lay at anchor like sleeping leviathans. Their hulls, dark and sharp, were daubed with warpaint and sea-salt. High Tide, the Velaryon stronghold, rose above them in sharp coral spires, its driftwood banners snapping in the wind, each bearing the silver seahorse of House Velaryon.

On the black shore stood Daenerys Targaryen, tall and flame-sure, her silver-gold braid swept over one shoulder like a standard. The wind pulled at her crimson cloak, its hem stirring embers from the brazier beside her. It was as though the sea itself urged her forward, not to wait, but to fly.

She stared across the horizon, where the sky bled into the waves. That sea had once carried her away from Dragonstone, away from home, from fire, from birth. Now, it would carry her back.
On wings of vengeance.

Beside her, Ser Barristan Selmy stood in silence. He looked like a relic of some forgotten age, his white hair swept by the wind, his armor dulled but unbroken, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. The sea breeze stirred his cloak, and his gaze, like hers, was fixed on the east.

“The dragons are ready,” he said, voice low and steady as thunder over waves. “The fleets are armed. When Dragonstone falls... so does Robert’s illusion of peace.”

Daenerys didn’t look at him. Her violet eyes remained on the horizon, where the enemy could not yet see the storm approaching. Her voice, when it came, was calm and cold.

“We do not come to play at thrones.” A gust of wind caught her cloak like wings. “We come to burn them.”

Barristan nodded once, his expression unreadable. “Then let them remember,” he murmured, “why they feared House Targaryen.”

Behind them, the harbor teemed with life. The Velaryon fleet bristled like a sea of spears, sleek galleys with silver sails, swift triremes armored in bronze, and towering warships whose decks groaned beneath the weight of catapults and fire barrels. Their names were legends carved into hulls; Valaena, Lucerys, Sea Snakes Wrath, echoes of Valyria long fallen.

These were no merchant ships. These were serpents from the deep, sharpened and waiting.
And from the south, behind the veil of the Stepstones, Rhaenar’s black sails lay hidden, cloaked in silence, shadow, and storm.
The trap was closing.

High above the cliffs, on a rocky outcropping overlooking the sea, Balerion stood. Not the Black Dread of old, but his namesake reborn in shadow and smoke. The great dragon's black wings stretched wide, a living tempest, and smoke curled lazily from his jaws like the last breath before fire.

Viserys Targaryen appeared beside Daenerys, his pale hair swept back by the sea wind, eyes gleaming with anticipation. At his shoulder stood Ser Oswell Whent, ever silent, ever watchful, cloaked in black and silver, one hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. Just behind them loomed Lord Monford Velaryon, draped in sea-green silks beneath his mail, his face stern beneath the salt-streaked helm of his house.

“A raven from the Dragon’s Lair,” Viserys said, his voice taut, barely restraining his excitement. “Rhaenar sails as we speak. By this time tomorrow, Dragonstone will be ours and all Westeros will know House Targaryen has returned.”

Lord Monford nodded grimly. “My scouts report Lord Stannis holds the island with a small garrison. twenty-five ships in the bay, no more. He’s vulnerable, overconfident in peace, unaware of the storm.”
A spark lit in Daenerys’s eyes. Not triumph, but destiny.

“Then let’s take our mounts,” she said, her voice like flame over oil, low and crackling with fire. “And remind Westeros who conquered these kingdoms to begin with.”
She didn’t wait for approval.

Daenerys turned from the shore and climbed the jagged path that wound up the rocky outcrop, a spine of ancient volcanic stone. The wind howled around her like a chorus of old gods, and the sea below raged with the fury of ages past. Every step felt like vengeance. Every heartbeat echoed like war drums in her chest.
The dragon waited.

At the summit, Balerion loomed, a living mountain of black scales and coiled power, smoke trailing from his nostrils like steam from the forge of the world. His eyes, twin pools of molten gold, narrowed as she approached.
She laid a hand upon his flank, warm, rough, scarred by flame and battle. He rumbled, a sound deep and resonant, like stone cracking beneath fire.
She mounted the saddle, worn smooth by flight and fury, by a hundred memories that clung to the sky.

Below, Viserys approached his own mount, Shrykos, pale white and whip-fast, smaller than Balerion, but leaner and hungry. The young dragon hissed softly, wings twitching like unfurled parchment as Viserys climbed into place.
Daenerys looked skyward, the clouds above darkening, pregnant with fire and storm. Then she turned to her brother.
“This is the hour,” she said, and in her voice there was no doubt, only flame.

Viserys gave a single nod. His jaw was clenched, his eyes ablaze. “Let’s make them remember.”

Daenerys stood tall in her saddle, her cloak snapping behind her like a banner in the wind. Then she raised her voice; not a scream, not a cry, but a command, a queen’s decree, hurled into the teeth of the coming war:

“Let the world remember who we are.”

And with a thunderclap of wings, Balerion launched into the sky, the force of his ascent sending gravel skittering down the cliffside. His wings tore at the heavens, a shadow cast across the sea. Shrykos followed, white flame dancing from his maw, darting upward like an arrow of vengeance.

Below them, the horns of war sounded across Driftmark; deep, sonorous, and full of fury.

Sailors dropped their ropes and reached for spears. Captains barked orders. Velaryon crews raised anchor. The harbor roared to life.

On the towers and battlements, the banners of House Targaryen unfurled, black and red, flame and shadow, dancing high above the crashing waves. They cracked in the wind like the beat of ancient wings.
And from a thousand throats, from ship decks, castle walls, rocky shores, and dragonflight above, the war cry rose in thunderous unison:
“Fire and Blood!”

Chapter Text

Fire From the Sky
The skies above Blackwater Bay churned with stormclouds; thick, bruised, heavy with rain and wrath. Lightning stitched the dark heavens, pale veins on a rotting sky. Beneath it all, the sea rolled restless and black, and Rhaenar Targaryen, heir returned from shadow, sat astride the most terrible beast in the known world. Vhagar.

The wind tore at his cloak, hissed against the black enamel of his armor. Obsidian plate, smooth as glass and dark as moonless water, clung to him like the past itself. Rubies, red and glimmering like frozen blood, burned from his chest in the shape of the three-headed dragon, the same sigil his father wore at the Trident, the day the realm was stolen in blood and grief.

Rhaenar's breath misted in the high air, but it wasn't the cold that stirred within him, it was smoke. Memory. Fury.

Beneath him, Dragonstone jutted from the waves like the broken fang of a sleeping god-jagged, ancient, and steeped in Targaryen legacy. Once it had blazed with dragonfire. Once, it had been his families cradle. His birthright.

Now, Baratheon banners flapped from its towers. The stag in place of the dragon. Silence where fire once ruled.
They took it all from us, he thought. Our name. Our legacy. Our home.

Below, the Royal Fleet blanketed the bay like a steel scab, rows of black-hulled ships trimmed with gold, sails bearing the stag and the lion alike. Baratheon arrogance, Lannister coin. The same alliance that had ended House Targaryen with swords and wildfire.
“So many ships,” Rhaenar murmured, squinting against the wind. His lips curled with contempt. “All of them doomed.”

Vhagar growled beneath him, sensing her rider’s rising anger. The deep, thunderous rumble vibrated through her saddle into his bones. Rhaenar reached forward, stroking her neck, scales like volcanic rock, warm from the fire building inside.
He looked down again. The fleet held formation, unaware, unprepared.
“Burn them.”

His voice was calm. Absolute.
Vhagar obeyed.

With a scream that tore the sky in half, the massive she-dragon folded her wings and dove. The air howled around them. Wind lashed Rhaenar’s face, sharp with salt and smoke. Below, the flagship crew had only begun to look skyward when green fire erupted from Vhagar’s maw.

It wasn’t fire. It was vengeance.

A gout of wildfire-infused flame roared across the ship, engulfing mast and men alike. Wood cracked. Steel melted. Flesh screamed. One moment the galleon stood proud, the next it was a blackened husk spilling corpses into the waves.
Rhaenar didn’t flinch.

More shrieks rose in the distance, not of men, but of dragons.
From the east, the sky split open.

Balerion descended like a living tempest, his wings outstretched wider than any ship's deck below. His scales shimmered with the sheen of midnight oil and old fire, reflecting the stormlight in hues of bronze and blood. Each beat of his wings stirred the smoke below into great spirals, sending sailors into a frenzy.

Atop his broad, spined neck rode Daenerys Stormborn, her figure poised and still amid the chaos, as if carved from the heart of the storm itself.

Her silver-gold hair streamed behind her like the banner of a conqueror, trailing flame and fury. She wore armor of castle forged-steel, forged to fit her form, sleek, elegant, and undeniably feminine. The three-headed dragon coiled across her breastplate, its heads encircling her chest as if to guard the heart within.

She looked like Visenya reborn, not the crone of old tales, but the warrior-queen in her prime: fire-eyed, death-kissed, and unafraid.

Her face was calm, lips set, eyes narrowed on her target. Rhaenar, circling higher above, saw her raise a single hand, fingers spread like a flame about to catch.
“Dracarys.”

She didn’t scream it. She didn’t need to. The word rang out with the weight of bloodlines and death.
Balerion roared, and the heavens answered.

A surge of red-orange fire burst from his throat with a sound like the cracking of the world. The flames struck a Baratheon warship broadside, splitting its hull like rotten fruit. Wood shattered. Steel screamed. Men leapt into the bay only to find it burning. The water caught fire. Their armor cooked them inside out.

The ship groaned, split, and vanished beneath a bloom of ash.
From his vantage above, Rhaenar watched her, a flicker of awe stirring even through his vengeance.

Aunt. Queen. Flame incarnate.
The realm was not ready for her return.
And below, the sea boiled.
Moments later, the sky trembled again.

A third beast screamed across the clouds, Shrykos, smallest of the dragons, sleek, pale, and no less lethal. His wings were narrower, his frame more serpentine than the titanic Vhagar or mountainous Balerion, but his speed was unmatched. He cut through the air like a blade through silk, trailing a comet-tail of smoke in his wake.

His cry, higher-pitched, shrill, and piercing; ripped through the din of war like a herald of ruin.
On his back rode Prince Viserys Targaryen.

He clung tight to the saddle, one hand wrapped in Shrykos’s reins, the other steady on the pommel. His armor, black as shadow and glossy as volcanic glass, shimmered with movement. The maws of dragons were sculpted across his breastplate, open wide as if in mid-roar, fangs bared, tongues of flame curling up toward his shoulders. His silver-gold hair streamed behind him like a banner torn by wind and fire.

Terror flickered in his eyes, but so too did something sharper, fury, hot and coiled. It burned behind his teeth like a second fire.
They called me weak. Called me lesser. A shadow of my siblings.
Let them see me now.

He pulled hard on the reins, urging Shrykos into a sharp dive, zigzagging through the smoke like a living missile. The swift dragon roared in answer, strafing low over a trio of supply ships, their crews only just noticing the pale blur descending upon them.
“Dracarys!” Viserys shouted, voice cracked but defiant.

Shrykos answered with a plume of white-tinted flame, hotter, tighter, more focused than his bigger kin. The lead ship erupted instantly, its deck turned into a molten field of fire. Men screamed. Barrels exploded. Ropes snapped as the hull split down the middle, scattering flaming debris across the water.
Another ship tried to turn away.
Too slow.
Shrykos swept past it in a blink, setting the sails aflame before it could even veer.

From above, Rhaenar watched his uncle fly, erratic, yes, but brave. Reckless, but not cowardly.
He’s no longer the boy who clung to books, Rhaenar thought. He’s a dragon now.

Three dragons now ruled the sky, one dark as death, one wreathed in vengeance, and one smaller and furious, lit by the fires of vindication.
And below them, the Royal Fleet, once proud, once secure, was burning.
Three dragons, Rhaenar thought. Three children of old Valyria.
Let them see what was lost and fear what has returned.

The fleet scattered in disarray, cohesion lost in a storm of screaming men and sundered decks. Below them, the sea boiled, darkened with oil and ash and blood.

Vhagar rose once more, spiraling in a slow, triumphant arc. The wind tugged at Rhaenar’s hair as he surveyed the carnage, the dead littering the waves like broken dolls.

You started this war, he thought bitterly, eyes fixed on the burning remnants of the Baratheon banners. You thought the dragons dead, buried in exile and madness. You forgot what we are.
He raised his voice to the winds, even though no one could hear him above the roar of wings and fire.
“Let the realm remember,” he said. “The dragons have returned.”

From his high vantage, he could see it; the Velaryon ships, sleek and silver, slipping into the lower harbor, flanked by galleys and transports, the invasion made landfall.
We are home.
And we are not here to beg.

Rhaenar turned Vhagar’s head toward the high towers of Dragonstone, his expression like the storm, cold, coiled, and ready to break.
The usurpers will drown in fire.
And the world will burn to make way for a new dawn.

 The Besieged Stag
The Stone Drum shuddered beneath his boots, the ancient tower groaning like a wounded beast as thunder cracked, not from the sky, but from the sea.

Stannis Baratheon stood at the highest window, hands braced on the black stone ledge, knuckles white with pressure. Rain lashed the glass in waves. The storm outside should have been his ally, it had always been his ally.
But not today.
Not against this.
He stared into the bay.
Flames bloomed like flowers of death.

Ship after ship,  the Royal Fleet, were engulfed, their hulls torn apart as if by the hands of gods. The sea churned black with burning men and splintered mastheads. The once-proud sigil of House Baratheon, the crowned stag on gold, sank beneath the waves, devoured by fire.

And in the skies above, they flew.
Three dragons.

By the Seven, he thought numbly. Not rumors. Not sorcerers’ tricks or fools’ dreams. Real. Living. Breathing.
Gods help us.

The dragon was massive, larger than any beast he had ever imagined. Its green scales shimmered like tarnished emeralds, its wings vast enough to drown out the sun. This was no creature of the present world, but something torn from the oldest nightmares, from tales whispered by candlelight and dismissed at dawn. Beside her soared two others, one black and terrible, and the other pale and fast as lightning.
The dragons are theirs again.
And I… I am undone.

A muffled sob broke behind him. He turned.

Selyse, pale and tight-lipped, stood beside Shireen, her hands resting on their daughter’s shoulders. Shireen clutched a doll to her chest, her greyscaled cheek pressed against her mother’s side. She said nothing, but her eyes, wide and waiting, found his.
He stared at her.
His daughter. His only child.
The light in his darkness.
I held this island in my king’s name. I held it with law and strength.
And now…
The door slammed open.
“My Lord!”

Ser Davos Seaworth entered, soaked to the bone, hair plastered to his brow. His breath came ragged.

“They’re landing,” Davos said, voice trembling with urgency. “The invasion fleet, Velaryon, Celtigar, Sunglass, Bar Emmon. They’re all with the Targaryens. Dragonstone is surrounded.”
He hesitated, then looked to the shattered harbor beyond the window.
“Gods… the fleet’s gone in the blink of an eye.”
He stepped forward, almost pleading now.

“This is madness, my Lord. There’s no shame in surrender. Not against dragons.”
Stannis didn’t look at him.
He stared out the window, beyond the flame and ruin.

Even my bannermen have betrayed me. Velaryon, Celtigar, all turned at the whisper of wings.
Lords who swore to me, who knelt before the stag, now bow before the dragon once more.

For the first time, Davos saw the iron mask falter.
I have lived my life by duty, Stannis thought. By law. By justice.
But no law prepares a man for dragons.
No duty shields a child from fire.
He exhaled.
The breath shook.

“All that’s left now is to protect my family,” he said quietly.
Davos blinked. “My Lord?”
Stannis turned to face him fully. His voice was low, but steady.

“Send word to the gate. We surrender. Tell the men not to fight. There’s no glory in ashes. No honor in burning.”
He looked again to Shireen, who clutched her doll tighter, eyes still locked on her father.

“Tell them to pray,” he said, and this time his voice cracked, just slightly. “To the Mother… for mercy.”
A pause.
“For my daughter.”
No one spoke.

The Stone Drum trembled again as a dragon shrieked overhead, closer now, circling like a starved predator above its prey. A red light bled through the windowpanes, casting flickering shadows across the chamber walls.

And for the first time in his life, Stannis Baratheon bowed his head, not to a king, but to the tide he could not stem.
Outside, the dragonstorm raged on.

The Sword That Was Promised

The beach ran red with the blood of oathbreakers.
The tide foamed crimson as bodies washed back into the surf, men who had once sworn fealty to kings, gods, and gold. Now they fed the sea.

Ser Arthur Dayne led the charge in the white of the Kingsguard, the three-headed dragon etched into his chestplate like a silent prayer, his snow-white cloak fluttering in the wind. Rain hissed off his pauldrons. Smoke coiled around his legs. And in his grip, Dawn shone like the morning star; pale, deadly, pure, a blade born of a fallen star.

Not a weapon of men, he thought. But of something older. Something final.
Behind him, the war cry rose.
“FOR HOUSE TARGARYEN!”

The roar surged up the shore like a living wave, a chorus of steel and fury that rose above the crash of the tide and the hiss of dragonfire. Ser Arthur Dayne surged forward, and with him came vengeance.

To his right, Oberyn Martell and his brood of Sand Snakes charged down the beach like a storm of whips and steel, raging, agile, sun-scarred. Their movements were fluid as dancers, yet every strike was aimed to kill. Oberyn himself moved like a flame, the Red Viper reborn, his spear spinning in a blur, carving through enemy ranks with grief and fury.

To the left, the Velaryon marines advanced with brutal efficiency. At their head rode Ser Aurane Velaryon, white cloak flapping like a banner of vengeance. His silver seahorse sigil gleamed defiantly even beneath skies choked with ash.

But there were others, legends walking in blood and smoke.
Ser Barristan Selmy waded through the fray with silent determination, the years having dulled neither his speed nor his strength. His blade sang, a constant hymn of steel-on-steel. Enemies fell before him like wheat before the scythe. His armor bore the dents of a dozen battles, yet he stood untouched, as if the gods still shielded him.

A young knight shouted, “The Bold! It’s Selmy the Bold!”—before Barristan cut him down in a single, fluid motion.
He did not relish the killing. But he did not flinch from it either.
“I served Aerys. I served Robert. And now,” he muttered through clenched teeth as he cleaved through two more, “I serve the true king.”

To Arthur’s other flank moved Ser Oswell Whent, a shadow in the storm. His helm bore the bat of his house, wings slick with rain and blood. He fought with a curved blade and a silence that unsettled even the boldest foes. Where Barristan was knightly grace, Oswell was surgical brutality. Every strike was economy, clean, swift, final.

Oswell moved like a man already half in the grave.
A Baratheon knight lunged at him screaming curses. Oswell parried, disarmed, and slit the man’s throat in one motion.
“No more lies,” he whispered, as blood sprayed the stones. “No more silence.”

Arthur caught sight of both men through the smoke, brothers in arms, fractured by war, now reforged in it.
Together, they pushed up the beach like living avatars of old Valyria, fire, shadow, and storm.

The Baratheon flank wavered.
They fought bravely, these soldiers of the stag, but they were not ready for this. Not for dragons overhead, not for Kingsguard unbound, not for vengeance fifteen years in the making.

Arthur moved through the lines with Dawn cutting silver arcs through flesh and steel.
“No mercy for traitors!” he roared.
His blade split shields. Severed limbs. Opened throats.

To his left, he saw Barristan haul a wounded squire to safety between blows, only to turn and behead two attackers with a single sweep of his longsword.

To his right, Oswell stepped over a dying man and left him to bleed as he drove his sword deep into a captain's gut.
And between them, Arthur advanced, three white cloaks, once guardians of a fallen king, now the spearpoint of a new reign.
The gates of Dragonstone loomed ahead. A barricade of jagged stone and flaming oil stood between them and victory.

“The Stoneguard hold the line!” someone shouted.
“They won’t for long,” Barristan growled. He raised his sword. “Press the attack!”
Siege rams slammed into the gates. Dragons shrieked above. Fire fell like divine judgment. When the gate finally shattered, it wasn’t wood that broke, it was the past itself.

What followed was not war. It was purge.
Men screamed. Some begged. Some ran.
But the Targaryen host had no mercy left in their bones. The Sand Snakes swept in like furies, Oberyn cursing the names of Tywin and Robert with every strike. The Velaryons pressed forward, shouting oaths in the tongue of Old Valyria.

Arthur fought until his arms trembled.
Barristan fought until he could no longer lift his sword.
Oswell fought in silence until the blood reached his knees.
The battle waned. The screams quieted.
And at last, the keep fell still.

Arthur sheathed Dawn, breath ragged, limbs heavy. The blood on his hands was thick, and it would not wash off.
He ascended the steps of the citadel, past burned stone, past charred bodies, past the ghosts of all the kings he had failed.
Barristan joined him, wounded, leaning on his blade. Oswell followed, limping, his cloak scorched.

Together, they reached the highest tower.
Arthur unfurled the black banner, the dragon sigil reborn.
He turned to his brothers of the white cloak, and for a long moment, none of them spoke.

Then Barristan, voice hoarse, said, “We swore to protect the realm.”
“And this time,” Arthur answered, “we do it in truth.”
Oswell nodded once.
Arthur drove the banner into the stone.

“Let them look east,” he said, voice raw, “and remember who rules.”
The banner caught the wind.
It did not falter.
Neither did they.

 The Dragon Queen Returns

The stone felt colder than she remembered.
Rhaella Targaryen moved through the halls of Dragonstone like a ghost returned to haunt the living. Her footfalls echoed along the black stone corridors, each one a drumbeat of memory. Every step stirred phantoms, whispers of firelight and lullabies, the faint laughter of children, her own breathless weeping on nights when storms battered the walls and her world collapsed in silence.

She had fled these halls, once, clutching her newborn like a lifeline, Daenerys in one arm, her grandson Rhaenar in the other. Just infants then, swaddled in silence and fear, too young to understand the storm that tore their world apart.

They had slipped into the night like ghosts, leaving behind more than stone and sigils, leaving behind blood, memory, and the bones of dragons.
And now, decades later, she had returned.
Not as a fugitive. Not as a widow.
But as a queen.

No longer the frightened mother who begged for ships in foreign courts. No longer the bride traded for peace and silence. She walked now with fire in her bones and vengeance braided into her crown.

Let them see her not as the relic of a fallen dynasty, she thought, but as its resurrection made flesh.
Let them see what fire preserves.

And Dragonstone, her home, her tomb, her inheritance, knew her again.
Soldiers dropped to one knee as she passed, their armor bloodied, soot-streaked, steaming from the fires that had reclaimed the fortress. They looked up at her as if she were something holy.
She gave no smile. Only a single nod, dignified, distant, deliberate.
Let them see not the girl who fled, she thought, but the dragon who endured.

The doors to the throne room groaned open before her. Smoke curled at the corners like incense. Torchlight flickered across obsidian walls, casting long shadows that danced like spirits. And there, before the ancient Targaryen seat, black stone carved from the bones of the volcano itself, stood the last obstacle.

Stannis Baratheon.

He looked like a man beaten by gods, not men. His armor was scorched, his sword un-bloodied, but he stood tall, unaided, unbowed, that signature Baratheon scowl carved deep into his weathered face.

“I held this island in my king’s name,” he said, voice hard and hoarse.
Rhaella descended the last few steps into the chamber, her expression a mask of steel.
“Your king stole what was mine, by blood, by birth, and by fire.”

Her voice did not rise. It didn’t need to. It cut the air like a blade honed by years of silence and exile.

Behind Stannis, Selyse and Shireen were ushered in. Unharmed. Shivering. Eyes wide. The girl clung to her mother’s skirts, her greyscaled cheek pale and drawn.

“Take him to the dungeons,” Rhaella said, her voice cool as winter ash, a queen's command, not a vengeful cry. Her eyes didn’t flicker, even as Stannis stood motionless before her, stiff with defeat and pride.

She turned slightly, gaze shifting to Selyse and Shireen, pale as ghosts in the torchlight.

“His family is to be contained to chambers.”
A pause, measured, sharp.
“Make certain they have every comfort that was never afforded to me… or my children or grandson.”

Her tone was still composed, but beneath it ran the deep river of what she had endured, fleeing in the dark, her babes cradled in silence, her house shattered, her body marked by loss after loss.

Mercy, yes, she thought. But let them feel the difference. Let them remember it.
The guards bowed and moved swiftly.
Stannis said nothing.

Ser Davos Seaworth moved to follow. He offered no resistance, but his eyes lingered on Rhaella’s face. There was no defiance in them, only sorrow, and something that might have been pity.
She met his gaze and held it.

You think me cruel, she thought. You who served a usurper, who stood idle as my house was broken. You don’t know cruelty. Not yet.

Then came the red woman.

Melisandre entered with her usual unnerving grace, her crimson robes swirling like coiling smoke, whispering secrets against the black stone floor. The light from the torches made the red silk shimmer like live flame, and yet she seemed untouched by heat or ash.

Her face was serene, too serene, as though she wore her composure like a mask. There was a stillness about her that felt unnatural, almost reverent, as if she were listening to something only she could hear.

She did not look to the throne. She did not acknowledge Stannis. Her eyes found only Rhaella, and locked there, as if drawn by some invisible force.
Rhaella felt the weight of her stare like a brand.
“The true king has returned,” Rhaella said, her voice cool as a blade. “His banners fly. His dragons burn. Your fire has failed you.”

Melisandre smiled.
Not with joy. Not with fear.
A slight, strange curve of the lips, as though the rest of her had forgotten how to follow suit.
“You do not understand,” she whispered. “But you will. He is coming.”

Rhaella descended a step, boots clicking against the stone like war drums. Her presence radiated power, her shadow tall and sharp across the flickering wall.

“He is already here.” Her voice echoed like a verdict.
Melisandre tilted her head, calm as still water.
“Not him,” she said softly. Her eyes glowed like embers, not with fear, but awe. “The one in the dark. The one who waits. The one even dragons fear.”

A shiver passed through the chamber. Not from cold, but from something older. Something listening.

The air itself felt… thinner.
Rhaella’s hand curled into a fist at her side.

“Enough riddles.”
Melisandre did not flinch. Her gaze broke from Rhaella then and shifted to the doors.

“I must speak with him,” she said.
Rhaella’s eyes narrowed. “With Stannis?”
Melisandre smiled again. Wider, now.

“No. Not the broken stag.” She took a slow breath. “With the Prince who was promised. With the prince reborn in shadow and fire. With your grandson.”

She turned toward the great doors just as they began to tremble.
Outside, the beat of wings and war echoed through the halls.

“There is more at work than vengeance. More than crowns and thrones.” Melisandre’s voice dropped to a hush, but it carried like prophecy. “He must know. Or we are all doomed.”

“I will inform His Grace that you seek an audience,” Rhaella said, her voice level but edged with cold restraint. She took a slow step forward, placing herself squarely between Melisandre and the path to the throne. “But you will wait until he summons you. Not before.”

The red woman inclined her head slightly, but the glint in her eye said she was not deterred.

Rhaella studied her a moment longer, then added, “A warning, priestess. My grandson is not a man of blind faith. He bows to no god, wears no sigils but his own. He believes in blood, in duty, and in the legacy of the father he never knew.”
She let the words settle like ash.

“If you speak to him, do so plainly. Cloaks and riddles will find little purchase in a heart forged by fire and loss.”
Melisandre’s smile didn’t waver but there was the faintest flicker of something else behind it. Recognition, perhaps. Or calculation.
Rhaella gave a final nod to the guards.

“See that she is watched. Not harmed. But watched.”

The chamber trembled, not with battle now, but with something deeper, a shift in the world itself. A low, grinding rumble rolled through the stone, ancient and slow, like the fortress had drawn breath for the first time in decades. Dust drifted from the high rafters, sifting down in lazy spirals.
Then, with a crash, the great doors burst open.

Rhaenar Targaryen stood at their threshold, flanked by fire and shadow. His cloak was torn and scorched, lined with ash. His armor, blackened and burnished with soot, gleamed faintly where dragonfire hadn’t touched it. His face was streaked with smoke and blood, but his eyes, his eyes burned like twin embers beneath a crown not yet forged.

Daenerys walked at his side, her silver hair whipped by wind and war, half her braid torn loose. Her breastplate, cracked along the dragon’s spine, smoked faintly. Her face bore the calm of one who had slain her enemies and the fire of one who wasn’t finished.

Viserys, older, but no less transformed, moved like a blade drawn too long from its sheath, his black armor slick with rain and blood, his face pale but alight with something dangerous, something earned.

Behind them, the sounds of victory grew, chanting soldiers, clashing steel, the calls of captains counting the dead and claiming the halls. But above it all, the dragons screamed.

High overhead, Vhagar, Balerion, and Shrykos circled the skies of Dragonstone, their wings beating like war drums. The very air trembled with their fury. No king had ruled with that kind of power in over a hundred years.
Rhaella’s breath caught.

I protected him in fear. Raised him in silence. Taught him to hide. But he does not hide now.
He walks like Aegon. Like a dragon in human form.

The air around him smelled of burnt salt and charred flesh. His boots crunched ash as he stepped forward, each pace deliberate, echoing through the throne room with the weight of ancient judgment. He passed Melisandre without a glance, passed the soldiers bowing low, passed the ghosts in the walls that whispered his name.

Rhaenar mounted the steps to the Obsidian Throne, the seat of his house, carved from cooled flame, veined with veins of fireglass. The room seemed to darken as he ascended, the flames of the torches bowing inward like they, too, knew who he was.

He stood at the summit, before the throne that had once belonged to his ancestors, to Rhaenyra, to Baelor, to Maegor the Cruel, to kings made by fire, and some unmade by it.
He did not hesitate.
He turned, and sat.
The room fell utterly silent.
The obsidian throne, jagged and gleaming, embraced him like it had been waiting.

“The war begins now,” Rhaenar said.
His voice did not rise.
But it echoed, low, clear, certain, off the black stone walls, off the high arches, off the breath of everyone who heard it.
It sounded not like a man’s voice, but something older.
Something destined.

And above them, through the shattered windows of the throne room, the dragon banner unfurled on the wind. Black silk, red flame, three heads roaring, alive again after so many years of silence.

The dragons had returned.

Not as relics of the past, but as conquerors.

Chapter Text

A Fracturing Crown

The fire snapped in the hearth, casting long shadows across the chamber walls. The scent of smoke clung to velvet and stone, as if even the Keep itself sensed war returning.

King Robert Baratheon stood at the head of the Small Council table, his massive hands braced on the carved ironwood, wine forgotten beside him. His crown sat slightly askew, but no one dared mention it.

“Twenty-five ships,” Robert muttered, jaw tight. “Gone. Dragonstone taken. Stannis vanished. And not a fucking word about who did it.”

Jon Arryn, calm but pale, leaned forward. “The banners of House Targaryen fly above the fortress. The garrison was overwhelmed. The fleet destroyed. All accounts say the attack came from the sea, swift and unannounced.”

“Which one?” Robert growled. “Viserys? We haven’t seen the boy since he still pissed the bed. Now he commands fleets?”

“Unclear,” said Varys, fingers laced. “No survivors have named a commander. No eyewitnesses. Only the sigil of the three-headed dragon raised on the battlements at dawn.”

“Viserys could be dead for all we know,” said Baelish, lounging in his chair. “Or he could be a puppet, crowned in name only. Someone else may be pulling the strings.”

Robert scowled. “And where the hell have they been all this time? Fifteen years, hiding in the shadows? We heard whispers of the Dragon’s Lair in the Stepstones. But no proof. No sightings. Now they sail out of the dark and steal my brother’s seat.”

“We were blind,” Jon admitted. “And now they mean to crown themselves.”

Robert turned toward Grand Maester Pycelle, who sat scribbling with a slow, shaking hand.

“If you want to answer this, Your Grace,” Pycelle wheezed, “the realm must know it. You must send ravens. Call the lords. Summon the banners.”

Robert nodded once, sharply. “Send to the Reach, the Stormlands, the Vale, the Riverlands, and the Crownlands. I want swords drawn and fleets mustered.”

Pycelle scratched furiously.

“And send to Casterly Rock,” Robert added, glancing at Ser Jaime, who stood silently in his white and gold. “Tell Lord Tywin that his king calls. I’ve tolerated his silence long enough.”

Then Robert’s voice softened, only slightly.
“And send to Winterfell. To Eddard Stark.”

The room paused.

Robert looked toward the hearth. “He won’t need coaxing. Ned will come. He always comes. There’s no man in the realm I trust more… and no man I love better.”

Jon’s eyes flicked toward Pycelle, but he said nothing.

Robert continued, voice low now, heavy with both anger and hope. “Let him bring the North behind him. If I’m to fight dragons, I’ll fight them with Ned at my side.”

Pycelle nodded, breath rattling. “It shall be done, Your Grace.”

Varys watched in silence. Baelish’s smile never moved.

Jaime Lannister stood still, his eyes narrowed.

In the corner, Tyrion sipped his wine.

“We send for lords and armies,” he murmured, “but what we need most is truth. Who leads them? What do they want? What have they truly become, after all these years in the dark?”

Robert didn’t answer.
He turned back to the fire and stared into it like a man who already saw flames on the horizon.

The North

Snow drifted from a sky the color of ash, soft as sifted flour and damp as tears. It clung to the branches of the ancient trees in the Wolfswood, coating them in ghostly white. Beneath the boughs, a hush had fallen, a silence so deep it swallowed hoofbeats and breath alike.

Lord Eddard Stark rode at the head of the hunting party, his grey wool cloak lined with fur and frosted at the hem. The wind tugged at its edges, carrying the scent of pine, damp bark, and far-off ice. Behind him came his sons, Robb, tall and proud atop a young courser; Theon Greyjoy, smirking beneath his hood; and Bran, bundled in furs on a shaggy brown pony, his eyes wide with wonder.

Around them rode three trusted men: Jory Cassel, sharp-eyed and solemn; Hallis Mollen, broad and silent with a spear across his back; and Alyn, younger, his bow slung across his shoulder, eyes always scanning the woods. Their horses picked their way through the snow-covered path, hooves muffled by winter’s hush.

It was meant to be a lesson, tracking elk through the woods, reading prints in the snow, bonding as father and sons beneath the ancient boughs.

Instead, they found death.

The discovery stopped them cold.

A direwolf lay sprawled in the snow like a fallen shadow. Her fur was pale as frost, thick and blood-matted around her throat. An elk's antler, jagged and snapped, jutted from the mortal wound. Around her belly, five small pups huddled together, slick with afterbirth, their limbs trembling, tiny hearts fluttering beneath skin and snow.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Jory reined in beside Eddard, lips pressed into a tight line. “She must’ve killed the elk… bled out after,” he murmured.
Hallis frowned, scanning the woods. “Still not right. Direwolves south of the Wall?”

“Aye,” Jory said. “Never seen one in the flesh.”

“Nor I,” Eddard muttered. He studied the beast in silence. Too large for a common wolf… too old a thing for these woods. The North remembered, even if men forgot.

Robb had already dismounted. He knelt beside the carcass, brushing snow from her flank. “She was strong,” he said. “Even dying, she fought.”

Bran leaned forward in the saddle. “Is it really a direwolf?”

“It is,” Eddard said. “And she shouldn’t be here.”

Theon scoffed. “Maybe the gods are playing games.”

Eddard turned, voice low. “The gods do not play. Not here.”

The pups gave a high chorus of whimpers. One struggled to crawl across the snow, nose rooting blindly. The others stirred, mewling piteously, blind and helpless in the cold.

“There are five of them,” Robb said quietly. Five pups.”

Alyn frowned. “That’s no small thing.”

Jory nodded. “The old gods might be watching.”

Eddard crouched, his eyes moving from pup to pup. Five born in death. In blood. Beneath the eyes of the forest… He did not believe in signs. And yet, here they were.

Then, from the edge of the pile, one last pup stumbled out, smaller than the others. It flopped into the snow and did not cry.

Its fur was white, white as snow, white as bone. But it was the eyes that held them.

Twin orbs of deep red blinked open slowly. Not the pink of an albino, nor the angry crimson of irritation. But red, dark and ancient, like blood on bark. The color of weirwood leaves beneath the face of a heart tree.

The silence around them deepened.

Eddard reached down, almost reverently, and lifted the creature. It was so small. So quiet. Mute, he realized. Its breath came steady, but no sound escaped it. Even its mouth, when it opened, was voiceless.

Bran leaned closer. “Its eyes…”

“Like a heart tree,” Robb whispered. “Like the gods are watching through it.”

“No sound,” said Hallis, crossing himself with gloved fingers. “That’s no ordinary pup.”

Eddard said nothing. He looked into the red eyes and felt, not fear, but a stillness. A sense of being seen. Of being known.
White fur. Red eyes. A living weirwood…

Overhead, the branches stirred. A raven swept across the grey sky, wings outstretched, flying northward with uncanny purpose.

The wind curled through the clearing, cold and mournful, like breath from a forgotten god.

The direwolf’s lifeless eyes stared toward the woods.

And in Eddard’s arms, the white wolf did not howl.

Solar of Casterly Rock

The pale afternoon light filtered through the narrow windows of Casterly Rock, casting long bars of gold across the polished stone floor. Far below, the sea beat itself bloody against the cliffs, its crashing echo a dull, rhythmic thrum, like the distant heartbeat of a dying kingdom.

Lord Tywin Lannister stood at the center of his solar, still as a statue of marble and iron. Before him stretched the war table, a masterwork of oak and inlaid brass, carved with the topography of Westeros. His eyes lingered on Dragonstone, where a single black token now sat like a cancer blooming in the Crownlands.

The token had no face. No name. Only threat.

Behind him, Ser Kevan Lannister watched his brother in silence. He’d seen Tywin like this before, quiet, poised, deadly. The calm that came before the cutting.

“They say Viserys has returned,” Kevan said at last. “Though no one’s seen him. Just the banner.”

Tywin didn’t turn. His eyes remained fixed on the table. “They don’t need to see him. They need only believe. A name is a sword when sharpened by memory.”
He clasped his hands behind his back.

Viserys… The last dragon. Or so they think. A boy chased from his homeland, forgotten by history. And now he returns, how? Why now? Who gave him this strength?

Kevan’s voice was low. “Twenty-five royal ships lost. Stannis is missing. The garrison gone.”

Tywin’s fingers twitched once. “A bold move,” he said. “But boldness without strength is suicide. The boy was untrained. No court. No allies. No coin. He vanished after the Sack and crawled across the Free Cities like a beggar.”

And beggars do not build fleets. Which means this is not his war, he is merely the banner flapping above it.

Kevan hesitated. “And yet someone orchestrated this.”

At that, Tywin’s eyes narrowed.

“Someone with ships. With discipline. With patience.”

He moved slowly around the table, his boots soundless on the flagstones. As he passed, the sunlight caught the Lannister rings on his fingers, gold, ruby, lion-clawed.

Kevan watched him with measured concern. “Should we wait? See where this leads?”

Tywin stopped at the edge of the table, one hand resting lightly on the Westerlands.

“I have three reasons not to.”

He turned, finally, his voice low and implacable.

“First, my daughter. She sits beside the king. If this war spreads to the capital, her position is threatened. She is my blood.”

“Second, her children. The dragon-blooded kings of old were ruthless. If this Targaryen lays claim to the Iron Throne, he’ll burn the current line to ash, and mine with it.”
He walked to the window. The lion banner of House Lannister hung motionless in the still air.

“And third…” His voice dipped lower. “Because Robert Baratheon is a fool.”

Kevan said nothing. He didn’t have to.

“He drinks while the kingdom shifts beneath him,” Tywin continued. “He fights ghosts from the past while real enemies move in silence. He is not ready for this war. And so it falls to us to be.”

The room was quiet but for the fire cracking in the hearth and the sigh of the sea through stone.
Tywin returned to the map.

“Send ravens to Crakehall, Silverhill, The Golden Tooth. Raise every banner with teeth. We ride for our legacy. For blood.”

Kevan inclined his head. “And to the Crown?”

Tywin’s voice was a blade.
“Tell the king the lions will answer. But we will do so at our pace. On our terms. The Westerlands do not march at another man’s whim.”

Kevan was silent for a beat, then asked, “And if this boy… this Viserys… proves to be more than just a name?”

Tywin’s gaze drifted back to the black token on the table.

“Then we find him,” he said quietly. “And we cut the head from the dragon.”

He picked up the token and turned it over once in his hand.

“And we mount it on the gates of King’s Landing.”

The Words of Wolves

The fire in Eddard Stark’s solar burned low, but the room felt no warmer for it. Outside, snow drifted against the shutters in soft sighs. Inside, tension clung like frost to the stone walls.
The message lay on the table between them, its words still sharp and fresh.

Catelyn Stark stood near the hearth, her hands clasped tightly before her, her jaw set. Maester Luwin lingered beside her, the chain of his order glinting in the firelight as he read the message again, lips moving silently.

Ser Rodrik Cassel paced near the door, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword, his breath audible through his thick mustache. The old knight had said nothing since the raven arrived, but his silence spoke of old instincts awakening.

Robb Stark stood straight-backed at the far end of the room, his hands behind him, shoulders stiff with something that wasn’t quite fear, and wasn’t yet pride. He was seventeen now, near grown, but the boy within him still flickered behind the eyes.

Eddard sat behind his desk, the message rolled tightly in his fingers, eyes on the dancing fire.

“They’ve returned,” he said softly. “Targaryens. Dragonstone is theirs again.”

Catelyn’s voice was tight. “You believe it’s truly Viserys?”

“I don’t know,” Ned admitted. “It might be him. Or someone else, someone darker. But I know this, it wasn’t a raid. It was a warning. A challenge.”

Maester Luwin cleared his throat. “They struck with precision. Naval coordination, no known Essosi sellsail names, and no word from Stannis. This was planned. Quietly.”

Ser Rodrik finally spoke, his voice like gravel. “The dragons have remembered how to strike.”

Ned nodded slowly. “And I will not wait for them to strike again.”

Catelyn stepped forward. “You mean to ride south?”

Ned looked at her, and for a moment, he wasn’t Lord Stark, Warden of the North, he was a man who had fought beside Robert Baratheon at the Trident, who had carried his sister’s bones back through the snow, who had lived with ghosts for fifteen years.

“I swore an oath to the crown,” he said quietly. “And to Robert. He needs men he can trust. Not flatterers. Not snakes. Me.”

“And what of Winterfell?” Catelyn asked. “The North needs its lord. Your children—”

Ned raised a hand gently. “I won’t ride alone.”

He turned his gaze to Robb.

“You’ll ride with me.”

Silence filled the room.

Robb’s breath caught. “Me?”

“You’re of age. You’ve trained. You’ve led men on hunts, overseen the guard in my absence, studied war with Rodrik and law with Luwin. You are my heir.” His voice deepened. “And it’s time you learn what it means to be a Stark in truth, not just in Winterfell, but in the world beyond these walls.”

Robb blinked. “I...yes. I’ll ride.”

Ser Rodrik gave a slow nod. “He’s ready.”

Maester Luwin pursed his lips but did not object. “Then I will begin preparations. You’ll need letters sent, supplies drawn.”

The flames in the hearth crackled low in the solar, casting long shadows across the stone floor. The raven’s message lay unfurled on the desk before Lord Eddard Stark, its golden seal broken, its words still hanging heavy in the air like falling snow.
Beside the desk, Maester Luwin stood in his grey robes, the chain of his office glinting in the firelight. His hands were folded, but his eyes were sharp behind their weariness.

“My lord,” Luwin said gently. “Shall I summon the banners?”

The words lingered for a beat, as if even the stones of Winterfell paused to hear the answer.
Ned looked up. His eyes were not uncertain, only tired. But behind the fatigue, there was iron.

"Yes.” His voice was firm. “Send the ravens to every house that bears my name in oath and blood. The North will answer.”

He stood, casting the long shadow of a lord with a sword to raise and sons to protect.

“Tell them the North rides to answer the king’s call. Tell them we march by the full moon.”

Maester Luwin bowed. “As you command, my lord.”

Ned’s gaze turned to the fire, where the shadows of his ancestors seemed to dance.

“This is our duty,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone. “The Starks have never turned away from the crown, not in war, not in peace. We swore our oaths. And the North remembers.”

Behind him, Robb stood silently, listening, absorbing every word, the weight of legacy settling on his shoulders.

Catelyn crossed her arms, her jaw set, but she said nothing. Not now. She knew when his mind was made.

Ser Rodrik Cassel, standing near the door, gave a single nod.

“I’ll begin preparations,” Luwin said. “The Karstarks. The Umbers. The Mormonts. The Manderlys. The Boltons. The Glovers. The Tallharts. I’ll send to them all.”

Ned turned back to him. “All of them. The North must march united or not at all.”

Catelyn’s voice was softer now. “And what of the others?”

Ned looked at her then, really looked, past the firelight and the cold stone walls, past the years of silence and resilience they had both carried. There was weariness behind his eyes, yes, but also the quiet ache of a man who knew what his choices cost.

“Bran is still young. Rickon younger. I won’t uproot them for war. They stay here.”

His voice softened, not with doubt, but with care.
“With you. And the girls will need your strength now more than ever.”

Catelyn Stark stood tall despite the weight of those words. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her, knuckles white, but her chin lifted with quiet defiance.
The room fell still.

Her voice did not waver. There was no desperation in it, no pleading, only the clear, immutable truth of a mother and wife who would not be left behind while her family walked into the storm.

Ned’s brow furrowed, but he said nothing for a long moment. The flames from the hearth flickered in his eyes.

She stepped toward him, slowly. “You would have me keep the children safe. That is my duty. But I will not simply wait by the window and pray you return. I will be Winterfell’s strength… but I will also be yours.”

He reached out and took her hand. Their fingers intertwined, rough with time, warm despite the chill.

“I never wanted this for you,” he said quietly.

Catelyn smiled, sad, fierce, unflinching. “You never wanted war, either. But here we are. And we do what must be done.”

Ned gave a small nod. No argument.

Just love, worn but enduring.

Ned stepped forward and took her hand. “I won’t ask you to wait. But I will ask you to keep Winterfell strong. Guard the North until we return.”

Her grip tightened. “You bring him back to me. Both of you.”

“I swear it,” Ned said.

Robb stepped beside his father, and for the first time, they stood not as lord and son, but as two wolves at the edge of war.

Outside, the snow began to fall harder.

Inside, the fire burned on.

The Water Gardens of Dorne

The afternoon sun bathed the marble pillars in warm gold. Orange blossoms danced on the breeze. In the pool beside him, the water stirred, slow ripples reflecting the shifting world above.

Prince Doran Martell sat in stillness, the raven’s letter from Oberyn open in his lap. The ink was bold. The seal, broken. Dragonstone had fallen. The dragon banners flew once more.

He had waited years for this moment. Years no one understood.

Behind him, footsteps echoed, his daughter’s.

Arriane stood at the edge of the pool, her voice sharp as the summer wind. “You still hesitate, Father.”

“Caution is not cowardice,” Doran replied softly. “It is survival.”

“Yet the dragons act,” she snapped. “They’ve struck. The fire has been lit, and still you watch the smoke from behind silk curtains.”

Doran closed his eyes briefly, letting her anger wash over him like heat from the sand. She was young. Impetuous. But not wrong.
She does not see how long the game has been played. She does not see how close we are to the knife’s edge.

Fifteen years he had waited, swallowing rage, bowing before kings, smiling at those who whispered “coward” behind silk fans. Every feast he attended beside men who toasted the lion while Elia’s bones lay cold in the ground was another day sharpening the blade.

Now… the blade had drawn first blood.

He opened his eyes as Arriane’s voice rose again. “Her children died screaming.”

“I know,” Doran said. And he did. He always had.

He heard more footsteps.

Quentyn, his son, dutiful, steady, entered the garden beside young Trystane, who lingered just behind, eyes wide, trying to be still, to be brave.
Doran turned to Quentyn. “You heard?”

“I did.” His jaw tightened. “And I’m ready to ride for Dorn.”

Doran studied him. Not Oberyn’s fire. But a slow-burning flame. Good. A man who holds his fire lasts longer in war.

“Then hear your orders,” Doran said. “You will ride to High Hermitage. From there, raise our banners. You’ll be our voice in the east, but you do not strike. Not until I say.”

Quentyn nodded. “Yes, Father.”

Doran turned to Trystane. “You will remain. You are too young to ride, but not too young to learn.”

“Yes, Father.”

“And you,” he said, meeting Arriane’s gaze, “will stay. Hold Sunspear. The court must not waver. The realm will watch our every move now, and Dorne must not appear fractured.”

She flinched, but only slightly. “As you command father.”

She burns for vengeance. But she’ll do her duty. I raised her well… or as well as I dared.

Doran turned back to the pool. The still water no longer reflected peace. It rippled, shifting, the wind stirring its surface like prophecy.
The game is no longer in shadows. Now the board is open. Now the pieces move.

He nodded to Maester Caleotte, who stepped forward with ink and parchment.

“Send word to Starfall, Ghost Hill, Sandstone, and Yronwood. Summon the banners. Dorne rides.”

“And Oberyn?” Quentyn asked.

Doran’s eyes gleamed. “We will write to him. Tonight. He is to take command. Our brother may be fire, but he knows how to temper it… when the enemy burns.”

Arriane stepped forward. “Let me write it. Let him hear my voice as well.”

Doran smiled faintly. “Yes. Let him know we are united.”

Caleotte bowed and departed.

Doran looked eastward, past the arches, toward the distant sea. The light was fading. Evening approached.
He let the silence settle once more.

Elia…
You were soft-spoken. Gentle. The world thought you weak. But you died for love, and your children died for legacy. Now let them remember what your silence wrought.

“It has begun.” Doran spoke quietly, but his voice was firm. “For Elia. For her children. For Dorne.”

His fingers drifted over the water. It was not still anymore.
And that pleased him.

The Ghost in the Walls

The wind hissed through narrow slits in the ancient stone, high above the sleeping city. King’s Landing shimmered in the dark like a sea of coals, but the Red Keep loomed darker still, a fortress of old blood and older secrets.

Ser Arthur Dayne moved through its belly like a shadow drawn by memory.

He had not returned here in sixteen years. Not since the Sack. Not since the blade was turned on the crown and the white cloaks stained red.
He should have died with them. He almost had. But exile is its own kind of death, and tonight, he had come home not as a man… but as a ghost.
To be caught is to die.

He knew that with perfect clarity. Every footstep beneath the Keep’s walls, every breath behind ancient panels, every turn through long-forgotten servant halls and tunnels carved in the days of Maegor the Cruel, it all sang of risk.

The Kingsguard would cut him down where he stood. Jaime Lannister held Lord Commander’s white now, but even he would not blink before killing a traitor returned.

But Arthur Dayne did not fear death.

Not tonight.

The Secret Paths

The passage he took was hidden behind a crumbling panel in the Cellar of Skulls, a corridor even Varys no longer walked. Dust lay thick as ash. Cobwebs draped like mourning veils. The torch he carried was low and hooded, casting just enough light to see the walls carved with the faded sigils of kings long dead.

In one hand, he carried a black sack. It leaked no blood, he had drained it carefully. But the stench of rot and salt clung to him like an old oath.

Stannis Baratheon.

The so-called Lord of Dragonstone. A brother of the king. A man once known for his unflinching rule and cold discipline. Now reduced to silence.

Arthur stepped around a dead rat, mummified by time. He could feel the weight of the Iron Throne above him, the heart of the realm pulsing just overhead.

He’d served it once. Sworn to protect it.

Now, he would desecrate it.

The Hour of Ghosts

The secret door behind the dais opened with a whisper.

Arthur emerged into darkness, the moonlight slanting in through stained-glass windows high above, painting broken sigils on the floor. The Hall of the Iron Throne was empty, silent save for the distant creak of banners and the hush of breathless stone.

He moved quickly now, each step deliberate, smooth, silent.

He climbed the dais without pause.

At the top, the Iron Throne waited, an abomination of blades and jagged promise, its seat cold with the memory of kings.

He opened the sack.

The head rolled gently into his hands. The mouth hung open. The eyes were dull. The once-proud jaw of Stannis Baratheon now limp and useless.
He mounted it atop the throne’s back, just above the seat, driven onto a rusted spike of steel. The sword-throne drank it without protest.

Then, with slow fingers, he placed a scroll between the dead man’s lips, folded and scorched, its edges blackened like a message pulled from fire.

He stepped back.

The parchment unfurled slightly in the still air.
Valyrian script, bold and sharp, danced across the page:

“The Dragon Has Returned.”

Arthur stood there a moment longer, watching the head sag gently to one side.

He remembered the boy Stannis had been. He remembered Robert’s fury. He remembered fire and blood and the children of Elia’s cries echoing off stone. He remembered oaths.
And he remembered what it was to serve a true king.

Then, with nothing more, he vanished back into the walls, into the passage behind the dais, where only ghosts dared walk.
And by the time the sun rose over King’s Landing, the Iron Throne wore a new crown and all the realm would know:

The Dragon had come again.

Across Westeros 

As the first light of dawn kissed the jagged cliffs of Dragonstone, the skies erupted with wings.
Ravens, blacker than pitch and swift as stormwinds, leapt from their roosts atop the ancient towers. One by one, they took flight, dozens, then hundreds, casting fleeting shadows across the stone-carved dragons perched along the battlements.
They flew through mist and wind, their wings beating like war drums as they scattered across the realm.

To Riverrun, where the Tullys woke to river fog and quiet dread.

To the Eyrie, where the wind screamed through sky doors high above the Vale.

To Oldtown, where maesters lit their lamps and read the old tongues by candlelight.

To Casterly Rock, where golden lions dreamed of crowns behind stone walls.

To Winterfell, where snow fell in silence, and wolves raised their heads to a sky that suddenly felt heavier.

Even one raven passed the Wall, its message bound to a realm long thought forgotten. The Night's Watch would read it beneath starlight and ice.
Each scroll bore the same mark: a seal of red wax, carved with three heads and flame.

And inside, written in high Valyrian and the Common Tongue, the words that would shatter the quiet of a kingdom grown too sure of itself.

One message.

One truth.

“House Targaryen has returned.

With Fire and Blood.”

Chapter Text

To all Lords and Ladies of Westeros, great and small, The House of the Dragon has returned. From the ashes of treachery, the blood of the dragon rises unbroken. The rightful heirs of Aegon the Conqueror reclaim the legacy stolen by oathbreakers and usurpers. Dragonstone is ours again. Fire reigns from sky to sea. Stannis Baratheon has paid the price for his brothers’ crimes. Let his fate be a warning to all who deny the truth: There is a King yet living. And his name is Targaryen. You will kneel, or you will burn.

The Raging Stag 

The warhammer crashed into the council table. Splinters of dark oak flew like knives across the chamber.

“They mounted his head on my gods-damned throne!”

The scroll lay discarded near the dais, its red wax seal, the three-headed dragon, shattered at Robert’s feet. The letter had been short, its message clear: House Targaryen has returned. Dragonstone is reclaimed. A king lives. No name. Only fire and threat.

Jon Arryn stood near the tall windows, face pale and composed, though a shadow passed over his eyes. Renly lingered in his chair, stunned. He stared at the letter as if expecting it to vanish.

Cersei stood apart, arms crossed beneath her green-and-gold sleeves, back pressed to a column. Her green eyes flicked from the scroll to Robert, then to her son. She was silent. For now.

“Stannis was my blood,” Robert growled, pacing. “Flawed. But mine. He held Dragonstone for me while the rest of the world cowered. And they butchered him like a dog!”

He grabbed a goblet, downed it in a single swallow, and hurled it at the wall. The silver clanged. The stone held.

“I want them all dead. The silver-haired whore, that preening little shit Viserys, any bastard who dares fly that banner. I’ll burn them to ash and piss on their bones.”

He turned on Renly, finger raised like a spear. “Ride to Storm’s End. Call your banners. Lock down the coast. No black sails in my waters. No dragons on my shores.”

“They never named a claimant,” Jon Arryn murmured, voice even. “It might not be Viserys.”

Robert scoffed. “Of course it’s Viserys! Who else would it be? The boy’s been hiding for years, gods know where, nursing old grudges. Now he crawls out from whatever hole he’s been festering in.”

Varys stepped from the shadow of a pillar. “A letter without a name is not just a threat, Your Grace, it’s a mask. And masks are worn for a reason.”

Robert’s eyes narrowed. “Speak plainly, eunuch.”

But Cersei moved first. “Joffery will stay here when you march,” Cersei commanded. Her word cuts across the room like a sword.

Robert turned, brow furrowing. “What?”

“You will not take my son into war,” Cersei said. Her arms were still crossed, but her voice was sharp now, low and dangerous. “He is fourteen. He is not a soldier. He is not some pawn to parade before your lords.”

Robert blinked. “He’s your son? He’s my heir. He plays at being king in feasts and pageants, let him see what ruling costs.”

"He’s a boy!” she snapped. “And you would march him into chaos on the strength of a nameless letter?”

The room froze. Even the fire in the hearth seemed to still.

“You put him in armor and send him to war? Surrounded by blades and banners not sworn to him? Where accidents happen? Where traitors wait?” Her voice cracked on the edge of rage. “He is my son, Robert. And I will not have him bled for your pride.”

Robert stepped forward, and for a moment, there was only the sound of his boots on the stone. He loomed over her. “I am the King. And he is my son. He’ll go where I say.”

Jaime Lannister, until now silent and unmoving by the hearth, shifted his weight. Cersei’s eyes snapped to him. Her meaning was clear. “You’ll keep him safe,” she said, voice low and cold. It wasn’t a question. Jaime held her gaze. “Always.”

Robert turned away, dismissing the exchange with a wave of his hand. “Enough. The council is done. Jon, send ravens to every great house. The realm gathers at Harrenhal. Pycelle, get word to Oldtown. I want the Maesters to name this bastard war what it is: treason.” He marched toward the door, “No more letters,” he growled. “Next time they write, I want it in blood.”

He stormed from the room, the doors slamming behind him like thunder. Silence lingered. Varys finally breathed. “Well… I suppose we should all prepare for fire and ink to become fire and ash.”

The Calculations of Lions

The chambers atop Casterly Rock were silent, save for the gentle tapping of rain against the tall glass windows. Below, the sea crashed against the cliffs, but Tywin Lannister barely heard it. His gaze was fixed on the horizon, distant and calculating. Behind him, a scroll sat open on the lion-engraved desk. Its wax seal had been broken only moments ago. The words within were few. No name. No titles. Just one chilling truth: The Targaryens had returned.

“Audacity,” Tywin murmured at last. “A rare quality. Dangerous in fools. Effective in the hands of the capable.”

Ser Kevan stood behind him, stiff with unease. “They killed Stannis and bragged about it.”

“They sent a message,” Tywin said coolly. “Not to Robert. To the realm. It wasn’t about killing Stannis, it was about what they put on the throne afterward.”

“A head.”

“A symbol,” Tywin corrected, turning. “A warning to those who doubt them. And a challenge to those who oppose them.”

He paced slowly toward the desk, hands clasped behind his back. “We don’t yet know who leads this, whether it is Viserys, Daenerys, or some fool wearing the name. But the strategy is clear: take the ancestral seat, kill a king’s brother, and spread fear through ink.”

Kevan frowned. “And how do we respond?”

“We let Robert swing the hammer. He’ll charge blindly and roar for heads. That’s what kings do.” Tywin’s mouth twisted slightly.

“But we prepare for the aftermath.” He gestured to the map unfurled across the war table, rivers, roads, fortresses marked in careful script. “We ride east,” he said. “Show force. Control the crossings. Secure the Riverlands. We leave a token garrison at the Golden Tooth to deter opportunists from the west. I want outriders screening the flanks, if these rebels try to push inland, I want to know before their captains do.”

Kevan nodded, but hesitated. “And if the fleet they used to take Dragonstone sails north? Or toward the Reach?”

Tywin’s gaze hardened. “Then they’ll be met with real war, not symbolism.” He stepped closer to the map, eyes narrowing on the Blackwater. “This is not the old war, Kevan. There’s no Rhaegar now, no legions of loyalist lords. They rely on speed, on confusion, on spectacle. It will not last.”

Kevan nodded, but the worry remained in his eyes. Tywin returned to the window. Thunder rolled across the sea, distant but growing. “Let Robert fight the shadows,” he said. “Let him chase ghosts. We'll prepare for what comes after the chaos, when the realm turns to the lions for order.”

He said nothing more. But across the chamber, the candlelight flickered… as if some unseen storm were already drawing near.

Riverrun 

The rain had passed, but the chill lingered in the high halls of Riverrun. Smoke from the hearth coiled upward, casting flickering shadows on stone walls once warmed by songs and laughter. Now the only sound was the quiet crackle of burning wood, and the rustle of parchment being set aside.

Hoster Tully sat hunched in his carved chair, the scroll from Dragonstone open and broken on the table before him. The red seal of the three-headed dragon lay split in two, symbol enough of the danger it heralded.

“They’ve struck,” he muttered, voice rough with age and illness. “And the realm bleeds for it.” Across from him, Edmure stood stiffly, jaw clenched, the weight of legacy beginning to settle on his shoulders.

Behind him, near the hearth, Ser Brynden Blackfish watched in silence, arms crossed. “No name. Just blood and death,” Edmure said, his voice low. “They want us to fear shadows.”

“They want us divided,” Hoster said. “But they forget, we’ve chosen our side.” He slowly sat up straighter, pain flashing across his face but ignored.

His eyes locked on Edmure’s. “When I cast our lot with Robert Baratheon, I did so with eyes open. For peace. For my daughters. For a realm rid of madness. There’s no walking that decision back now, not with Stannis’ head rotting on the Iron Throne.”

He pushed the scroll away as if it stank. “We march.” Edmure blinked. “You mean to call the banners?” “I mean to lead them—” Hoster began, then stopped himself. He looked down at his hands. They trembled slightly. “No. I mean you will.”

Edmure froze. “I can no longer ride at the front of a column,” Hoster said. “My very breath betrays me. My joints burn from morning to night. But House Tully will not sit idle while others fight our war. You will command in my name.”

Edmure's voice faltered. “Me?” Hoster’s gaze sharpened. “You are the heir to Riverrun. You want the Riverlands to follow your lead one day, then earn that loyalty now. Prove you can bear it.” “I will,” Edmure said, straighter now. “I will not fail you father.”

Hoster gave a slow nod. “Then hear this, and remember it. Send ravens to House Bracken, and House Blackwood. To Mooton, Darry, and the Freys at the Twins. To every house sworn to the Trident.” His voice rose slightly, gaining the edge of command it once had in his prime.

“Tell them the trout swims with the stag. Tell them the banners rise. Tell them the Riverlands ride to Harrenhal.” Edmure bowed his head, the oath unspoken but understood. Hoster leaned back, fatigue setting in, but pride flickering behind his eyes.

“Ride with steel in hand, and duty in your heart. And if the Targaryen boy comes west, you’ll remind him why his family once needed dragons to take this land.” Brynden smirked. “I’ll ready the men.”

Edmure turned to go, Hoster called out one final time, voice rough but resolute: “Remember, Edmure, we chose our side. And now we stand by it. Even if the gods themselves rise to test us.”

Highgarden 

The raven came at first light. Willas Tyrell was already in the gardens, cane in hand, listening to the low rustle of wind through the lemon trees. Bees hummed lazily among the rose blossoms. Somewhere nearby, water trickled in a marble fountain shaped like a maiden pouring wine. When the rookery boy approached with the scroll, Willas took it without a word.

He recognized the seal immediately, three-headed dragon, stamped in red wax. No mistaking it now. The dragons had not only returned, they were announcing themselves.

He found his grandmother beneath the arbor, seated in the shade of flowering vines, pruning shears balanced in her lap like a dagger in silk.

“Well?” she asked, not looking up.

Willas unrolled the parchment and read.

He folded the scroll and handed it to her. Olenna Tyrell took it gently, like a midwife receiving a child.

“Well,” she said, after a moment. “So much for subtlety.”

Willas gave a faint smile. “You said the letter would come. You were right.”

“I’m always right, dear,” she said, eyes still on the parchment.

“But it's satisfying to be proven so with fire and blood.” She set the scroll aside and picked up her shears again. Snip. A wilted rose fell to the earth.

“We made the pact with no assurance they’d hold Dragonstone,” Willas said. “Or that they’d kill Stannis so swiftly.”

“We bet on dragons,” Olenna said. “And dragons do not limp to victory. They soar.”

Willas leaned against the bench, watching the fountain through the vines. “The rest of the realm will panic.”

“They should.” Olenna stood, slowly but with purpose. “By the time the Lannisters wake to the flames licking their gates, Highgarden will be miles ahead. The banners are already marching. The Reach stands with House Targaryen not fading lions.” She plucked a single red bloom from a nearby vine and pressed it into Willas’s palm. “Now comes the storm,” she said. “But we’ve already planted for spring.”

The Mad Falcon

Lysa’s hands trembled as she held the parchment. The seal had broken with ease, red wax stamped with the sigil of a house long thought finished. A dragon with three heads. She read the letter for the third time, lips moving in silence. A cold wind slipped beneath the door and stirred the hem of her gown.

The Eyrie was always cold, even in spring. Up here, so far from everything, it felt like time stopped. But the letter had found them. Across the chamber, Robin sat on the floor, playing with his carved wooden falcon. Clack. Clack. The wings tapped stone as he made it fly in circles over invisible enemies. He laughed softly to himself. Lysa folded the parchment and set it on the chair beside her. She rose and crossed to the tall, narrow window, peering out.

The sky was clear today, blue and vast. The world below looked small. Distant. She pressed her hand to the glass.

“Another war,” she murmured. “Another man with a crown and a sword, wanting to take what isn’t his.” They always came with banners. With armies. With letters. But still. The idea of it. Of some Targaryen boy claiming to be king. Of armies burning through the Riverlands or the Crownlands or the Vale, it sent something skittering through her chest like a spider.

“I’m hungry, Mama,” Robin called from the floor, tugging at the sleeve of her gown. She turned to him at once, kneeling to gather him in her arms. His face was flushed, his nose a little runny. But his smile was sweet. Her sweet boy.

“You’re always hungry,” she said softly, brushing his hair back from his brow. “That means you’re growing strong. You must stay strong, my Robin. So no one can take you away.”

He wriggled closer, and she shifted, unfastening her bodice with practiced hands. She brought him to her breast, guiding him gently. He latched on and nursed with slow, contented gulps, curling against her body like a babe again. Lysa rested her chin atop his head.

“They can march and fight and kill each other,” she whispered. “Let them. They can burn the world down, and we’ll still be here. Safe above it all. Just you and me.” She rocked gently as he fed, humming an old lullaby from her girlhood in Riverrun, something she barely remembered until the melody returned on its own. The letter still sat beside her, silent and heavy. But she didn’t look at it again. Instead, she held her son, and listened to the wind.

The Lion’s Shadow

The moon rose high above the Red Keep, its silver light glinting off the towers like a blade. Below, the city simmered with night sounds, whispers in alleys, distant drums from the Street of Silk, waves brushing the shore beyond the Blackwater. Inside, the queen’s chambers were quiet.

Jaime slipped inside without knocking. He had stood by the fire in the council chamber only hours before, watching Robert rage and Cersei spit fire in return. She had drawn a line over Joffrey and Robert had stepped on it. Now, she sat at the edge of her bed, back to him, hair unbound, golden in the candlelight.

“You shouldn’t have stood silent,” she said.

“I didn’t speak,” Jaime replied, “because if I had, I might have drawn steel.”

She turned at that, slow, deliberate. Her eyes met his with a heat that burned through exhaustion. There was nothing soft left between them, only hunger shaped by grief and memory. She crossed the room like a storm rolling in, silent and unstoppable.

Her fingers found the clasp of his cloak, and then the ties of his tunic, pulling each free with agonizing care. The fabric fell away, revealing skin still flushed from battle, marred with old scars and the heat of want. She pressed her palms flat to his chest, trailing down, past muscle, past breath, until her hands found the laces at his trousers. She untied them with a deftness born not of patience, but familiarity. Possession.

He exhaled when she touched him, fully now, his cock heavy and hard against her hand, twitching under her grip. Still, he said nothing.

She dropped to her knees, her lips parting just enough to brush the head of him with her breath before she rose again, a tease, cruel and calculated. Then she pulled him to her mouth, no gentleness, only heat, only need. Wet, slow strokes that made his knees threaten to give. He groaned, one hand threading into her hair as her tongue moved, taking him deeper, savoring the weight, the taste, the power.

But this wasn’t worship, it was war. And she was winning.

When she rose again, he caught her in his arms, spun her toward the bed. Her dress was yanked down, breasts spilling free, her nipples already tight and flushed. He sucked one into his mouth as she writhed beneath him, his fingers sliding between her thighs, finding her wet and ready, dripping with need, slick and pulsing against his touch.

“Now,” she growled into his ear, nails raking his back. “Do it.”

And he did.

He thrust into her in a single, brutal stroke, deep, hard, dragging a gasp from her throat that echoed through the room. She clung to him, legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his back as he drove into her again, again, again. The rhythm was punishing, a release of every word they couldn’t say, every truth too heavy to carry.

Her head tipped back, hair splayed across the sheets, her breasts bouncing with each hard thrust. She bit her lip, then moaned low, breath hot against his ear. He was losing himself in her, tight, wet, clenching around him like she never wanted to let go.

Sweat dripped from his brow to her skin. Their bodies slapped together, soaked in each other, moving faster, deeper, harder, until her moans became cries, sharp and breathless. She shattered beneath him, her body tightening, convulsing around his cock. He followed a heartbeat later, hips jerking as he spilled into her with a groan that sounded almost like her name.

They collapsed in silence, breath heaving, limbs tangled.

Still, they said nothing.

Because they didn’t need to.

Because this was the only truth they dared to touch.

Afterward, Jaime lay with her curled beside him, her skin warm beneath his hand. The fire crackled in the hearth.

Her breathing slowed. Then her voice, soft against his shoulder: “He’s going to take him.” Jaime closed his eyes. “I know.” “He’ll die out there,” she said. “Robert’s pride will kill him. Or the lords who smile and bow and wait for the crown to slip.”

“He’ll be guarded,” Jaime murmured.

She sat up abruptly. “By who? Lords reaching above their station and oathbreakers? He is fourteen. Still a boy.”

Her voice shook now, and her eyes were wild. “He’s yours, Jaime. He has your blood. Not Robert’s. You know that. I know that. He is the one thing I’ve ever done that matters.” She gripped his wrist, nails digging in. “I won’t lose him. I won’t. Swear to me. On your honor. On your life. Whatever happens, you protect him.”

Jaime stared at her.

She looked like a queen still, even bare and desperate. But he saw the girl, too. The twin who once whispered dreams into his ear in Casterly Rock. The lioness, now cornered.

“I swear,” he said. She leaned in, her mouth near his ear, her words a blade wrapped in silk.

“If our boy dies…” she whispered, “…so does the king.” Jaime said nothing. Because somewhere in his mind, he heard steel clashing in the dark. And he wasn’t sure which king she meant.

The Salt Crown

The sea roared beneath Pyke like a warning. Wind screeched through shattered windows, and the salt-bitten stones of the Sea Tower groaned in the gale.“

Balon Greyjoy stood at the head of the hall, a letter in his hand. The red wax seal lay broken at his feet, crushed beneath his boot. He didn’t speak at first. Just stared into the fire, lips twitching with grim satisfaction. Then he read the final lines aloud one more time: There is a King yet living. And his name is Targaryen. You will kneel, or you will burn.

Balon crumpled the parchment in his fist and turned to her.

While the lions and stags march east to fight ghosts and dragon dreams, we strike. The mainland will be blind to the sea. This is our chance.”

Asha stood by the iron pillar, arms crossed, hair damp from the mist outside. “The lions and stags may be distracted, but the North is not.”

“They will be,” Balon snapped. “Once Robert sends his armies south. The wolf will bare its neck. And we will bite.”

Asha’s jaw tightened. She said nothing. He stepped toward her, cloak snapping behind him in the wind. “The river mouths will be unguarded. The western shores unprepared. The Reach is already drawn to Highgarden, and the Crownlands will burn. The kraken takes what no one defends.”

“And Theon?” she asked, her voice quiet. Not pleading. Just... uncertain. “What of him?”

Balon did not turn. The silence stretched so long she thought he might not answer. Then, flat as driftwood.

“He’s not ours anymore.”

Asha felt the words hit like cold water. She stepped forward. “He’s your son.”

Balon’s hands curled around the stone of the window. “He is a ward of our enemies,” he growled. “A Stark puppet in kraken skin. If he survives the war to come, let him prove he remembers his name.”

Her voice sharpened, iron beneath the salt. “If you rebel now, Father, you’re not just starting a war with the wolf. You’re handing your only son to their blades.”

Balon turned at last. His face was pale, gaunt, the wind having carved him into something sharp and hard and unforgiving. “He is a hostage,” he said, as if the word itself were poison. “They made him soft. Weak.”

“They made him live, and he didn't choose to be a hostage,” Asha said. “You’d make him die for a name.”

Balon turned away, stalking toward the shattered balcony. The storm sprayed seawater against his face, but he didn’t blink.

“I am King of Salt and Rock. I answer no summons from the Iron Throne. I bow to no stag, no lion, and no dragon-spawn prince rising from the shadows. The old way returns. Let it be known.”

Behind him, the waves crashed like thunder. Asha watched the fire die in the hearth. You’re leading us into ruin, she thought. And you don’t care who drowns, not even your blood. She turned, boots echoing on wet stone. But before she stepped through the archway, she spoke without looking back. “When they kill Theon, they’ll send his head to Pyke. Just know, it’ll be your crown that bought it.”

Then she vanished into the stairwell, leaving only the sea to answer her father’s roar.

The Red Keep, The Next morning

The Iron Throne was empty once more. Stannis Baratheon’s head was gone. Removed before the servants could speak of it too loudly, before the smallfolk could glimpse the blood. But the knights had seen. The lords had whispered. The throne had been used, and that insult lingered. It wasn’t just a message. It was a blade driven into Robert’s pride.

The throne room had been scrubbed. The torches relit. The guards redoubled. But the Red Keep felt different now, vulnerable, haunted, pierced by a shadow that never raised a sword.

Outside, the city stirred. And above the Tower of the Hand, as dawn broke over the narrow sea, a banner unfurled. It was the stag of House Baratheon, but burned, blackened, charred at the antlers and flanks. Still standing. Still crowned. But twisted.

Some called it treason. Others said nothing. But every man who saw it knew; this was not a banner of strength. It was a warning. And though the skies above the Red Keep remained clear, the wind that carried the banner eastward smelled faintly of ash.

Chapter Text

The Godswood of Winterfell was cloaked in silence.

Snow fell in slow spirals, gentle but unrelenting, settling over moss-covered stones and pooling along the banks of the hot spring that steamed faintly in the morning cold. The weirwood stood at the center, ancient and vast, its gnarled white bark streaked with red, its carved face solemn beneath a crown of blood-red leaves that whispered in the breeze like old secrets.

Eddard Stark knelt beneath it, alone.

Ice lay across his knees, Valyrian steel, tall as a man, forged in a time when dragons still flew. Its edges glinted in the dappled light, cold and waiting. His gloved hands rested upon the flat of the blade, though he felt no comfort from the touch. It was a sword for executions, not prayers.

The wind sighed through the trees, carrying with it the scent of snow, of pine, of stone and sorrow. The godswood was always quiet, but today, the silence felt heavier, expectant.

He bowed his head, the fur-lined hood slipping from his brow.

"Forgive me," he whispered.

His voice barely stirred the air.

"Forgive me if I lead my son to his death."

The old gods gave no answer. They never did. They did not strike men down with lightning or lift them up in glory. They listened. And they remembered.

Ned stared at the heart tree’s bleeding eyes, and for a moment, he was not a lord or a father or a soldier. He was a boy again, standing in the snow outside Winterfell’s gates, watching his sister ride through the wolfswood, and having snowball fights with her brothers.

Lyanna.

The name ached in him still. Like a wound poorly stitched.

He saw her face now, young, proud, laughing as she leapt a horse over a low wall in the godswood, hair flying like raven wings. He saw her pale and broken in death, her blood soaking through linen sheets that no fire could warm. Her hand in Ser Gerold’s, not his. Her body returned to Winterfell wrapped in silence and sorrow.

And the child…

The babe she died bringing into the world. The boy she never named aloud. A child born in secrecy, far from kin, beneath the shadow of a mountain. Ser Gerold had said the boy died not long after his mother. That the gods had taken them both.

Still, Ned wondered. Not for the first time.

What if he had lived?

What name would Lyanna have given him? What would he look like now? Would he have had her wild smile? Rhaegar’s haunted eyes?

He pushed the thought away like so many others. The dead were gone. Their memories clung like frost, but they could not speak. Could not forgive.

Another gust swept through the trees, rustling the red leaves above him like wings in flight. He looked up.
No omens. Just wind and snow.

He exhaled slowly.

“I do not ride for glory,” he said softly. “Nor for vengeance. I ride because Robert calls. Because the North must answer. And because I will not send my son into the dark alone.”
Ice rested heavy on his knees.

“He’s young,” Ned murmured. “So was I, once. And so were you, Lya.”

He stood slowly, the sword rising with him. His knees ached more than they had last year. His shoulder burned from an old break. The years had stolen much from him, brothers, friends, a sister, and the dreams of peace he once carried like armor.

But not this. Not yet.

He looked one last time into the face of the weirwood. It did not speak.

But as he turned to leave, he imagined, for just a moment, that he heard something in the leaves.

Not a voice. 

Just the soft sound of winter weeping.

The Great Hall

The hearthfire roared high, banishing the cold in golden tongues. Its light danced along the carved stone of Winterfell’s Great Hall, glinting off steel and leather. The air smelled of smoke, oil, and the sharp tang of anticipation. War was coming and the North could feel it.

Robb Stark stood before the flames, shoulders squared, his armor newly forged and polished to a mirror sheen. The direwolf of House Stark snarled from his breastplate, silver fangs bared. His blue eyes were bright with something dangerous,  youth and certainty.

“The last of the banners should arrive by week’s end,” he said, pacing with restless energy.

“Tallhart, Manderly, Glover, Umber… even the mountain clans send riders. We’ll be twenty-five thousand strong, not counting the crannogmen who’ll join us in the Neck.”

Eddard Stark sat in the lord’s chair, cloaked in grey and fur. He’d worn steel too long in his life to take joy in the sight of it. His eyes remained on his son, unreadable.

“And then?” he asked quietly.

“Then we march south,” Robb said, his voice steady, as if rehearsed.

“We burn their fleet, crush their army, and end this madness before it spreads.”

Madness, Ned thought. That was what they’d called the last Targaryen too.

He studied Robb, taller than he'd ever been, stronger, a man grown by law. But still green. Still unblooded. Still his son.

“And what if it’s not so simple?” Ned asked.

Robb halted, blinking. “You think we’re not ready?”

“I think we must be ready,” Ned said, standing. “Not for glory. But for blood. For hard choices. For grief you’ll carry the rest of your life.”

Robb’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t look away.

“I’m ready, Father.”

Ned placed a hand on his son’s shoulder. The weight of it silenced the crackle of fire.

“Then listen. And learn.”

He led Robb to the war map, spread across the long stone table. Tokens marked strongholds, rivers, choke points. The realm felt vast and fragile beneath his hands.

“We leave Moat Cailin with five hundred archers to hold the causeway. The Neck is our shield. Should war return to the North, those swamps will swallow it whole.”

“And Winterfell?”

“One thousand remain. Ser Rodrik will command them. He’s bled for this House before. He’ll bleed again, if needed.”

Robb hesitated, then asked, “And Theon?”

Ned’s expression darkened.

“He rides with us. Not because he’s earned it, but because he must. As long as he’s with our host, Balon Greyjoy stays leashed. I don’t trust the Iron Islands to answer the crown’s summons, but I trust Theon to know what side of the blade he stands on.”

“And if his father doesn’t?” Robb asked.

“Then the kraken learns how Northmen bleed their prey. We’ll gut his rebellion before it’s begun.”

Robb gave a sharp nod. “I’ll speak to Theon. He’ll welcome the chance to ride.”

“Good,” Ned said. “But remember this, our strength lies not just in numbers, but in purpose. We ride for the realm, not for revenge. Not to burn, but to rebuild.”

His gaze turned toward the high banners overhead, the direwolf of Stark caught in the heat of the hearth wind.

“For Lyanna’s memory. For the peace we’ve built. For the children who’ve never known war… until now.”
He looked back at his son.

“Spend time with your mother. With Bran and the others. We march soon and when we do, the boy you were must be left behind.”

Robb bowed his head, and for a moment, he looked very young.

Then he straightened, taller than before.

And outside the Great Hall, the wind howled against Winterfell’s ancient walls.

Brothers in the Yard
The clang of steel echoed through the yard, rhythmic and sharp against the cold northern air. Snow flurried in lazy spirals from the grey sky above, melting where it struck the worn flagstones.

Bran Stark stood stiffly at the edge of the yard, his breath fogging as he watched the sparring circle. Across from him, Ser Rodrik Cassel adjusted the grip on his wooden practice sword.

“You’re dropping your shoulder again,” Ser Rodrik said, patient but firm. “That’ll get you killed if a man with real steel sees it.”

Bran wiped his brow with his sleeve, cheeks flushed with effort and cold. “It’s the damn brace. It twists when I turn.”

“Then learn to twist better,” Rodrik said. “A warrior fights with what he’s got.”

Bran gritted his teeth and stepped forward again, sword raised. He moved with determination, if not grace, still recovering, still growing, still trying to be the wolf his family needed.

That was when Robb arrived.

He stepped through the arch with a slow gait, his grey cloak fluttering behind him in the wind. His armor was fastened, his sword belted, and his shoulders bore the weight of command. He watched for a moment in silence, eyes narrowing slightly as Bran lunged and stumbled.

“Enough for today,” Robb said quietly.

Ser Rodrik looked to Bran, then gave a respectful nod. “A fine effort, my lord. We’ll try again tomorrow.”

Bran didn’t answer. He yanked off his helm and set it down hard on the bench beside him.

Robb walked over. “You’re improving.”

Bran didn’t meet his eyes. “You didn’t come to talk about my footwork.”

“No,” Robb admitted. “I came because I leave tomorrow.”

Bran nodded stiffly. “I know.”

They stood in silence for a moment. Then Bran asked, “Why can’t I come with you?”

Robb looked at him. “You know why.”

“I’m not a child,” Bran said sharply. “I’m twelve. I’ve trained. I can ride. I can fight.”

“You think you can fight,” Robb replied, his tone edged with older-brother weariness. “But fighting in the yard isn’t the same as facing a man who means to kill you.”

“I wouldn’t be afraid.”

“That’s not the point.”

Bran turned away, jaw tight. “So I stay here. Useless. While you all go to make history.”

“Bran,” Robb said, his voice lowering. “You won’t be useless. You’ll be the Stark in Winterfell.”

Bran glanced at him. “It’s not the same.”

“It’s more important than you think,” Robb said. “Father says the North must stand united. That means the people need a Stark here. Someone they trust. Someone with our blood.”

“I’m not Father,” Bran muttered.

“Neither am I,” Robb said. “But we both have his name. And that means something.”

He stepped closer, resting a gloved hand on Bran’s shoulder.

“You’ll hold this castle. You’ll watch over Mother, Rickon, and the girls. You’ll hear petitions. Speak for House Stark. When the banners return, they’ll need a strong voice waiting at the gate. That voice must be yours.”

Bran swallowed hard. “But I want to fight.”

“And one day you will,” Robb said. “But today, you protect our home. And that takes more strength than swinging a sword.”

Bran didn’t answer. But his eyes shifted, uncertain, yet thoughtful.

“You’ll do well,” Robb added. “Ser Rodrik will help you. So will Maester Luwin. And I’ll write.”
Bran blinked. “You will?”

“Aye,” Robb smiled faintly. “You can mock my spelling all you like.”

Bran gave a half-laugh, but it faded quickly.

“You’ll come back, right?”

Robb knelt then, so they were eye to eye.

“I swear it,” he said. “The North will ride back home. And I’ll be at its head.”

Bran nodded, fiercely this time, as if willing himself to believe it.

Robb rose again, stepping back.

“You’re not being left behind,” he said. “You’re holding the gate.”

As he turned to leave, Bran looked out over the yard, over the grey walls, the towers, the stone that had shaped them all. He felt the weight settle on his shoulders then, not armor, but name and blood.

The Stark in Winterfell.

Daughters of the Wolf

The snow fell softly outside the windows of the solar, dusting the courtyard in pale silence. Within, the fire crackled in the hearth, its warmth casting long shadows against stone walls and fur-lined tapestries.

Eddard Stark knelt before his daughters.

Arya sat cross-legged on a cushion, her embroidery lying abandoned in her lap, more knotted than stitched, the needle left dangling like a surrendered sword. Her grey eyes were restless, flickering from her father’s face to the sword at his side.

Sansa stood nearby, her hands folded neatly in front of her, posture perfect despite the tightness in her throat. Her auburn hair, freshly brushed and bound in maidenly braids, shimmered in the firelight like spun copper. She tried to smile. She almost succeeded.

Ned smiled gently at them both, his fierce little wolf, and his oldest daughter, the perfect lady.

“You’re growing too fast,” he said softly, brushing a wind-swept strand from Arya’s brow. “By the time I return, you’ll both be taller, sharper… too proud to run into your old father’s arms.”

Arya scowled. “I’ll never be too proud for that.” Her voice cracked despite her defiance. “Why can’t I come with you? I can ride. I’m faster than most of the boys. I’m not afraid.”

“I know you’re not,” Ned said, touching his forehead to hers. “But war isn’t about fear or courage. It’s about loss. And killing. That’s not a lesson I wish on you, not yet. Not ever, if I can help it.”

Arya blinked hard and looked away, blinking at the fire like it had betrayed her.

Ned rose and turned to Sansa. He took her hands in his. weathered and calloused against hers, soft and pale. “And you, my sweet girl. You’ll need to keep your sister from sharpening every carving knife in the kitchens.”

Sansa gave a trembling laugh, then looked up with brave eyes. “Will it be long?”

“I hope not,” Ned said. “We ride to stop something before it spreads. To end it quickly, before more sons and fathers are lost to death and madness.”

He drew both girls into a tight embrace. Sansa clung to him with quiet grace. Arya clutched him like she meant to never let go.

When he pulled back, his gaze lingered on them, on their eyes, their faces, the weight of future joys and sorrows not yet lived.

“Bran will stay behind,” he said gently. “He’ll be the Stark in Winterfell while we’re gone. He may only be twelve, but he’s ready and he won’t be alone.”

“We’ll help him,” Sansa said. “Won’t we, Arya?”

Arya nodded, though her jaw was clenched.

“And Rickon,” Ned added, “will need your patience and your love. He’s still too young to understand why we leave.”

“I’ll look after him,” Arya promised.

“We both will,” Sansa said.

Ned kissed them both, Sansa on the brow, Arya on the cheek and stood slowly, the weight of war already settling on his shoulders.

The door creaked open.

Catelyn entered the solar.

Snow clung to the hem of her skirts, and her cheeks were touched with red from the cold. But her eyes were warm as they moved from Arya to Sansa to Ned, lingering on each one with a fierce tenderness only a mother could carry.

She said nothing at first. Only crossed the room and wrapped her arms around her daughters, pulling them close, resting her chin atop Sansa’s hair.

“My girls,” she murmured. “You’ve grown into strength I never dreamed.”

Then her eyes found Ned’s. No grief. Only love, worn and weathered, but deep as winter roots.
He crossed the space between them and placed a hand gently at her waist.

“I told them to be brave,” he said. “To watch over Bran. Over Rickon. Over each other.”

“You told them true,” Catelyn whispered. “They have your blood. And mine. They’ll endure.”

She looked up at him, tears gathering but not falling. “Just promise you’ll do the same.”

Ned leaned down, pressing his forehead to hers. His voice was a breath. “I will return.”

“You’d better,” she said, a flicker of her old fire in her voice. “Or I’ll ride south and drag you back myself.”

He smiled then, the rare, quiet smile he saved only for her. “I believe you.”

The girls stood watching them, still silent, still holding hands.

In the hallway beyond, footsteps echoed. Men calling for banners. For saddles. For swords.

But in the solar, the family stood close, together one last time, beneath firelight and falling snow.
And the North held its breath.

Wolves to War
The courtyard of Winterfell rang with the sounds of readiness, hooves stamping on packed snow, blacksmiths hammering final rivets into mail, captains barking orders above the creak of wagons and the clatter of steel. Banners rippled in the cold wind, gray direwolves, roaring bears, flayed men, sunbursts, and roaring elk, all gathered under the eyes of the old castle.

Lord Eddard Stark stood atop the steps of the Great Keep, flanked by his bannermen, cloaked in furs and resolve.

The Greatjon was there, laughing like thunder, his broad shoulders wrapped in a massive bearskin cloak. His son, Smalljon, loomed beside him, silent but sharp-eyed. Lord Rickard Karstark looked like a specter of vengeance, gaunt and cold-eyed in black mail. Roose Bolton lingered at the edge of the group, pale as snowfall, his voice as quiet as it was sharp. Lady Maege Mormont stood proud in boiled leather, her daughters behind her, strong and grim as the cliffs of Bear Isle.

Behind them stretched the mass of the North, twenty-five thousand strong, drawn from every holdfast and village from the Shivering Sea to the Neck. Even the mountain clans had come down from their heights, furs bound over iron and bronze. The crannogmen would meet them further south in the boggy throat of Westeros, rising like ghosts from the mist.

Ned looked over them all, then turned to face his lords.

“Dragonstone has fallen,” he said, his voice low and resolute. “Stannis Baratheon is dead. And in his place, the Targaryens fly their banner once more.”

A murmur rippled through the gathered men, anger, uncertainty, the shadow of old ghosts.

“They did not name their king,” Rickard Karstark said, brow furrowed. “Is it Viserys?”

“They never said,” replied Ned. “Only that a king of their blood lives. And that those who do not kneel will burn.”

The Greatjon spat into the snow. “Cowards behind ink and shadows. Let them come. The North does not bend.”

“Then we ride,” Ned said. “Not for conquest. For duty. The Targaryens began this with fire and murder. They want the realm to bleed to remember their name. We will answer, but not with chaos. With order. With justice.”

“And if Viserys is not the one behind this?” Roose Bolton asked, his voice a whisper of frost. “If it is someone else, hiding behind the dragon’s banner?”

Ned’s jaw tightened. “Then we will find him. And we will put an end to it.”

Maege Mormont’s voice rang out like a bell. “The North rides with House Stark.”

Others echoed her call. “For Winterfell.” “For the North.” “For the realm.”

Steel clashed as swords were drawn in salute. The warhorns were lifted. The moment had come.

Ned turned to Robb at his side. His son sat atop his grey courser, clad in steel and fur, the direwolf of Stark embossed on his breastplate, Grey Wind pacing restlessly nearby.

“Are you ready?” Ned asked.

Robb nodded. “The North is with us. The Targaryens wanted the realm to tremble. Let them see what the wolves do when they howl.”

Eddard allowed himself the briefest smile. “Then let them hear us.”

He gave the signal.

The gates of Winterfell creaked open with a groan that echoed through the stone. Snow blew in from the open world beyond as the horns of Winterfell sounded, low and mournful.

And the army began to move.

Lord Stark and his son Robb rode out beneath the arch, Ghost and Greywind by there sides. The direwolves still growing, but already steadfast and loyal to the Starks. Twenty-five thousand men, armed and armored, banners snapping like thunder in the wind. They rode not for glory, but for peace, for the realm they had sworn to protect.

They did not know what truly awaited them.

They did not know the dragons had returned.

But they would soon.

Above the gates, the direwolf of House Stark flew proud and untamed against the sky.

And far to the south, beyond the Neck, a shadow stirred in the sea mist.

The wolves were marching to war.

Chapter Text

The Morning Dragonstone Falls

The fires had died, but their warmth lingered.

The throne room of Dragonstone still smelled faintly of ash and oil, the aftermath of conquest clinging to the stones like smoke to a soldier’s cloak. Outside, the black waves of the Narrow Sea crashed against the volcanic cliffs, but within the high hall of House Targaryen, there was a different kind of storm, quieter now, but no less potent.

Rhaenar Targaryen stood in the light of a shattered window, the wind tugging at the hem of his dark cloak. Ash clung to his armor, and a thin cut burned across his cheek. His steel-grey eyes, sharp and solemn, fixed on the sea. Eyes not of old Valyria, but of the North, his mother’s eyes. Lyanna’s eyes. Smoke-wrought and steady, even now.

Behind him came the soft sound of footsteps.

Daenerys stepped beside him, her silver-gold braid half-loosened from the wind and flight. Her armor bore streaks of soot, her cheeks still flushed from the battle, her violet eyes burning with pride.

She wrapped her arms around his waist from behind, resting her cheek gently against his back. “You did it,” she whispered. “We did it.”

He turned to face her, his gloved hands rising to cup her jaw. Her skin was warm, her breath steady. The fire of conquest had not left her yet, but here, between them, something softer stirred.

“One island is not a kingdom,” he murmured.

“No,” she said, stepping closer. “But it is ours.”

Their lips met in the lingering warmth of battle, not urgent, but deep. A kiss shared not in victory or lust, but in recognition. Of what they had become. Of what they would yet claim.

When it ended, she rested her forehead to his chest, content in the days actions.

“When do we wed?” she asked quietly.

He blinked, surprised and then he smiled, small and real. “Impatient my love,” he jested with a smile.

“I want what was always meant to be,” Daenerys said. “Not a septon’s blessing. Fire and blood. As it was in Valyria.”

His grey eyes, so unlike hers, searched her face. There was no doubt in her. No fear.

“We are the blood of the dragon,” she said. “But I am also yours. Let us bind it in the old way. Beneath fire. In blood.”

His voice lowered. “Wed in the ancient tradition of Valyria?”

“Yes,” she nodded. “No gods. Only our blood, and love.”

Rhaenar reached up and brushed a soot-smudge from her cheek with the back of his hand. “Then we’ll do it soon. Before we sail. The dragons will bear witness. Let the realm see us joined not in pageantry, but as united as our ancestors who took these kingdoms and forged them into one.”

Her smile was fierce. “And may the gods old and new choke on it.”

Their hands lingered together, blackened gauntlet to bare fingers, when the moment broke.

Viserys entered, his silver hair wild from flight, his armor smudged and slightly askew.

He paused at the edge of the room, watching them, his sister and his nephew, bound by fire and victory. There was no envy in his gaze. Only pride. He approached with a tired smile, the kind shaped by years of exile and the weight of survival. “We made them fear again,” he said to Rhaenar, his voice touched with wonder. “The realm won’t sleep easy after yesterday.”

Rhaenar turned toward him, and some of the storm in his steel-grey eyes gentled. “Good,” he said. “Let them lie awake. Let them remember what fire feels like.”

Viserys stepped closer, resting a gloved hand on Rhaenar’s shoulder, a rare gesture, both familial and firm. “They remember dragons. Now they’ll remember you.”

There was no bitterness in his tone. Only the complex, quiet pride of an elder brother who had once been the last dragon, now watching the flame pass to a younger, stronger heir. Rhaenar had done what he could not, taken a throne back by force, by will, by fire.

“You’ve done what I never could,” Viserys said, steady and sincere. “And I’ll stand beside you. Not behind. Beside. You carry our house now, but you don’t carry it alone.”

Rhaenar met his gaze, steel to violet, and gave a respectful nod, touched with something deeper than mere formality.

“We do this together,” he said. “As kin. As Targaryens.”

Viserys smiled, and for once, the weight of failure that had long haunted his eyes seemed lighter. “As dragons.”

Before another word could pass, slippered steps approached from behind.

Queen Rhaella Targaryen entered the throne room, flanked by Ser Gerold Hightower and Ser Barristan Selmy. She moved with quiet majesty, the years of exile worn like armor, not shame. Her skin was pale against the dark stone of the hall, her bearing regal, and her violet eyes shimmered with something fierce, something eternal.

She looked first to her son, Viserys, her lastborn son, proud and blooded from battle. Then to her daughter, Daenerys, wind-tossed and wild, the fire in her hair still smoldering from flight. And finally, to her grandson, Rhaenar, tall and silent as the sword he bore, the union of Rhaegar and Lyanna given breath and vengeance.

All three stood before her, unbroken. Unyielding. Targaryens.

“My children,” she said softly, voice stronger than the stone beneath their feet.

“You did this. Together. You’ve reclaimed what the world said was lost.”

She stepped forward and embraced Rhaenar first. He stiffened for only a heartbeat, then held her close. She smelled of lavender and ash, of memory, of dragonbone halls and lullabies whispered during exile, of hope reborn in fire.

“You have your mother’s eyes,” she whispered, brushing his cheek. “And your father’s fire.”

“I will use both,” he said, quiet and certain. “To reclaim what was stolen.”

She drew back slightly, then turned to Daenerys and cupped her face in both hands.

“You were born in smoke and storm,” Rhaella said. “And you have become a flame that does not flicker. Your strength is your own, but you carry mine as well.”

Daenerys blinked rapidly, swallowing hard. “We carry you, mother. All of us.”

Rhaella smiled, fierce and proud, and finally turned to Viserys.

She touched his brow with her fingertips. “My darling son,” she said. “Through all that we endured, through every whisper that we were broken. This is your victory too.”

Viserys, for once, had no words. Only a deep nod, and eyes that glistened more than he liked.

Rhaella stepped back, looking at the three of them now not as children, but as conquerors. Her legacy, standing tall in the hall of their ancestors.

“Then we begin,” she said, her voice resonant as the sea pounding Dragonstone’s cliffs. “Let the realm remember… the dragon has three heads.”

The Painted Table 
The chamber of the Painted Table burned with low torchlight, the carved contours of Westeros bathed in flickering gold and deep shadow. Mountains, rivers, keeps, and coastlines stretched beneath their hands, a kingdom waiting to be broken or reclaimed.

Rhaenar stood at the head of the table, his black-and-red cloak sweeping over the floor, smoke-grey eyes fixed on the Riverlands. Daenerys stood beside him, a calming presence at his side, while Viserys lingered behind, arms folded, thoughtful but alert.

The gathered circle was tight, loyal, and lethal.

Ser Arthur Dayne stood near the fire, the Sword of the Morning silent, but his gaze keen as ever. Beside him, Ser Oswell Whent adjusted his gauntlets with quiet efficiency. Ser Aurane Velaryon leaned forward on the table’s edge, the sea still clinging faintly to his cloak, his Kingsguard cloak falling over one shoulder. Across from them, Queen Rhaella sat straight-backed, silver hair veiled, violet eyes tired but unyielding.

Lord Monford Velaryon and Prince Oberyn Martell rounded out the war council. Oberyn sipped wine lazily, but his eyes missed nothing.

“So,” Oberyn said, swirling his cup. “Now that the fires are out and the ravens fly, what is your next move, Dragon King?”

“We strike with fear first,” Rhaenar answered. “Let the world see a banner. Let them whisper and wonder. But not yet the full flame.”

Rhaella nodded in quiet agreement. “Let them guess who you are a little longer. The realm still believes it is Viserys who leads.”

“That illusion is our shield,” Ser Gerold Hightower murmured. “Let them rally in confusion. Robert will send for Eddard Stark, and Tywin Lannister will wait like a lion in tall grass.”

Rhaenar’s hand hovered above the table, over the Riverlands, over the Trident.

“They’ll expect us to move west. Or south. To provoke a field battle.”

“But a direct strike would be suicide,” Viserys added. “Robert is rash, but not blind.”

“Then we give him something he cannot ignore,” Rhaenar said darkly.

He looked across the table, his voice quiet and sharp.

“We have Stannis.”

The room fell still.

“He’s a prisoner,” Ser Oswell reminded carefully. “One of Robert’s blood.”

“A brother,” Daenerys said, her tone half-curious, half-cautious.

“Which is why it will burn him more than any fire we breathe,” Rhaenar said. “We don’t just kill him. We send his head to the Iron Throne.”

Rhaella inhaled sharply. “A bold act… but one that will paint your crown in blood.”

As the flickering torchlight danced across the obsidian surface of the Painted Table, the weight of Rhaenar’s words settled like ash over the room. A moment passed, long and cold, before anyone spoke again.

Ser Barristan Selmy broke the silence.

“Some would say to kill an unarmed prisoner is dishonorable, Your Grace,” he said quietly, his voice low, grave, yet not condemning. “Stannis Baratheon surrendered. He yielded to spare the lives of his men. And now we talk of sending his head to the throne like a trophy.”

He looked not at Rhaenar, but at the map, at the heart of Westeros. “I knew him in his youth. He was cold, aye, and harsh… but he was not without courage. To butcher him now, in chains… that is not the justice we once fought for.”

Rhaenar did not flinch. His grey eyes burned like tempered steel. “This is not justice, Ser Barristan. This is war. And war does not ask for honor, it asks for sacrifice.”

He stepped around the table, his boots silent on stone. “Would you have me fight fair while the lions scheme and the stag gathers wolves and loyal lapdogs?  Should I duel Robert on the field, like some bard’s tale? I was born in exile. Raised with the bones of dragons. I will not play by their rules. I will break them.”

Ser Arthur Dayne stirred from where he stood in the shadows near the window, arms crossed over the hilt of Dawn.

“And what would you break to do it?” Arthur asked, calm but firm. “The code of kings? The soul of your House?”

Rhaenar looked to his old mentor, his voice softening, but not yielding. “You trained me to survive, Arthur. You told me what it meant to lead, and what it cost. I will not spill innocent blood. I will not burn children in their cradles or flay men alive. But this? This is war. And Stannis chose his side.”

“He surrendered,” Barristan said again. “And the realm will remember how you answer surrender.”

“Good,” Rhaenar said, sharp now. “Let them remember that I do not forget treason. That I do not forgive the murder of my father, my mother, MY HOUSE. Let the lords tremble when they raise swords against the dragon. If mercy is weakness, then I will show them fire instead.”

Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, The wise Lord Commander spoke at last, his voice low and weathered like a bell tolling at dusk. “Rhaegar would not have done this.”

“No,” Rhaenar said. “He wouldn’t have. And he died.”

That silenced them.

Rhaenar looked each of them in the eye, Barristan, Arthur, Gerold. The men who had once sworn their lives to his father, who had borne the shame of surviving while their king died with a shattered crown. Now they faced his heir, taller than Rhaegar, colder than ice, and forged not in courtly song but in fire and loss.

“I do not ask you to agree,” Rhaenar said. “Only to follow. The war will not be won with clean hands. And I will carry that weight, so that when my children rule, they won’t have to.”

Barristan lowered his gaze. Not in shame, but in thought.

Arthur’s jaw tightened. His silence was a challenge in itself.

Only Gerold nodded, once, slowly. “Then may the gods grant you wisdom, as well as courage to do what you deem necessary.”

Rhaenar stepped back to the head of the table.

“Stannis will die,” he said. “And his head will remind the realm what happens when you rise against the blood of the dragon.”

Then, quietly, he added:

“And when I sit the Iron Throne… may this be the last such death I ever have to order.”

Rhaenar’s voice cut through the chamber like a blade drawn slow across stone.

“We have dragons,” he said, gaze fixed on the center of the Painted Table, where King’s Landing loomed in carved relief. “But they remain our last fire. Our final breath. When they rise, it must be decisive, unquestionable. Until then…”

He looked up, meeting the eyes of his commanders, his kin, his sworn swords.

“…we fight with fear, use it against our enemies.”

He circled the table slowly, the hem of his dark cloak whispering against the stone.

“Words carry farther than wings, for now. Let the lords wake to ravens soaked in threat. Let them whisper of blood and dishonor. But Robert… Robert must be wounded deeper.”

His hand came down atop the carving of the Red Keep with quiet finality.

“Nothing will strike him harder than seeing his brother’s head mounted on the seat he stole.  Not on a pike outside the gates, not tossed in a river. No, on the Iron Throne itself.”

The silence that followed was heavy.

Rhaenar’s eyes flashed, steel grey and unwavering.

“Let Robert see that Iron Throne and know it is no longer his. Let him feel the absence of his blood… and the presence of mine.”

Ser Arthur spoke at last, voice quiet as a drawn blade. “I will go.”

All eyes turned to him.

“You must not risk yourself,” he said to Rhaenar. “You are too valuable. If the realm is to see fire and blood returned to the throne, they must believe in you. I’ll enter the Red Keep. Alone.”

“No one knows its walls better,” Ser Oswell added, nodding slightly.

“You taught me their secrets,” Arthur said, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. “It’s time I revisit them.”

Daenerys moved to Rhaenar’s side, her hand brushing against his. “Is it wise?”

“It is necessary,” Rhaenar said. Then he turned to Arthur. “Do it. But do it clean. No trail. No trace. And take this message with you.”

He reached into a leather satchel and pulled a scroll, sealed with red wax  three heads on flame. On its surface, already inked in Valyrian and the common tongue, read the words:

“House Targaryen has returned. With Fire and Blood.”

Rhaenar’s eyes met Arthur’s. “Make sure they see it on the Iron Throne. Make sure Robert sees it every time he sits.”

Arthur inclined his head. “He’ll see it, Your Grace. And he’ll feel it.”

Viserys smiled, not bitterly, not enviously. Proudly.

Oberyn raised his cup in salute. “Fire and fear, it seems, are the sharpest swords of all.”

Rhaella looked around the table, at the blood of her blood, her son, her daughter, her grandson. “Then it begins,” she said. “And let the realm remember this night.”

Rhaenar stared down at the map, at King’s Landing, so small beneath his fingertips.

“Let them remember it,” he said, “in blood and flame.”

The Sentence Below

The dungeons beneath Dragonstone were cold and narrow, carved from black volcanic stone that seemed to drink the light. Water dripped in the distance, rhythmic and hollow, like a slow death knell. The scent of damp salt and iron blood clung to the walls.

Ser Arthur Dayne led the way with a torch in hand, its light casting tall, flickering shadows along the corridor. His white cloak trailed behind him like a phantom. Beside him walked Rhaenar Targaryen, silent but resolute, his boots echoing on the stone. His sword hung at his hip, but he had not drawn it. Not yet.

“He hasn’t spoken since he was brought down,” Arthur said quietly. “No pleas. No questions.”

“He’s a Baratheon,” Rhaenar replied. “They go silent when they know they’ve lost.”

They reached the final cell, a heavy iron gate sealed by rust and time. Beyond it sat Stannis Baratheon, chained at the wrists, his once-proud frame hunched against the wall. His beard starting to grow in captivity, and a bruise darkened one cheek. But his  blue eyes were alive. Burning, with hate. Defiance

When he saw them, he stood.

“Come to gloat, Targaryen?” Stannis sneered. “Or just to smell the rot you made?”

Rhaenar stepped forward, expression unreadable. “I came to deliver your sentence.”

Stannis scoffed. “Sentence? You are not my King, I don’t recognize any sentence from you. This isn’t justice. This is butchery dressed in silk. You’re not a king. You’re a ghost. A bastard in dragon’s skin, wearing your father's shadow like armor.”

Arthur’s hand drifted to Dawn, but Rhaenar held up a quiet hand.

Stannis wasn’t finished.

“Robert will kill you,” he hissed. “As he killed your father. You think dragons and shadows will stop him? He crushed your line once. He’ll do it again. And I’ll laugh from the Seven Hells when he mounts your head on a spike next to Viserys.”

“You will not laugh,” Rhaenar said softly, stepping to the bars. “You will not see my death, nor the fall of my House. But your brother will see yours.”

Stannis surged forward, the chains rattling. “Do it then! Prove you're no better than the Mad King. Kill me unarmed, in chains.”

Arthur stepped forward. “Your Grace,” he said. “Allow me. There’s no honor in your blade answering his venom.”

But Rhaenar shook his head. Slowly, firmly.

“No. This is mine to finish. You taught me that in the North, they believe he who passes the sentence should swing the sword, I will honor my mother’s ancestors.”

He drew his sword, steel not of Valyria, but of Westeros. Strong, castle-forged steel. This one bore no name. But it would carry a memory.

He unlocked the cell and stepped inside.

Stannis didn’t flinch.

“You think this makes you strong?” the Baratheon growled. “You think it makes you king?”

“I think it makes you dead,” Rhaenar replied.

And with one clean motion, the sword flashed in the dark. A single strike. A single breath. The blade found its mark.

Stannis Baratheon fell.

Blood pooled at Rhaenar’s feet. The chains clattered as the body collapsed, lifeless and still.

Arthur entered silently, offering a cloth. Rhaenar wiped the blade once, twice, and slid it back into the sheath with slow reverence.

“He was wrong,” Arthur said.

Rhaenar turned.

“You are better than him.”

Rhaenar looked back down at the body, at the man who once held Dragonstone, who only ever did his duty.

“Not today,” he said.

And then he walked out, his white-cloaked knight trailing behind him like a shadow.

Dragonstone – The Present

Dragonstone groaned beneath the weight of the storm.

Wind howled like mourning wolves through the narrow halls of the ancient keep, and waves crashed against the black cliffs with the fury of gods long dead. Thunder cracked overhead, so loud it rattled the stained glass of the chapel's high windows, dragons roaring from the heavens in witness.

Within, however, all was still.

The ancient Valyrian  chapel carved into Dragonstone in the days before Aegon the Conqueror, was bathed in flickering candlelight. Flames danced along walls etched with runes so old they bled shadow. The air was thick with incense, myrrh, salt, and ash, a scent as old as the bloodline it honored.

At the altar stood Rhaenar Targaryen, tall and silent, clad in a robe of deep crimson and black. The three-headed dragon gleamed across his chest, wrought in dark steel. His long black hair was tied back in a warrior’s knot, but his steel-grey eyes were fixed only on the woman beside him.

Daenerys Targaryen wore silver and smoke, her robes flowing like mist in firelight. Tiny sapphires shimmered in her braid, woven with strands of red silk, blood and fire. Her violet eyes, fierce and unyielding, held his gaze like they had always belonged there.

Between them stood a priest , garbed not in the colors of the Faith, but in ancient robes of molten red and pale ash, his voice a whisper against the storm.

“With fire, we are bound,” he said, speaking the old words of Valyria.

“With blood, we are one,” Daenerys answered, her voice strong, unwavering.

Rhaenar spoke next, low and resonant: “Flame to flame. Soul to soul. We are dragon and fire made flesh.”

The priest nodded, lifting a small, curved blade. He sliced their palms, just enough to draw blood, and pressed their hands together. The mingled crimson welled between their fingers, seeping down onto the obsidian altar.

“By the rites of old Valyria, you are husband and wife. Blood of the dragon. Flame of the world. Let no realm tear asunder what fire has joined.”

With a hand as steady as her fire, Daenerys clasped his and crowned his finger with the dragonbone ring, an unspoken oath that her dragon’s soul was his, and that he, her king, would wear her claim before gods and men alike.

Rhaenar leaned forward.

Their lips met, slow, solemn, searing. A kiss not just of love, but of conquest fulfilled. An oath bound not only in blood, but in destiny.

In the front pew, Queen Rhaella Targaryen watched in silence, her eyes shining behind the veil. Her children, her legacy, stood crowned in flame. To her side, Viserys, dressed in black and red, his finest doublet, smiled with the quiet awe of a man who had walked through fire and found his family whole again.

Lining the chapel, the Kingsguard stood as stone.

Ser Arthur Dayne, Sword of the Morning, arms crossed, head bowed, a silent sentinel of myth and memory.

Ser Barristan Selmy, white cloak flowing behind him, allowed a rare smile to grace his weathered face.

Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull and Lord Commander, stood tall and watchful.

Ser Oswell Whent, still and loyal, eyes sharp behind the shadow of his helm.

Ser Aurane Velaryon, young and sea-scarred, hand resting on the pommel of his sword, cloak gleaming like pearl.

Then, without command or hesitation, the five knelt in unison.

Steel scraped softly against stone.

Their cloaks billowed like banners. Their fists struck their hearts.

And from Ser Gerold Hightower’s throat came the cry that echoed through the halls of Dragonstone and into history.

“All hail the King and Queen!”

The words rang like a warhorn, bold and fierce.

“All hail House Targaryen!”

Thunder cracked above the chapel once more, but inside, it was fire that answered.

Outside, the storm raged on.

But within, the House of the Dragon stood united.

Blood and Flame, Flesh and Fire

The storm howled outside Dragonstone like a chorus of vengeful gods, wind lashing against the ancient stone walls. But within the royal bedchamber, there was only warmth, candlelight flickering across silk, skin, and shadow.

Rhaenar closed the door behind them and turned.

Daenerys stood at the heart of the room, a vision of a Valyrian goddess, divine and untouchable, putting every tale of beauty that had come before her to shame. Her silver hair spilled loose over her shoulders, cascading down her back in waves of liquid moonlight. The ceremonial silks were gone, discarded like smoke. She wore only a whisper of fabric, so sheer it revealed more than it concealed. Her nipples pressed visibly against the cloth, and the soft triangle between her thighs showed through like a secret aching to be claimed.

Her violet eyes met his without fear. Without hesitation.

He stepped toward her slowly, the storm outside fading to a distant drumbeat behind the rhythm of their breath.

“Are you mine?” he asked, his voice rough, as though pulled from the heart of a forge.

“I’ve always been yours,” she said softly. “Long before the vows. Since the moment I understood what love truly was.”

He touched her cheek, reverent. Her breath caught. The space between them vanished.

Memories surged, rain-slick stones on Dragon’s Lair, a skinned knee, her small hand holding his. “You protect everyone,” she’d whispered, years ago. “But who protects you?”

He’d never answered.

Now, he did, with his mouth.

Their lips met, slow and sacred, then deepened into hunger. His hand found the small of her back, pulling her against the firm line of his body. The crimson silk of his robe rasped against her sheer slip. Their breath mingled, hot and ragged.

She pulled free the knot in his hair. Dark waves tumbled over his shoulders as she kissed him harder, biting his lip, drawing a groan from deep in his chest. He bent to her neck, trailing kisses along her skin, down to the edge of her breast.

Her fingers trembled as they worked the clasps of his robe. As each fell away, more of him was revealed: pale skin, muscled chest, the dark trail of hair leading to the rigid length already rising for her. She paused, breathless.

He let the robe fall. He stood bare before her, scarred, strong, fully hers. His cock jutted toward her, thick and proud, flushed at the head and slick with desire.

Her mouth parted, awed.

Then she reached for him.

But he caught her hand gently. “No,” he murmured. “Let me see you.”

She dropped to her knees and kissed the head of him, soft as a prayer. Her tongue circled him once, tasting him. His groan was low, feral. But he lifted her up before she could do more.

“Not tonight,” he said. “Tonight, I worship you.”

He lifted the sheer slip from her body. She stood before him, nude, moonlit, trembling. Her breasts rose with each breath, pink nipples taut, her belly soft and smooth. Between her thighs, a patch of fine silver curls shimmered in the firelight, already damp with want.

He drank her in slowly, then kissed her again, lifting her into his arms and laying her gently upon the bed.

She opened her legs to him.

He knelt between them, breathing in her scent. The soft silver curls tickled his nose as he leaned forward. She smelled of heat and sweetness, musk and flame.

He groaned and buried his face between her thighs.

His tongue parted her folds, licking her slowly, reverently. She gasped, hips lifting, fingers digging into his hair. He sucked gently at the tender pearl of her desire, then circled it with his tongue, again and again, until her thighs shook and her moans grew ragged.

She came suddenly, with a strangled cry, body spasming against his mouth. He held her through it, kissed up her body, tasting her everywhere.

Then he joined her.

She reached for his cock again, stroking it slowly, slicking him with her own arousal. He groaned, pressing the head to her entrance.

She was wet, aching, open.

He entered her slowly.

Her breath hitched. Her body stretched around him, tight, hot, trembling. Inch by inch, he filled her until he was buried to the hilt. They stayed still, foreheads pressed together, both shaking.

“Tell me if it hurts,” he whispered.

“It hurts that I waited this long,” she said, and moved her hips.

And then they were moving together, slow, deep thrusts that burned hotter with every stroke. Her legs wrapped around his waist, drawing him deeper. Her violet eyes locked on his, wide with wonder and desire. Her hair fanned across the pillows. Her breasts rose and fell with every cry.

He kissed her everywhere, her throat, her nipples, her lips, her name on his breath like a vow.

His fingers found her again, rubbing the trembling jewel at her center in time with his thrusts. She gasped. Bucked. Came again, her body seizing around him. He followed moments later, cock pulsing, spilling deep into her warmth.

They clung to each other, slick and trembling, breathless.

After, they lay entwined.

“My queen,” he whispered.

“My king,” she whispered, curling closer, his seed still warm and deep inside her. She could feel the heat of it, the slow, sacred pulse of their union. And she prayed, to gods old and new, to fire and ash and all the nameless powers that watched over dragonkind, that it would take root. That something might quicken within her. A child. A legacy. A beginning.
Her fingers traced lazy circles over the curve of his chest, searching for the rhythm of his heart. When she found it, steady, strong, utterly his, she closed her eyes and basked in his scent. “With you,” he said, “I don’t have to be the dragon. Or the sword. Or the fury. I can just be yours.”

“You’ve always been mine,” she whispered.

And in her eyes he saw it, the storm, the fire, the home he had always searched for.

They drifted to sleep with limbs tangled, skin slick, bodies still humming from the fire they had made.

Outside, the storm faded.

Echoes of the Past

The storm still hummed across the battlements, but within the inner gallery above the old training yard, warmth held steady in the flickering torchlight. Rain pattered softly against the weathered glass, and the smell of wet stone and old oil lingered in the air.

Ser Arthur Dayne stood with arms folded behind his back, his white cloak slightly damp at the hem.

Beside him, Ser Barristan Selmy leaned against a stone column, staring down at the empty yard below where Rhaegar once practiced until his palms bled.

Neither man spoke for a time. The silence between them was not awkward, but worn, comfortable in the way only two soldiers who had seen kingdoms fall could understand.

At last, Barristan broke it.

“They were always drawn to each other,” he said, his voice quiet. “Even when they were small.”

Arthur nodded, eyes distant with memory. “She hated being apart from him. Do you remember that first spring on Dragon’s Lair? Rhaella insisted she begin lessons with the septa. Daenerys cried every morning they took her from the yard.”

“She’d sneak back,” Barristan said with a faint smile. “Sand in her slippers, ribbons undone. I once caught her in the armory, hiding beneath the bench while Rhaenar sparred with Viserys.”

Arthur’s lips curled faintly. “She watched him like a shadow, even then. Always the fire to his storm.”

Barristan exhaled, his breath fogging the glass. “I remember one day, she must have been eight. The septa tried to lecture her about propriety, about courtly grace. And Daenerys said, ‘Why should I sit still and sew, when my brother  and nephew learn to wield swords? I am blood of the dragon too.’”

Arthur chuckled low. “And now she wears a crown beside him. Not because it was given. Because it was earned.”

“They both did,” Barristan agreed. “They trained in hardship. In silence. In exile. And they never turned against one another. That alone sets them apart from so many Targaryens before.”

Arthur looked out across the wet stones of the yard. “He used to fall in his drills. I’d knock him down again and again. Oswell said I was being cruel. But every time, the boy would rise, angrier, stronger.”

“And she would be there,” Barristan added. “A flower in her hand, a look that could melt steel. She was never afraid of his fury. She was the one who calmed it.”

Arthur’s voice softened. “They were always meant to be more than family. More than prince and princess. Fire draws fire. The Blood of the Dragon calls to them.”

There was a pause.

Barristan murmured, “And now they’ve wed by that fire. Blood and flame. The gods old and new bear witness.”

The storm groaned beyond the stone.

“And tomorrow,” Arthur said quietly, “the world will begin to remember them.”

Mother and Son

The solar at the top of Sea Dragon Tower was warm with candlelight. Beyond the high arched windows, the storm still rolled across the Narrow Sea, distant thunder like drums in the dark. The room smelled of spiced wine, myrrh, and lavender. A fire crackled low in the hearth.

Queen Rhaella sat beside it in a high-backed chair, her silver hair loose across her shoulders, her fingers curled around a goblet of mulled wine. She wore no crown, only a robe of black and crimson silk embroidered with thread-of-gold dragons, and in that hour, she looked more mother than monarch.

The door opened quietly, and Viserys stepped inside.

He still wore his wedding attire. His doublet was deep red, fastened with pearl clasps, and his pale hair had been combed back, though one unruly lock fell across his brow. His face held weariness, but his eyes were alert, reflective, and softer than usual.

“Come,” Rhaella said, gesturing to the cushioned seat beside her. “Sit with me. Just for a while.”

Viserys obeyed without protest, lowering himself beside her. The fire cast flickers of gold across his face, revealing lines that exile had etched early.

“They wed today,” he said after a pause. “My sister and your grandson. Husband and wife. King and Queen.”

Rhaella smiled faintly. “They were always meant to find each other. Even in the darkest places, some flames burn toward the same wind.”

Viserys stared into the fire. “And now the world begins again. A wedding… a war.”

She reached out and took his hand gently. “And you are still part of both.”

He looked at her sharply. “They won’t need me. Not like before. The two of them...” His voice faltered, just slightly. “They complete one another.”

Rhaella’s fingers tightened around his. “And yet neither would be standing here if not for you. Don’t forget that, Viserys.”

He said nothing.

“You were the one who kept them together when we had nothing,” Rhaella continued, her voice soft, touched by memory. “Who bore the hunger and the fear and the exile without turning cruel. You watched over Daenerys when she was too small to understand the danger. You watched over Rhaenar when he was just a boy with a shadow’s weight on his shoulders.”

She paused, her gaze distant, thoughtful.

“You could have resented him. But you welcomed him, not as a rival… but as your brother.”

Viserys’s jaw shifted.

“Because he is my brother,” he said quietly. “Maybe not by birth, but in every way that matters. We fought the same winters. We dreamed under the same roof. I was never alone while I had them. And they were never alone while I stood watch.”

Rhaella reached out and took his hand, her fingers weathered but warm.

“You gave them more than protection,” she said. “You gave them a childhood. However brief, however broken. You gave them something to hold onto in the dark.”

Viserys didn’t speak right away. The silence stretched between them, filled with the crackle of the hearth and the sea wind rattling the tower windows.

At last, he said, “He’s our future. Both are. But I’ll always be their brother first. Before the crown. Before the realm. That’s what matters.”

Rhaella smiled then, not as a queen, but as a mother whose son had grown stronger than even she’d dared hope.

“And that,” she said, “is what makes you worthy of everything that comes next.”

“You are part of that future,” Rhaella said firmly. “They may be crowned. But every king and queen needs a voice behind the throne, one who knows how the world truly works. You have earned that place.”

She paused.

“Your betrothal to Margaery Tyrell… it will matter. The Reach is rich, fertile, and proud. If they stand with us, they must feel heard. Trusted. You will be their bridge. Their envoy. And in time, if the match is well-made, you will have children who carry both our blood and theirs.”

Viserys exhaled. “I never imagined I’d marry for anything other than politics.”

“Perhaps you still will,” Rhaella said with a sly smile. “But love sometimes follows. Especially when peace is built first.”

He chuckled softly.

Then, after a beat: “You still see me as a boy, don’t you?”

She turned to him, her violet eyes warm.

“I see my son. The boy I carried through your fathers madness. The man who never stopped trying. And the dragon who stood tall when the world tried to make him small.”

Viserys blinked, caught off guard.

“I’m proud of you,” she whispered.

He swallowed, and for a long moment, said nothing.

At last, he leaned over and rested his head against her shoulder, just for a breath. Just for the space between thunderclaps.

“I’ll be the brother they deserve,” he said quietly.

Rhaella stroked his hair gently.

“I know you will.”

Bound by Blood

Later, as the castle settled into peaceful sleep, Rhaenar stood alone on the terrace that overlooked the sea. The stone beneath his boots was slick with rain, and mist clung to the black parapets like ghostly fingers. Far below, the surf crashed against Dragonstone’s jagged cliffs, the roar rising and falling, like a hymn from the deep.

His dark hair was damp with salt spray, and the wind tugged at his cloak, billowing it behind him like wings of shadow. The chill did not touch him, not tonight.

Behind him, the fires had dimmed. The halls lay quiet. And Daenerys, his wife, his queen, had long since drifted into sleep, he hoped, warm and dream-filled. Her head nestled against silken pillows, her breath steady with peace, her heart safely tucked within the storm-forged walls of home.

Rhaenar let the wind carry his thoughts.

He closed his eyes, and for a moment, the storm faded. All he felt was her.

The softness of Daenerys’s breath against his skin. The way her fingers had curled in his when the rites were spoken. The fire in her kiss, tender and fierce all at once, as if she were not merely sealing a vow, but claiming the destiny they’d been denied for too long.

He remembered how she had looked in the candlelight, crowned in silver and shadow, eyes like violet flame locked to his, as if daring the world to break them apart.

And then later, when crown and cloak were gone and there was only skin and truth between them, how she'd whispered his name not a king, but as a man. Her husband. Her dragon.

“You’ve always been mine,” she had said.

And gods help him, she was right. Every choice he had made, every sacrifice, every fire lit in vengeance or hope, had led him back to her.

They were blood. They were flame.

Now they were one.

Rhaenar exhaled slowly, letting the sea wind cool the heat still coiled in his chest. He had claimed his queen. Now, the realm awaited.

The crack of distant thunder pulled him from his thoughts and then, softer than the storm, came the sound of boots behind him.

The dragons had stirred. The realm had shifted. And everything he was, everything he had become, stood poised between lightning and conquest.

The night whispered of war.

But for one moment more, he allowed himself silence. Solitude. And the memory of soft hands and violet eyes beneath a canopy of flame.

Lightning cracked across the heavens, illuminating the Narrow Sea in stark flashes. Thunder followed, a slow drumroll of fate.

Footsteps approached, soft but deliberate. Rhaenar didn’t turn. He didn’t need to.

Viserys appeared beside him, his silver-gold hair loose and gleaming wet, plastered to his brow. He carried two goblets and a slender flagon of Arbor Red, clutched by the neck. For once, there was no bitterness in his gait, no tension in his jaw. Just quiet.

He held out a cup.

“To the King and Queen,” he said.

Rhaenar took it without a word, raised it, and clinked it softly against Viserys’s.

“To House Targaryen.”

They drank.

The wine warmed their throats, a fleeting comfort in the cold. The sea wind howled past them, catching the flames of the terrace braziers, and far below, the waves shattered against the cliffs like the ghosts of a thousand drowned kings.

“You are now my brother,” he said softly, “not just by how we feel towards one another, but my brother-by-law as well. My goodbrother. And no other is more worthy of my sister’s hand.”

Rhaenar’s smile was small, but true. “I’ll spend the rest of my life proving it.”

“You were always the warrior between us,” Viserys said. “Even as a boy. You never lost a sparring match. The Kingsguard trained you like the sword you’d become. And I… I was never like that. Not truly. I always enjoyed reading of far away lands, and of our ancestors and all they accomplished.”

He paused, his voice quieter now. “But you never made me feel lesser. Not once. You fought with strength, but you ruled me with kindness. That’s rarer.”

Rhaenar’s gaze softened. “You were my family when I had none. You looked after Daenerys when I was too young to help her. You never let her go hungry. Or afraid. You always called me brother without hesitation, even if I’m truly your nephew.”

Viserys blinked hard. “Because you are my brother. Because you are our future.”

“I never thought I’d see this day,” Viserys said after a while. His voice was hushed, but honest. “A wedding. A true home again. Dragons in the sky. It’s like... the songs my mother used to tell us. When we were children.”

Rhaenar’s eyes stayed fixed on the horizon, where black clouds met black sea.

“This is only the beginning,” he said quietly. “Tomorrow, we fly to conquer. But tonight... tonight, we remember who we are.”

He turned fully to face his uncle.

“You’ve been many things,” he said, a hint of dry amusement in his voice. “Stubborn. Ambitious. Occasionally insufferable.”

Viserys snorted. “Occasionally?”

Rhaenar smirked faintly. “But through all of it, you stood by me. Through days in the training yard and learning our lessons from the Maester. You’ve earned more than a seat at the council.”

He paused. The wind caught his cloak again. The firelight danced in the steel-grey of his eyes.

“You are my brother in all but blood,” Rhaenar said. “And until I have a son... you are my heir.”

Viserys froze. His goblet lowered. His lips parted, but no words came at first.

Rhaenar pressed on, voice quiet but clear.

“And when I wear the crown, you will wear the badge of the Hand. The realm will look to you as it looks to me. I trust no one else with its care. No one else with my legacy.”

The words struck like a blade made of truth. Viserys’s throat worked, his gaze suddenly very far away. When he blinked, it was too slow to hide the shimmer in his violet eyes.

“I... I won’t fail you,” he said hoarsely.

“You won’t,” Rhaenar answered. “Because we are the blood of the dragon. And soon, Westeros will remember what that means.”

They stood in silence, the storm briefly stilling around them.

Eventually, they turned back toward the warmth of the hall, though not before one final decision was made.

“What of my mother?” Viserys asked, his tone more serious now. “She’ll want to be at your side.”

“She’ll be safer here,” Rhaenar said. “Dragonstone is our hearth. If the war turns, she must remain untouched.”

Then Viserys asked, quietly, “Who do you trust to guard her?”

Rhaenar looked out to sea again, the salt wind threading through his hair.

“I trust all our Kingsguard. Ser Arthur. Ser Gerold. Ser Barristan. Ser Oswell. They would die before letting harm come to her. But we need them with us, for what lies ahead.”

He paused, then said with quiet certainty, “Aurane. He will stay behind. Sworn to her protection.”

Viserys nodded slowly.

Rhaenar nodded toward the sea, where the black waters churned like boiling ink.

“And five hundred Velaryon men,” he added. “If the tide ever reaches these shores again, the island will burn before it falls.”

Viserys gave a slow nod, then glanced over his shoulder at the looming tower of the keep where their mother now rested. “Mother will be safe. Aurane will see to it.”

“She deserves peace, after all these years,” Rhaenar said quietly. “We’ve asked much of her… and now we ask her to hold fast while we claim what was stolen.”

The wind howled across the battlements.

For a long moment, they said nothing. Just two men who had shared exile, hunger, and dreams too dangerous to name.

Then Viserys sipped his wine and gave a sidelong look. “When we finally regain our birth right… we’ll have to fill the final two spots on your Kingsguard.”

Rhaenar exhaled, nodding. “A white cloak is not just earned with loyalty. It must be won in fire and blood.”

“Perhaps someone will distinguish themselves during the campaign,” Viserys replied, his tone speculative, thoughtful. “There are still swords in the realm worth drawing. And not all of them serve Robert.”

Rhaenar gave a faint smile. “Then let them come. I need warriors who fight not for glory, but for purpose.”

“You already have five of the greatest knights in Westeros,” Viserys said, lifting his goblet slightly. “But every flame grows brighter with more kindling.”

“We’ll choose well,” Rhaenar said. “When the time is right.”

Viserys swirled the wine in his goblet, watching the storm roll in from the east. “And what of the rest of the small council? Have you given any thought on who you would like to serve the Realm?”

Rhaenar rested his forearms on the cold stone railing, eyes still on the horizon. “Some. Not all. The council will shape the kingdom as much as the sword will.”

He turned slightly toward his uncle, his goodbrother now. “The Tyrells will expect a position. They’ve risked much for our cause.  Margaery will join our House one day soon, we must tie her House to us beyond marriage.”

Viserys nodded. “A seat of influence. Not just ceremony.”

“Exactly,” Rhaenar said. “Their support must be rooted deep. Willas would make a fine Master of Coin. And as for Master of Ships… there’s no better choice than Lord Monford. He’s earned that command tenfold.”

“And the rest?” Viserys asked.

Rhaenar’s gaze sharpened, though his voice remained calm. “We’ll see. Much depends on who stands out during the campaign. Who bleeds for us. Who bends the knee not out of fear, but out of faith. And which alliances we may still need… before we return to the Red Keep.”

Viserys gave a wry smile. “It’s not just dragons you’ll need to tame.”

“No,” Rhaenar agreed. “But I am the dragon. And when I sit the Iron Throne, the council I build will not be one of flatterers and cowards. It will be the spine of the realm reborn.”

The wind curled around them again, but this time it smelled not only of salt and ash, but of something new on the horizon.

Far above, the clouds split once more and through them soared Vhagar, her green scales catching the lightning, her cry echoing across the bay like the promise of conquest.

They both looked up.

“She’s ready,” Rhaenar murmured.

“So are we,” said Viserys.

And below, Dragonstone slept, but its dragons did not.

Tonight, the storm sang for them.

Chapter Text

Storm’s End

The wind howled along the battlements of Storm’s End, a low and constant roar that seemed to echo from the sea itself. But inside the bedchamber, all was quiet.

Renly Baratheon lay stretched across the high-backed bed, a fur cloak tangled around his legs and a half-emptied goblet of wine in one hand. The fire crackled in the hearth, painting his bare chest in flickering gold. Beside him, Ser Loras Tyrell lay curled at his side, his fingers idly tracing the faded antler sigil stitched into Renly’s discarded tunic.

A raven’s message lay on the stone floor where Loras had dropped it, its broken seal stamped with the rose of House Tyrell.

“They want me to return,” Loras said softly, his voice quiet and uncertain. “My father says I’m to ride for Highgarden at once.”

Renly turned his head on the pillow. “Then why haven’t you gone?”

Loras didn’t answer at first. He stared at the fire, his fingers still. “I thought it was to march north. To join Robert at Harrenhal. But now I’m not so sure.”

Renly shifted onto his elbow, studying him. “You’ve heard something.”

“I’ve felt something,” Loras murmured. “My father’s letter was… odd. Short. No mention of Robert’s cause. Just ‘return at once.’ No honorifics. No reasons.”

Renly frowned. “You think they’ve bent the knee? To Viserys?”

“To someone,” Loras said. “But they haven’t told me who.”

Renly ran a hand through his hair and sat up slightly, the fur falling from his shoulder. “If House Tyrell has turned their cloaks, then they are fools. Robert still sits the Iron Throne. Storm’s End still holds. The Targaryens have no army large enough to challenge us, and certainly no dragons.”

He stood and reached for his doublet, shrugging it on. “We’ve thirty thousand men in the field. The stormlords are loyal. And I’ve done as Robert commanded, rallied the banners, held our seat, and protected the gates to the Reach and Crownlands.”

Loras rose behind him, wrapping the fur around his waist. “You don’t think this is a mistake? Staying here?”

Renly turned, his deep blue eyes calm and resolute. “This is our ancestral home. Ours before Robert’s crown, ours before Viserys crawled from exile. Robert needs the Stormlands held. That’s what I intend to do. Until I hear from him, I won’t flinch.”

Loras stepped closer. “And if my family is against us? The might of the reach?”

Renly’s mouth was a hard line. “Then you mourn them, and meet them on the field, if we must. But I won’t abandon Robert. Or this castle.”

He brushed a hand against Loras’s cheek. “Stay with me, Loras. If this is where the storm breaks… then we’ll face it together.”

Loras crawled onto the bed, the fur slipping from his shoulders, and straddled Renly with quiet determination. His chest rose and fell with the weight of everything unsaid, loyalty, love, fear, and something fiercer than all of it.

His fingers curled against Renly’s jaw, tilting his face upward. “I will always stand by you.”

The words were a vow. A blade and a shield both.

Renly’s hands rose instinctively to Loras’s waist, steadying him as if the world might tilt beneath them. “Even if your House stands against me?” he asked quietly.

Loras answered not with words, but with a kiss, hard and urgent, fierce with need and promise. It was not kiss of a lover to a fleeting passion. It was the kiss of a man staking his soul on another.

Renly sank into it, one hand threading into Loras’s hair, the other drawing him down until their foreheads touched, breaths mingling.

“I don’t care what banner my father flies,” Loras whispered. “My heart has already chosen its king.”

Renly closed his eyes, the ache of war momentarily drowned by the only truth that mattered: he was not alone.

And outside the castle, the storm pressed harder against the walls.

But inside, for just a moment longer, they held the calm.

Outside, the sea thundered beneath the cliffs, and the wind pressed against the stone like the breath of something vast and waiting.

And far to the south, the storm was gathering.

 The Summoning

The bells clanged loud and sudden, splitting the morning calm like a sword through silk.

Renly Baratheon sat near the hearth, fully dressed, fastening the last clasp of his leather surcoat when the door burst open.

“My lord!” a knight called from the hallway beyond. “The battlements. You must see this.”

Renly rose at once, his hand already on the hilt of his sword.

Loras stirred from the bed, hair tousled, still half-dressed. “What is it?”

Renly’s expression was unreadable. “Something’s amiss.”

They moved quickly, side by side down the long corridors of the ancient keep. The wind had picked up, howling against the stone as if the castle itself sensed the shift in fate. Guards and lords were already rushing to the walls, pulling helms over greying brows, stringing bows, tightening breastplates with fumbling hands.

When Renly and Loras stepped onto the eastern battlements, the breath caught in both their throats.

The fields beyond the castle, once empty and sun-baked, now heaved with life.

An ocean of soldiers blanketed the horizon, their numbers impossible to count at a glance. Banners rose in endless waves: the golden roses of House Tyrell. The striding huntsmen of Green of House Tarley, the sun-and-spear of House Martell, the white towers of Hightower, and the falling star of House Dayne curling through the ranks.

But at the heart of it all, riding the wind like a war cry, one banner flew highest.

Black silk, with red.

Three heads, crowned and snarling, blazing in the morning sun.

The dragon had come.

“No,” Loras breathed, stumbling forward until his hands gripped the cold stone of the parapet. His eyes searched the host below as if willing it to vanish.

Renly’s jaw was tight. His eyes, colder than the wind, swept across the banners with grim calculation. “The Reach,” he said quietly. “And Dorne. They’ve joined their strength.”

“But they wouldn’t—” Loras’s voice cracked. “They wouldn’t side with… They sent for me. They called me home.”

Renly said nothing.

Loras turned to him, desperate now. “This can’t be their choice. My father...my brothers...”

“They have chosen,” Renly said softly, his voice not unkind. “Look.”

And there they were.

Far below, at the head of the army, rode the Lords of the Reach. Ser Garlan Tyrell, upright on a pale destrier. Lord Randyll Tarly, grim and armored. His heir Dickon beside them, his face set like stone. And behind them, Mace Tyrell, his personal banner held high, the golden rose beneath a sky of dragonfire.

Beside them flew Dornish knights, their spears glinting. Ser Balon Hightower’s great host stood proud, their columns precise. Oberyn Martell rode near the vanguard, flame-colored silks catching the sun, his gaze turned already to the castle, already thinking of conquest.

Loras reeled back as if struck. “They’ve betrayed us.”

Renly placed a hand on his shoulder. “They’ve declared their king.”

Loras’s hands curled into fists. His voice was a whisper of disbelief. “They’ve declared war on me.”

“No,” Renly said, looking again to the field, where the red dragon danced above the roses of Highgarden.

“They’ve declared war on us.”

The War Council – Encamped in the Stormlands

A stretch of green rolled before them, wet from the morning's rain, littered with tents, armor, and the quiet tension of a thousand whispers. The Reach and Dorne had gathered in force, seventy-five thousand men in all, their banners fluttering like a garden in bloom and flame. Golden roses of House Tyrell. The blazing sun-and-spear of House Martell. Hightowers, Tarlys, Fossoways, and Florents stood alongside Daynes, Yronwoods, and Santagars. All beneath one banner now, the red three-headed dragon on black, flying from the highest standard in the camp.

Within the central pavilion, Lord Mace Tyrell stood at the head of the war table, his ringed fingers planted firmly on the carved wood as he looked across the map. Rain drummed against the canvas above, but inside the tent, it was dry, save for the sweat of anticipation.

“We will not wait long,” he said, glancing at each of his assembled commanders. “King Rhaenar flies to us by nightfall. The dragons will light the sky, our signal to strike.”

Lord Randyll Tarly, ever stern, nodded. “Renly holds the castle, yes. But he also commands thirty thousand stormlords outside the walls. Men of Estermont, Fell, Connington, Grandison, Penrose. They are seasoned and fiercely loyal to House Baratheon.”

Ser Balon Hightower moved a carved token across the board, placing it in the field just west of the castle. “They’ve fortified the outer encampment. Siege lines alone will not suffice. We must break their field command before we reach the gates.”

“We should send skirmishers through the woodline,” Oberyn Martell suggested, his voice smooth and dangerous. “Scatter their scouts, press their flanks. Keep their eyes on the trees, and their backs to the sky.”

Ser Garlan Tyrell leaned forward. “If we hit the outer force hard before dusk, we can force them to retreat into the walls. Compact their forces. When the dragons come, there will be nowhere left for them to run.”

Mace frowned. “That means blood. Good men will die.”

Randyll Tarly grunted. “It’s war, my lord. And if Renly is foolish enough to think Robert can save him, then it’s time he learns how swiftly fire can burn.”

Oberyn smiled without humor. “Besides, your son Loras had his chance to choose. He chose love over House. Let’s hope he’s still alive to regret it.”

A murmur of tension passed through the tent at that. Even Mace Tyrell looked momentarily aged.

Lord Paxter Redwyne stepped forward, arms crossed. “The Straits of Tarth and Shipbreaker Bay are blocked. Storm’s End is surrounded by land and sea. There will be no escape for Renly. When the dragons come, they will bring finality.”

Mace gave a solemn nod. “So be it. We break the storm before it breaks us. The outer army falls first. Then the castle. Then we ride for the heart of the realm.”

Oberyn tilted his goblet, watching the wine swirl like blood. “Let them dream of safety in stone walls. Soon, they will taste vengeance on the tip of Dornish spears.”

Outside the pavilion, the horns of the southern host echoed faintly through the mists. The siege was drawn. The stage set.

Nightfall would bring fire. And dragons.

And the storm would break.

The Parlay 

The sun hung low behind stormclouds as the two sides met in the no-man’s-land between Storm’s End and the sprawling siege encampment. On one side stood the lords of the Reach and Dorne, arrayed in silks and steel beneath banners of roses and suns. On the other, the defenders of Storm’s End, battle-worn and resolute beneath the crowned stag.

Lord Mace Tyrell rode at the head of the Reach delegation, flanked by his son Ser Garlan and Lord Randyll Tarly, grim as ever in blackened plate. Ser Baelor Hightower rode beside Lord Jon Fossoway and Lord Paxter Redwyne, their banners rippling in the rising wind. Oberyn Martell led the Dornish, his eyes sharp and predatory beneath his helm, joined by lords of House Yronwood, Jordayne, Dayne and Manwoody.

Across from them stood Lord Renly Baratheon, clad in deep green and gold, the stag of his house emblazoned across his breastplate. Beside him stood Ser Loras Tyrell, jaw clenched and hands tight on the reins. Behind them, Ser Cortnay Penrose, Ser Donnel Swann, and Lord Beric Dondarrion kept their silence. Brienne of Tarth loomed beside them, tall and awkward in her battered armor, her gaze unwavering despite the murmurs she drew. Thoros of Myr hummed beneath his breath, clutching a wineskin.

“Loras,” Mace Tyrell said, breaking the silence. His voice was heavy with something between sorrow and command. “Come with us. Bring your knights. Return to your family. You’ve stood loyal to your friend, no one denies it. But the war has turned. House Targaryen will not be defeated.”

“I received your raven,” Loras interrupted, voice sharp. “You summoned me to Highgarden. I thought it was to gather our banners, to ride for King Robert. But you’re here. Marching against Storm’s End. Against us.”

Mace’s eyes softened. “We hoped you would understand. You must come home, Loras. This is your last chance.”

“I am home,” Loras snapped. “I stand where my honor lies. And you shame the rose you wear.”

“You speak of honor?” barked Randyll Tarly, his tone scathing. “You lie with a man like a wife, and think yourself a knight? You disgrace your house and your name.”

Loras surged forward in the saddle, but Renly’s hand gripped his bridle.

Randyll sneered. “And you, Lord Renly, Robert’s little shadow. You hide behind your brother’s name and think yourself his equal. You are no Stannis, and he held this castle with nothing but rats and stone. And yet even Stannis is dead. What do you think will become of you?”

“That’s rich,” Renly said, his voice calm but cutting. “You speak of shadows, yet you ride for a boy no one has named. You spit on the king you crowned and bow to dragons. Robert’s fury will burn you all.”

“Stannis is dead because he faced what you’ve yet to see,” said Oberyn Martell. “The fire that flies. You’ll learn soon enough.”

Renly’s gaze swept the host before him. “So you ride for Viserys? Or is it the sister? Or some other pretender hiding behind banners and letters? I’ve yet to see a face. Just smoke.”

“Smoke,” said Ser Baelor Hightower coldly, “that has already burned the Crown’s fleet to cinders.”

Then the insults turned.

“You bring women to the field now?” said Paxter Redwyne, eyes lingering on Brienne. “Has your courtly love confused you, Lord Renly?”

“She’s worth ten of your knights,” Loras snapped.

“She’s not a knight,” Tarly said. “She’s a freak in steel. Put her back in skirts and let the men speak.”

Brienne’s fists clenched, but she said nothing.

“Enough,” Renly said. His voice dropped like a blade. “You came to sue for surrender? You’ll get none.”

“We did not come to beg,” said Lord Jon Fossoway. “We came to give you one chance to live. You’ll not get another.”

“And I’ll give you the same,” Renly answered. “You think you can break these walls? Try. I’ve thirty thousand stormlanders who won’t kneel to roses or suns. And Robert comes.”

The wind picked up. The banners of the Reach and Dorne fluttered. So did the three-headed dragon.

“No,” said Garlan Tyrell softly. “He won’t. And when you realize that, Renly, it will be too late.”

The parlay ended without bows. No hands were offered, no oaths exchanged. Only the scrape of hooves on gravel and the storm building over the sea. War would come before nightfall.

Tides Before Fire

Lord Mace Tyrell’s pavilion trembled with tension as he yanked the curtain closed behind him. The murmurs of soldiers and the clang of distant preparations faded into the background. He turned on his heel, face flushed with heat and fury.

“He’s blinded by that boy,” Mace muttered. “Love or lust, it matters not. He’s thrown away his reason.”

“He’s thrown away his house,” growled Randyll Tarly, hands clenched at his sides. “He will find no refuge among lions or stags. The dragon is rising, and Renly Baratheon has chosen to stand in its path.”

Lord Jon Fossoway poured himself wine without asking, then tossed it back with a sharp breath. “He called us traitors. Brazen, considering the Reach feeds the realm while he plays soldier with what’s left of the Stormlands.”

“He’s desperate,” said Garlan Tyrell quietly, eyes still on the flap of the tent. “He sees the forces against him. He’s chosen pride over peace.”

Baelor Hightower nodded. “He’s relying on the walls of Storm’s End and thirty thousand men who won’t die for a cause already lost.”

Oberyn Martell lounged with one leg draped over the arm of a chair, smiling faintly. “They mock us. Threaten us. But when fire falls from the sky, they’ll remember who holds the true power.”

“They don’t even know,” murmured Lord Fossoway , eyes dark. “They still think this is a war of steel and banners.”

“It’s not,” said Garlan, voice cool. “It’s not a war of men, and when Rhaenar arrives tonight, they’ll understand.”

“Begin final preparations,” Mace ordered, straightening his mantle. “At nightfall, we strike.”

“And the boy?” Baelor asked.

Mace’s jaw clenched. “If Loras survives… we’ll speak again. But if he stands between our armies, dares to fight me, his father and liege lord, then he is no son of mine.”

Storm’s End 

The gates clanged shut behind them with the weight of finality. Renly tore off his gloves, flinging them onto the long table in the war room, his face flushed red with rage.

“Traitors,” he hissed. “Every last one. Dorne, the Reach, my father’s friends. And my brother’s allies. Turned against us.”

Loras stood by the fire, stiff as a sword left too long in the cold. “My father would never...he couldn’t...he wouldn’t stand with dragons—”

“They flew Targaryen banners, Loras,” Brienne said softly. “Even your brother was there. He wouldn’t meet your eyes.”

“That’s because he’s a coward!” Loras snapped. “They all are. They would bend the knee to ghosts and ashes before standing beside us!”

Beric Dondarrion leaned against the stone pillar, arms crossed. “They’re not cowards. They’ve simply seen which way the wind is blowing.”

“The wind?” Renly scoffed. “The wind brings fire. Fire brings death. I stood by Robert when the world broke. I will hold Storm’s End in his name.”

“They called you a shadow of Stannis,” said Thoros of Myr, pouring wine into a goblet. “But Stannis is dead. And this shadow still stands.”

Loras turned toward Renly. “We can’t let them win. We have to strike first, surprise them before nightfall.”

Renly shook his head. “No. That’s what they want. Let them think us cornered. Let them believe they’ve shaken us.”

He stepped to the table, eyes scanning the battle map.

He looked to Brienne then, his expression softening. “You’ll be with me at the wall.”

Brienne nodded, but her jaw tightened. “Let them call me names. I’ve heard worse. They’ll eat their words when they face my blade.”

“We all will,” Renly said grimly. “This isn’t just battle. This is survival.”

Behind him, soft footsteps approached. A hesitant voice followed.

“Uncle Renly,” said Edric Storm, quiet as a whisper. “I want to help defend Storm’s End… to defend my family’s castle.”

Renly turned, surprised not by the words but by the conviction behind them. The boy stood with shoulders squared as best they could be at eleven name days, his fists clenched at his sides, knuckles white. His dark hair hung low over earnest eyes, eyes that bore too much of Robert to ignore.

“You’ve your father’s pride,” Renly said softly, rising. “And his stubbornness too.”

He crossed the space between them and placed a hand gently on the boy’s shoulder. “But listen to me, Edric. You are still a child, and no child should bear arms before his voice has settled. There will be battles enough for you one day, gods help us, too many, I fear. But not this one.”

“But—” Edric started, lips parting as if to argue, then faltered. His eyes dropped to the floor.

Renly knelt again, so they were eye to eye. “When the fighting starts, I want you to stay in the Great Hall. Stay with Maester Jurne and Ser Parmen. They’ll see to your safety. Do you understand?”

There was a long pause. Shame flushed Edric’s cheeks, his gaze fixed on the stone beneath his boots.

“Yes, Uncle,” he murmured. “I will do as you say.”

Renly smiled gently and ruffled the boy’s hair, rough but affectionate. “Good lad. You’ve courage. Never let anyone say otherwise. But courage isn’t always a sword in hand. Sometimes it’s knowing when to stand down.”

He straightened and glanced to the high, arched windows, where the last orange streaks of dusk gave way to the black of coming night. “The walls of Storm’s End have never been breached, Edric. They won’t fall now.”

The boy looked up at him, some of the shame lifting from his face, replaced by something steadier. Faith, perhaps.

And Renly prayed to gods old and new that he wasn’t lying.

The Red Shadows

The wind howled against the volcanic cliffs of Dragonstone, carrying with it the scent of ash, salt, and coming war. The castle groaned with ancient life, its black stone warmed only by firelight and shadow.

Rhaenar Targaryen stood alone in the Chamber of the Painted Table, where the walls were carved with dragons long dead and braziers burned with strange flames, orange, red, and a pale hue that danced like blood in the air.

The door creaked open.

She entered without announcement, her red robes whispering across the stone, eyes alight with the glow of inner fire. Melisandre of Asshai, flame-haired and ageless, bowed her head with solemn reverence.

“You summoned me, Your Grace.”

Rhaenar turned, armored in black and crimson, the three-headed dragon shining upon his chest. The wind stirred his dark hair, and his steel-grey eyes regarded her like a man looking into smoke, expecting nothing, yet cautious of what might form in it.

“You served my enemy,” he said plainly. “You whispered to Stannis, called him your prince. Yet he died on his knees.”

Melisandre’s eyes flickered, but she did not look away.
“He was a flicker, not the flame. I saw truth in the fire, but I misread the shape. That truth… is you.”

Rhaenar's jaw tightened. He stepped closer, shadows dancing across his face.

“You speak of prophecy. Of flames and visions. Say it plainly. What do you believe I am?”

Melisandre’s voice was barely a breath.

“You are the Prince That Was Promised. Born of Fire and Blood. The song that must be sung. You woke the dragons from stone. You will stand at the edge of the world with the sword Lightbringer in one hand and the fate of men in the other. The Long Night will come again. And you will be the light that breaks it.”

Silence stretched between them. The flames in the braziers twisted higher.

Rhaenar exhaled, sharp and cold.
“I’ve heard these riddles before. I was raised on them. My father was obsessed with them. He died because of them.”

He moved to the window, gazing out at the sea.

“I fight for the living, not for omens. My war is against usurpers and kingslayers. Not shadows.”

Melisandre took a single step forward.
“And yet the shadows are coming.”
Her voice dropped to something darker.

“You will see them. In snow and ruin. In death that does not die. The dragons alone will not be enough.”

He turned to her again, skeptical, but not dismissive.

“Then stay,” Rhaenar said at last. “As my guest. Not my prophet. I have a war to win and no time for ghosts and riddles.”

Melisandre bowed her head once more, her smile like smoke, thin, curling, and unshakable.

“I will remain. And when the time comes, my king… when the dead begin to walk, and darkness never ends —” She met his gaze with burning certainty.
“—you will believe. And I will be here.”

The flames flared behind her, casting her shadow tall and twisting upon the  walls.

And Rhaenar said nothing more.

The Winds Before War

The storm had begun to clear.

Dragonstone’s black cliffs jutted like talons into the sea, and the clouds that had choked the sky for days now peeled back in slow, ragged veils. The air smelled of salt and sulfur. The fires in the great courtyard had burned low, but their embers still glowed red as dragon eyes.

Rhaenar stood before Vhagar, his green-scaled she-dragon crouched and ready atop the basalt landing ledge. Her wings flexed against the wind, scattering ash and snow like fallen embers. Saddles of black leather and Valyrian iron had been fastened tight across her armored shoulders. Chains clinked softly, like distant bells before a funeral.

He ran a hand along her scaled neck, valyrian murmured beneath his breath, a promise, a prayer, a command.

“Tonight we fly to victory. The dragon is ready.”

Daenerys emerged from the stone tower of Dragonstone like a vision born of fire.

Her armor was unlike any worn by queens or warriors of this age; Valyrian steel, forged in secret, hammered in the shadow of dragonflame by the last smiths who still remembered how.

Black as obsidian, it drank the light and shimmered only where flames struck its ridged surface. Each plate was shaped to her form, elegant, but unyielding. It had been found deep in the vaults of Dragon’s Lair, wrapped in faded silks, its origins forgotten by all but the stones themselves. Rhaenar had the armor sent to Tyrosh in secret, entrusted to the finest smiths and sorcerers the Free Cities could still offer. Reworked, retempered, reborn, his wedding gift to his queen.

The cuirass bore the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, sculpted in layered relief as if rising from the steel itself, its wings spread from shoulder to shoulder. The dragon’s eyes, small, embedded rubies, caught the firelight with each movement she made.

Along the spine of the armor, etched with molten silver, ran Valyrian runes invoking strength, fury, and unbreakable will. A high collar flared behind her head like a crown of flame, recalling Visenya’s war helms of old, but shaped for Daenerys, slimmer, deadlier, elegant without weakness.

Her pauldrons were molded like outstretched dragon wings, arching protectively over her arms, and her gauntlets bore the claw-like tips of scaled plating, subtle, but deadly. Around her waist, a dark crimson sash trailed behind her like a tongue of blood caught in the wind, embroidered with ancient High Valyrian in gold thread: “A dragon is not a slave.”

Her greaves and boots were steel chased in the pattern of dragonbone, scaled, ridged, and battle-worn, as if the queen had walked through flame and come out sharpened.

No crown sat upon her brow. Her crown was her name. Her crown was her blood.

But braided into her silver hair were sapphires from the Narrow Sea and slivers of red garnet, glinting like embers, the braid itself coiled in the fashion of the Valyrian dragonlords of old. At her side, a curved blade hung in a black scabbard, slender and lethal, gifted by Ser Arthur Dayne, forged in Dragonstone’s heat.

When she stepped into the courtyard beside her brother, even the dragons turned their heads to regard her.

At her side strode Viserys, his own black-and-crimson armor freshly polished, the three-headed dragon emblazoned on his breast. He looked every inch a Targaryen prince, there was no bitterness in his stride. Only determination.

Viserys stared at his sister in awe, “Visenya would have wept with pride.”

Rhaenar looked at her, his gaze softening beneath the storm-hard edge of war. “She would have knelt.”

Daenerys stepped close, the plates of her armor whispering against his. Her gloved fingers found the edge of his helm, easing it from his head. She tossed it gently aside and cupped his face between her hands, her touch gentle, despite the cold wind off the sea.

She pulled his head down until their foreheads touched.

Then she kissed him.

A searing kiss, full of passion, full of love, and full of thanks. Her mouth moved with fervent grace against his, not just claiming him, but honoring him. When they parted, her breath was soft against his lips, and her violet eyes shone like twin flames beneath the black sky.

“My love,” she whispered, “my king… you’ve made me a true dragonlord with your gift.”

Rhaenar’s grey eyes searched hers, steady and vibrant. He touched her cheek, brushing back a strand of silver hair that had slipped from her braid.

“No,” he said, voice low and fierce. “You were already a dragonlord. You were born for flame and sky. The armor only reminds the world who you are...”
He leaned closer, his voice just above a breath.
“...and why they will bend the knee.”

Daenerys smiled, but it was a queen’s smile, proud, bold, and burning.

“Then let them kneel,” she said. “Let them kneel, or let them burn.”

The time for conquest had come.

The wind howled through the Dragon Gate of Dragonstone, carrying with it the tang of salt and storm. Black waves crashed far below, but within the inner courtyard, all was steady, silent but for the rustle of banners and the low growl of dragons beyond the walls.

Rhaenar stood at the head of the obsidian steps, his cloak snapping behind him, Daenerys beside him in her gleaming black armor. The final rays of light glanced off her shoulders as she adjusted her gauntlets, her silver hair braided like flame beneath her helm.

Before them knelt the white-cloaked brothers of the Kingsguard.

Ser Gerold Hightower, the Lord Commander, rose first. His expression was hard as granite, but his voice was firm.

"Your Grace," he began, "the Velaryon fleet stands ready. Ser Oswell and I will sail with Lord Monford to Duskendale to secure your landing. But I will not allow the King and Queen to take flight without a shield at their side."

Rhaenar raised an eyebrow. “You question my judgment, Lord Commander?”

“I serve your judgment, as I did your father's,” Ser Gerold replied without flinching. “But I will not see you fly into battle without protection. Ser Arthur and Ser Barristan ride with you.”

Arthur stepped forward, Dawn gleaming at his back. “We’ve watched over you since you took your first breath, Your Grace. And we’ll do so from dragonback as well.”

Barristan inclined his head, his weathered face solemn. “A king should never ride to war without his honor and his steel.”

Daenerys looked between them, a flicker of emotion crossing her violet eyes. “And a queen?”

Gerold gave a rare smile. “A queen born of fire deserves fire-forged guardians. We rode for your mother. We fly for you.”

Rhaenar looked to Daenerys, then back at the gathered Kingsguard. He gave a slow nod.

“Very well. Ser Arthur will ride with me. Ser Barristan with the Queen. Ser Gerold, you’ll take the others to Duskendale. Secure the harbor. Await the army’s arrival. We won’t be long in the Stormlands, we should be in Duskendale by week’s end.  When it’s time, we’ll reunite before the march on The Baratheon forces in the River Lands.”

Gerold bowed, hand over his heart. “It will be done.”

“Tell Lord Monford to be ready. Once the Stormlands fall, Duskendale will be our gate into the heart of the realm.”

Rhaenar turned to Ser Aurane Velaryon, his cloak fluttering behind him as the wind off Blackwater Bay swept through the scorched remnants of the inner courtyard. The sky above Dragonstone was streaked with the red-gold hues of an ending day, the light casting his silver hair in fire and shadow.

“Dragonstone is yours now,” he said quietly, but firmly. “Keep my grandmother safe.”

Aurane bowed his head, then stepped forward to clasp Rhaenar’s forearm in the old Valyrian manner, armor clinking with the motion. “You have my oath, Your Grace,” he said solemnly. “No harm will come to her, or your island, while I draw breath. Let the world rise against us if it must. They’ll break against these stones like waves against the cliffs.”

Rhaenar nodded once, his jaw clenched. For a moment, he allowed himself to look past the soldier, into the eyes of the boy he once trained beside, the man who had sailed with him through exile, and loss.

“I trust you,” Rhaenar said. “That’s why I leave her in your hands.”

Aurane’s grip tightened for the briefest moment. “Then you will find her well when you return, my king. And Dragonstone stronger than you left it.”

Their hands fell away, and the moment passed, but the unspoken words remained between them: loyalty, duty, brotherhood, things that did not need to be said aloud.

As the men dispersed, Arthur lingered at Rhaenar’s side.

“You fly with dragons,” the Sword of the Morning said softly. “But never forget what watches your back.”

Rhaenar gripped his shoulder. “You’ve never let me.” He turned to Visery’s.

“Are they in position?” Rhaenar asked.

Viserys nodded. “The Reach and Dorne wait for your signal. They say Storm’s End won’t see morning.”

“And the sky?” Daenerys asked, casting her gaze eastward where clouds still churned over the water.

“Clear enough,” Rhaenar said. “And the dragons are restless. They know.”

Balerion landed behind her with a bone-rattling thud, black wings half-spread, eyes glowing like twin coals. The old stones shook beneath his talons.

From the far tower, Shrykos let out a piercing shriek, eager for the hunt.

Rhaenar looked at his kin, his wife, his uncle, his siblings in all but name and felt the quiet burn of what they were about to become. No longer shadows. No longer whispers in exile.

“Tonight,” he said softly, “we tear the gate open.”

Viserys smiled, the wind whipping his hair across his face. “Then let them see. Let them remember.”

Daenerys moved closer to Rhaenar, her hand sliding into his. Their fingers locked.

“Together,” she said. “As we were meant to.”

He leaned forward, brushing his lips against her forehead. “Fly with me.”

“To war,” she whispered.

“To home,” he replied.

The sky above Dragonstone churned with low thunder, streaks of red-gold light bleeding through the storm as dusk gave way to twilight. The courtyard trembled beneath claw and scale as the dragons stirred, great beasts cloaked in shadow and fire.

Vhagar crouched low, her gold eyes burning like lanterns in the gloom. Balerion stood beside her, wings half-furled, his obsidian scales catching the last light of day. Shrykos circled once above the battlements, shrieking his eagerness into the wind.

Rhaenar mounted first, gripping the saddle fastened behind the great neck of Vhagar. His crimson cloak streamed like war-banner in the wind as the dragon turned her head and rumbled, sensing blood ahead.

Ser Arthur Dayne followed, climbing carefully onto the second saddle behind his king. Though no fear touched the Sword of the Morning’s face, his hands were firm on the leather grips, white cloak fluttering like wings.

On Balerion, Daenerys rose proud in her black Valyrian armor, the silver in her hair glowing like a falling star. She swung into the saddle with practiced ease, her gauntleted hand stroking the curve of Balerion’s neck.

Ser Barristan hesitated only a moment before mounting behind her. The old knight muttered a quiet prayer to whatever gods still listened, then tightened his grip.

The other Kingsguard watched from the steps, Gerold, Oswell, and Aurane, all tense, cloaks snapping, hands on hilts. Their brothers flew into legend now, beyond the reach of shields.

“Ready yourselves!” Rhaenar called, his voice booming across the keep like a horn blast.

The dragons responded in kind.

Wings spread wide. Fire licked at the corners of ancient jaws.

And then, with a rush of wind and ash, they took to the sky.

Vhagar’s wings shattered the stillness as she climbed. Balerion followed with a roar that shook the stones. Shrykos dove in behind, spiraling through cloud and shadow. The storm had broken and with it, the dragons had risen.

They did not look back.

They flew toward war.

Toward Storm’s End.

Toward the first reckoning.

Chapter Text

Storm’s End

Night fell with a thunderclap.

Clouds rolled thick over Storm’s End, masking the moonlight. Below the walls, the torches of the Reach and Dornish host burned like a thousand stars laid low, seventy-five thousand men tightening the noose. The stormlords within still held fast, thirty thousand strong, forming a ring outside the castle as well as behind its mighty walls. But no one expected what came next.

The dragons flew with the storm.

From the clouds above came a roar that shook the marrow.

First came Vhagar, vast, green as emerald flame. Her wings tore the mist apart, trailing fire like a comet in descent.

Then came Balerion, the black beast, dread and smoke and fury, wingspan blotting the stars, Daenerys upon his back like Visenya reborn.

And last, spiraling downward through the dark, came Shrykos, white and golden, gleaming like a bolt of divine lightning. Viserys rode low, gripping the saddle tight, his silver hair whipping wildly behind him as his dragon shrieked a piercing, crystalline cry.

The armies below broke like waves against cliff rock.

Five thousand men were turned to ash in the opening moments, camps ignited, war horses scattering mad with terror. The stormlords outside the walls had no warning, no defense, no chance.

The dragons fell upon them in a trinity of flame and wind.

At the main gate, Vhagar descended in a spiraling sweep, her tail slamming into the outer portcullis. Iron screamed. Stone cracked. Her second strike bent the steel like parchment.

Balerion roared as Daenerys rose in her saddle, black flames streaming from his maw, blasting the inner defenses.

And Shrykos, radiant and terrible, skimmed the upper battlements, his white-gold body casting ghostlight over the terrified defenders. He shrieked again and bathed the southern wall in golden fire.

By the time the gates fell completely, the soldiers of the storm were already retreating, some into the castle, others into the dark.

And Storm’s End, once proud, once defiant, began to fall.

Brienne of Tarth- Before the Assault

The wind off Shipbreaker Bay tore at her cloak as Brienne of Tarth stood high atop the battlements, her blue eyes fixed on the army encamped beyond the walls. The field stretched like a sea of torches, thousands of tents and watchfires dotting the dark. Thirty thousand men, the strength of the stormlords, stationed beyond the gates. She’d stood with them earlier that day. Men she’d trained with. Drank with. Now they waited for dawn, unaware that it would never come.

Lightning cracked through the clouds, throwing jagged shadows across the field.

That was when she saw it.

A shape, massive and winged, emerged from the storm. Silent at first. No flapping of wings. No cry of beast. Just the sudden displacement of wind and the terrible sense of something wrong in the sky.

Then flame.

A column of white-hot fire exploded across the outer camp, lighting the night like a second sun. Men screamed, long, terrible sounds, and Brienne watched in frozen horror as they ran from their tents in flames. Some tried to flee. Others simply collapsed, consumed before they could even cry out. Wagons burst like dry kindling. Horses bolted through the inferno. The ground itself glowed red in the wake of destruction.

A second shape fell from the clouds; larger, heavier, its wings beating thunder into the sky. More fire rained down. Tents dissolved into ash. Iron buckled. The battlefield became a funeral pyre.

Gods, Brienne thought, her throat dry. Dragons.

She didn’t want to believe it, not truly, but what else could it be? She had no names for the beasts. Only shapes in the storm, fire in the sky, and screams in the dark.

Below her, men were shouting. Horns blew in panic. The walls were being readied, but it was already too late.

A shadow passed overhead. She ducked just as something massive swept low over the battlements, its wingspan eclipsed the moon. She caught a glimpse of pale gold and ivory scales, a flash of teeth. The creature’s eyes shone with an eerie light, like embers smoldering in a dream gone wrong.

“What in the name of the gods—” someone screamed beside her.

Then fire. The wall erupted in a blast of white-hot flame. Brienne threw herself behind the crenellation, barely shielded as the stone scorched and cracked.

The gate below exploded inward, torn apart not by siege engines but by sheer force. Brienne saw it through the smoke, an immense tail, armored in ridged scales, whipping through the reinforced iron like cloth. Wood, steel, and men were flung in every direction.

A shockwave of heat hit the wall. Stone cracked. Brienne turned to call out and something struck her from the side.

A chunk of shattered masonry. The impact threw her backward, her helm ringing. She hit the ground hard, air forced from her lungs, stars bursting across her vision.

Somewhere above her, men screamed. Someone was yelling for the gatehouse to hold. But Brienne could only hear her own breath, ragged and thin, as the world blurred and darkened.

Then silence.

Not true silence, there were still screams, and the rumble of dragons, and the groan of falling stone, but a deeper kind of stillness overtook her.

Not death.

Not yet.

But defeat.

And the fire had only just begun.

Renly Baratheon-Before the Assault

The wind howled outside the stone walls, but within the Lord's bedchamber of Storm’s End, there was only breathless silence.

Renly Baratheon lay tangled in silk sheets, the flickering candlelight painting shadows across his bare chest. Beside him, Loras Tyrell traced lazy fingers along his shoulder, their bodies slick with sweat and the afterglow of passion. The room was warm, the fire crackling low in the hearth, the world outside momentarily forgotten.

“I will always stand by you,” Loras murmured again, pressing a kiss to Renly’s shoulder. His eyes were soft, but something gnawed at the edge of them—uncertainty, guilt, the weight of a raven left unanswered.

Renly shifted to face him, brushing a damp strand of hair from the knight’s brow. “And I’ll stand with you. No matter what madness rides out of Dorne or the Reach.”

They lay close, hearts steadying, the storm beyond their walls nothing more than distant thunder. Loras closed his eyes, resting his head against Renly’s chest.

Then the earth trembled.

A low, thunderous boom shook the foundations of the chamber, deep and unnatural, like the roar of gods at war.

Renly sat up at once, blankets falling away. Loras followed, breath catching.

Another blast. Louder. Closer.

Then the horn sounded, sharp, panicked. The horn of Storm’s End had not sounded in earnest in a generation.

They scrambled to their feet, pulling on tunics and armor in a flurry of motion. Outside, the night screamed. Distant cries rose over the wind, men shouting, horses breaking, something vast and monstrous thundering against the very walls of the keep.

Renly’s swordbelt snapped tight around his hips. He turned to Loras, who had already fastened his breastplate.

Renly turned at the threshold, his hand catching Loras’s wrist.

For a heartbeat, the world held still , no horns, no thunder, no fire beyond the walls.

He leaned in, sharing one last kiss. It was not frantic, nor full of fire, but something gentler. A promise. A goodbye wrapped in silence.

When they parted, Loras's eyes burned, but he said nothing.

Neither did Renly.

They donned their helms and vanished into the stone corridors of Storm’s End, two knights, two lovers, walking toward the storm.

And together, they ran from the chamber into the dark belly of the castle, where war waited.

The Charge

From the battlements, smoke still curled where dragonflame had licked the stones. The outer field had become a funeral pyre, five thousand men gone in moments, their screams lost to the roar of wings.

But the moment the gates of Storm’s End fell, wrenched from their hinges by draconic tails and sundered by fire, the horns sounded.

And the Reach and Dorne charged.

Ser Garlan Tyrell led the first line, his sword raised high as the banners of Highgarden streamed behind him. Ser Baelor Hightower flanked him, his white-gold armor gleaming through the smoke. The Dornish came from the flanks, sun-and-spear banners aloft, their horses dancing across broken ground.

From the heights, the Targaryen banners waved the signal.

"For House Tyrell!" Garlan roared.

"For Dorne!" cried Prince Oberyn, riding ahead of his spearmen.

The battered remnants of the Stormlands army rallied beneath Renly’s banner, but their formation was scattered. Panic still gripped many from the dragonfire, and thousands had already broken and fled.

Those who stood met the full fury of the South.

Lord Beric Dondarrion, his blade flaming, carved through a line of footmen before being surrounded and pulled from his horse by Mace’s bannermen.

Thoros of Myr swung a morningstar wildly, blood streaming down his face. He screamed prayers to R’hllor before being overwhelmed beneath a tide of Hightower shields.

Ser Donnel Swann fought like a whirlwind, cutting down two spearmen before his leg was taken from under him. He fell, roaring, and was dragged off the field alive, barely.

Lord Eldon Estermont was pulled from his horse near the burning treeline, trying to rally fleeing men. A Dornish arrow took his shoulder, and he was captured moments later.

But not all would be taken alive.

Smoke clung to the battlefield like a funeral shroud, and through it strode Ser Arthur Dayne, Sword of the Morning.

His white cloak, dirtied with ash and streaked crimson, billowed like a ghost through the haze. He had dismounted after the breach, moving not with the fury of the charge, but with the calm of a man who knew the outcome was already written. Dawn, the legendary sword of House Dayne, was in his grip, gleaming pale as moonlight, a star reborn in his hands.

He cut a path through the disoriented defenders who remained, Stormlords who had survived the dragonfire, only to face the wrath of steel.

At the shattered line near the rear of the field, a group of knights rallied around a single banner, the red on white griffin of House Connington. And at its heart stood Ser Ronnet Connington, proud and furious, blood on his brow, his longsword clutched in both hands.

He saw the white cloak approaching through the mist and stepped forward, shoving a wounded man aside.

“You,” Ronnet snarled. “The Sword of the Morning. You should be bones by now, rotting beside Elia and her brats.”

Arthur halted, face unreadable. His voice was calm, but cut like ice. “Say her name again, and I’ll carve it into your chest before I open it.”

Ronnet laughed, bitter and bold. “You think dragonfire makes you kings? My sword will see you back to the grave you climbed out of. My cousin was besotted with the dragons, and it led to our ruin.”

The two knights circled as the chaos swirled around them, men shouting, steel clashing, fires still flickering across the scorched field. But here, in the eye of it all, it was quiet.

Ronnet struck first, a brutal overhead slash. Arthur caught it with Dawn, parried, twisted and the screech of metal rang out like thunder. Ronnet backed away, breathing hard, but Arthur didn’t follow. He waited.

Ronnet came again, faster this time. Two slashes, a thrust. Arthur blocked all three with elegant precision, turning his body at the last second, his footwork a dance, measured, deadly.

Then Arthur moved.

One step forward. A shoulder feint. A swift cut, too fast for Ronnet to block.

The edge of Dawn scored across Ronnet’s pauldron, slicing leather and drawing blood. Ronnet cursed and staggered back, clutching his shoulder. But he didn’t yield.

“I won’t fall to a ghost,” he spat.

“You already have,” Arthur said.

Ronnet charged, desperation in his strike, his fury plain. Arthur sidestepped and brought Dawn around in a wide arc.

The blade sang.

Ser Ronnet Connington spun with the impact, a deep slash carved from hip to spine. He dropped to one knee, gasping and Arthur struck again, a clean, final stroke across the throat.

Ronnet crumpled at the foot of his broken banner, blood blooming black in the dirt.

Arthur exhaled once. The duel had lasted less than a minute.

All around him, Stormland soldiers who had seen the fight began to throw down their weapons, their courage dying with their champion. Panic rippled outward like cracks in a frozen lake.

The white knight stepped forward, lifted Dawn high, discolored with crimson and the signal was clear.

The rear line had broken.

The Dornish Charge

The shattered gates of Storm’s End loomed ahead, half-wreathed in firelight, half-swallowed in shadow. Blackened timbers hung loose from bent iron, still smoldering from the dragons’ fury.

Prince Oberyn Martell rode at the head of the Dornish vanguard, his crimson cloak billowing like a banner of vengeance. Sun-and-spear banners flanked him on either side, carried by men whose voices cried out for Elia, for Dorne, for the fire that now rode with them.

Gerold Dayne, the Darkstar was silent beside him, the edge of his blade still dripping from the last knight who had dared stand in their way. Oberyn cast him a look, cool, calculating, but said nothing. He smiled at the cousin of the Sword of the Morning.

“Break them,” Oberyn roared. “No mercy for traitors. Storm’s End falls tonight!”

The Dornish lines surged forward, crashing into the remnants of the Stormlands host like a wave of flame and iron. Spears split shields. Swords sang. Horses screamed. Oberyn leapt from the saddle as they reached the gate, his spear already whirling in his hand like a storm given flesh.

He darted through the crush of men, his armor glinting red in the firelight, light and fast and deadly.

Ahead, standing atop the broken stair at the base of the gate, was Ser Cortnay Penrose. His mail was scorched, his surcoat torn, but his grip on his sword was steady.

Penrose stood defiant at the base of the shattered stair, battered but unbowed, sword raised with both hands.

“You’ll find no surrender here,” he spat, voice hoarse with fury. “This castle stood against your kind before. It will again.”

Oberyn chuckled darkly, twirling his spear in a lazy, taunting circle. “Your castle stood against a fat, pampered man who feasted outside your walls. It falls now to dragons and vengeance.”

With a roar, Penrose charged, blade flashing in the firelight. Steel met spear in a ringing clash. Oberyn spun to the side, graceful and lethal, parrying with the shaft and striking with the butt. Penrose recovered quickly, driving forward again with heavy, relentless blows.

“You Dornish think yourselves kingslayers now?” Penrose snarled through clenched teeth, circling warily. “You butchered one brother already, Stannis was worth ten of you.”

Oberyn’s eyes glittered with lethal amusement. “And he fell just as easily as you!”

With that, he lunged, his spear a flash of silver in the firelight, spinning low then high, feinting once, twice. Penrose parried the first strike but not the second. The butt of the spear slammed into his jaw, staggering him. Blood flew.

He made a desperate attempt and swung high, Oberyn ducked low. The Red Viper was everywhere and nowhere at once, darting, spinning, the sand and sun made flesh.

Penrose lunged. Oberyn slid inside the strike, elbowed the knight in the throat, and swept his spear low, catching him behind the knee.

Penrose staggered, fell to one knee.

“You fight well,” Oberyn said, circling. “But you serve a dying name. And you die for nothing.”

Penrose hurled himself up one last time. Oberyn drove the spear forward in one clean thrust, piercing the ring of mail beneath the arm. Ser Cortnay Penrose let out a sharp breath as the blade found his heart.

Oberyn leaned in close, voice low.

“This is vengeance, ser. Fifteen years in the making.”

He ripped the spear free.

Penrose crumpled at his feet.

Behind him, the gate of Storm’s End groaned as the Dornish vanguard poured through, chanting the name of their prince.

Storm’s End had held once before.

But not against dragons.

And not against the Red Viper.

The Breach

The steel gates of Storm’s End lay twisted and broken, bent inward like a smith’s half-finished work. Smoke curled from their remains, hot and bitter, and the cries of dying men echoed across the blackened stones.

Rhaenar Targaryen landed first.

Vhagar’s wings kicked up a gale of ash and cinders as she alighted atop the gatehouse, roaring defiance to the moon-swept sky. Rhaenar leapt down into the chaos, his crimson-black armor scorched at the edges, his longsword hewed through the first wave of defenders without slowing. A Baratheon spearman lunged, Rhaenar sidestepped, parried, and drove steel through the man’s throat. He moved like fire given form, fluid, fast, merciless.

Beside him came Ser Arthur Dayne.

Dawn gleamed like a fallen star in the smoke-hazed dark. The Sword of the Morning fought in eerie silence, his white cloak stained with ash, his violet eyes cold and steady. A knight of fable cutting through a world of blood. His sword danced in wide, perfect arcs, one blow split shield and arm; another, helm and skull.

From above, Balerion screamed.

Daenerys flew low over the wall and landed with precision, her black armor gleaming in the moonlight. She dismounted only long enough to drop Ser Barristan Selmy into the heart of the fray. The old knight, white cloak flaring behind him, saluted her once.

Then Daenerys turned and leapt back onto her dragon.

Balerion beat his wings and soared into the night, vanishing into the clouds, the Queen of Dragonstone once more above the battlefield, watching from flame and fury.

Below, the courtyard burned.

Barristan joined Rhaenar and Arthur without a word, his blade already red, his movements economical, lethal. Three warriors, each of legend, fought as one, a hammerfall of vengeance and steel. They carved through the Baratheon defenders, who fled or fell in desperation. Smoke choked the air. Fire danced on the stone. The ground ran slick with blood.

Storm’s End trembled.

The dragonlords had come.
And there would be no mercy.

The Sword in the Storm

The world returned in pieces, shards of light and thunder, blurred faces shouting in tongues she could not parse. Her head throbbed with each heartbeat, and there was blood in her mouth. Stone dust caked her cheeks. The last thing she remembered was fire, white and gold flame that tore through men like like the morning tide and the gates of Storm's End screaming as they shattered inward.

She sat up slowly, her ears ringing, her limbs heavy. The courtyard was chaos. Stormlords and Reach knights battled in the shadow of the inner keep. Smoke twisted through the air, and blood painted the stones.

And then she saw him.

He strode through the breach like something from a forgotten age, tall, cloaked in black and red. His armor gleamed in the torchlight, forged of obsidian-hued steel, every plate sculpted to intimidate. Rubies adorned his breastplate, shaping the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, each head snarling toward the storm. His helm, gleaming black with a crown of horns, was shaped like a dragon’s skull, and from its maw, the visor glinted red.

The Targaryen King.

Brienne’s breath caught. That armor… there was no mistaking him. This must be Viserys.

She rose, one knee buckling briefly beneath her, and took her sword from the rubble beside her. A knight of the realm was taught to fight for family, for honor, for country. But here was a chance to end a war with one stroke.

No hesitation.

She charged.

He turned at the sound of her boots scraping across stone and raised no blade. But another man did.

Steel flashed, a pale arc of moonlight in a world of fire.

Dawn.

It caught her strike before it could land. Her sword rebounded with a force that numbed her shoulder. Brienne stumbled back.

The man before her was cloaked in white. His eyes were solemn. His blade was ancient. Ser Arthur Dayne.

She didn’t speak. She attacked again.

It was like dueling a god.

Dawn danced through the smoke, never striking without cause, never yielding. Brienne’s breath came fast, her arms burning as she tried to match his rhythm, but it was like trying to cage the wind with a wooden fence. He moved with grace and precision that belied his strength, parrying, countering and slipping each blow as if the Gods warned him where she would strike.

Steel sang.

Their blades clashed again and again, and then her sword flew from her hands.

She gasped. Her arms trembled. Before she could react, the pommel of Dawn tapped the side of her helm, not with enough force to kill, but enough to send stars bursting behind her eyes and her helm flying.

She crumpled to one knee.

Through her fading vision, she saw him pause above her, blade held at his side, not raised for the killing stroke.

"You fought well," Ser Arthur Dayne said quietly. “As well as any man I’ve faced.”

Then the world went dark once more.

The Knight of Flowers

The screams of dying men filled the air like music from some hellish choir. Fire crackled in the distance, smoke curling up through shattered towers. The castle shook under the force of falling rubble, and Loras Tyrell sprinted through the chaos with his blade drawn.

His heart thundered as he exited the Keep. Brienne was dueling a tall man in pale armor, elegant and deadly. Ser Arthur Dayne. It had to be. Dawn flashed like moonlight made solid. She was holding her own, but barely.

To the left, Ser Barristan Selmy clashed with three Stormlanders, his white cloak in tatters, blade moving like a whisper of history. Loras wanted to help. Wanted to protect his friends. But his eyes found someone else.

A figure in black.

Midst the ruin, the man walked like vengeance made flesh, black armor polished to a mirror’s gleam, edged in red, the three-headed dragon carved across his chest in rubies. His helm was shaped like a dragon’s maw, fanged and snarling, and it turned to face Loras like it had scent-tracked him through the storm.

Viserys. It had to be. Who else would wear that helm?

"You!" Loras shouted, his voice hoarse with rage, grief, disbelief. "This is your doing!"

The black-clad warrior turned, sword already drawn, as if expecting him.

Loras charged.

Steel met steel in a clash that sent sparks flying. Their blades rang off one another again and again, Loras nimble and practiced, but his opponent? He moved like a phantom, every stroke precise, fluid, devastating. He wasn’t just fast. He was impossibly fast.

Loras’s pulse spiked. The man fought like he had been forged in war. Raised on battlefields. Bred in fire.

“You fight like you were born to it,” Loras gasped, dodging a vicious slash. “But, I will kill you Viserys.”

“You will try,” the man said coldly.

Their swords locked again. Loras pressed forward, trying to overpower him with sheer strength, but the black knight twisted, rolled his shoulder, and disarmed him in one fluid motion. Loras stumbled, caught his balance, barely and stared into the dragon-helm that loomed over him.

The dragon knight tilted his head.

“I cannot kill you,” he said, voice low. “Not when your sister will soon join my family.”

Loras’s eyes widened in horror. “What?”

The warrior raised his hands to his helm.

“No…” Loras whispered, as the helm came free.

Dark hair spilled out, damp with sweat. Grey eyes, not purple. Steel, not flame.

“I am not Viserys,” said the man. “I am Rhaenar Targaryen. Son of Rhaegar. Blood of Lyanna Stark. King of Dragonstone… and soon, of Westeros.”

Loras’s heart thudded in disbelief. “They betrayed me,” he murmured. “to make Margaery Queen.”

“No,” Rhaenar said softly. “But one day, her daughter may be Queen.”

Loras tried to rise.

Rhaenar struck with the pommel of his sword, swift, clean.

The Knight of Flowers crumpled to the stones, unconscious before he hit the ground.

Rhaenar stood over him a moment longer, gaze unreadable, before he turned and strode toward the heart of the keep. The flames danced behind him. The dragon had claimed Storm’s End.

The Last Stand

The main hall of Storm’s End was a ruin of smoke and blood.
Torn tapestries hung in tatters, candelabras lay shattered across the stone floor. Edric crouched behind an overturned table, a sword clutched tight in his shaking hands, brave, but too young.

Above the dais, the great carved stag of House Baratheon still stood, proud and unmoving, its dark eyes fixed upon the chaos below, as if bearing silent witness to the fall of its house.Renly’s sword was slick in his grip. His once-golden armor was scratched, dented, bloodied. Half a dozen Stormlords lay dead around him. More had fled. A few still fought, but they would not last long.

The castle had fallen.

He could hear the clatter of boots in the halls, the roar of distant flames, the groans of the wounded. Somewhere behind him, a knight cried out as steel struck bone.

Renly clenched his jaw and turned toward the great doors of the hall...

They opened.

The air turned colder.

Through the smoke strode three men. No, three legends.

Ser Arthur Dayne. Pale cloak, sword already blooded. A ghost in white steel.

Ser Barristan Selmy, The Bold

And between them… the Dragon.

Clad in black armor chased with red, his chestplate adorned with a three-headed dragon wrought of rubies. His helm, a dragon’s snarling maw, was tucked beneath one arm. His face was young, far too young. But his eyes…

His eyes.

Renly’s breath caught in his throat.

Those eyes were not royal purple. They were grey. Stark grey. Familiar as winter.

No. Not Rhaegar. Not Viserys. Not even Daemon Blackfyre. This...

Who the hell is he?

Renly didn’t wait for an answer.

With a roar, he charged.

He would not be remembered as the lord who bowed. He would die with sword in hand, for Robert, for Storm’s End, for the family that had ruled from these stones since Argilac’s fall.

But he barely made it five steps.

Barristan moved like a tide. The flat of his blade struck Renly’s sword with such force it flew from his hand. Another blow to the breastplate sent him stumbling back, winded.

He fell to his knees.

Coughing. Breathless. Defeated.

The King stepped forward.

He did not raise his sword. He did not gloat.

He only looked.

Those grey eyes met Renly’s.

And for a moment, Renly could not speak.

The face was Targaryen, but the soul behind it?

It was like looking at Eddard Stark.

At the man who had ridden beside Robert at the Trident. The man Robert had trusted above all others. The man whose silence weighed more than a thousand oaths.

“Who are you…” Renly whispered.

The mysterious Targaryen said nothing. He only turned to Ser Barristan.

“Take him alive.”

Then he turned, his cloak sweeping behind him, and walked toward the broken throne of Storm’s End.

Renly knelt in silence.

The stag had fallen. And the dragon had come again.

Chapter Text

The courtyard of Storm’s End still smoldered.

Ash clung to shattered stones. Smoke curled from broken walls. The once-impenetrable gate now lay in twisted ruin, blackened by dragonfire and pried apart like splintered bark beneath the weight of tails and fury. The banners of House Baratheon, golden stags on fields of storm-wrought black, hung charred and torn, stripped from the ramparts and left to rot in the muddy blood-soaked yard.

Rhaenar Targaryen stood in the heart of it all, helm beneath one arm, his black-and-red armor streaked with soot and blood, but unbowed.

Victory.
But not without cost.

He looked skyward as the smoke parted, catching the distant shimmer of wings against the morning haze. Vhagar, already circling again. Her roars had quieted the stormlords. Had broken their lines. She was still restless. They all were.

A flutter of movement caught his eye. Daenerys emerged from the gatehouse where wounded were being tended. She had shed her armor and replaced it with a light cloak of grey and crimson. A smear of ash crossed her cheek, and her silver hair clung damp to her neck, but her eyes were fierce and bright. She moved like flame, elegant, alive, relentless.

He crossed to her quickly.

"You're unhurt?" he asked.

She gave him a small smile. “A little singed, but better than most.”

Rhaenar brushed a strand of hair from her face, searching her for wounds. “You should not have flown so low.”

She tilted her head. “You told me once that dragons do not conquer from above alone. They must descend. Claim the ground. Burn it if they must.”

He smiled despite himself. “That sounds like something Arthur would say.”

“Or you,” she said, reaching to lace her fingers in his. “The Targaryen blood burns in me, Rhaenar. I am not afraid.”

He kissed her brow, gentle despite the chaos that lingered all around them. “You’ve always been a dragon. Now the realm knows it.”

A shadow passed across the cobbled yard. Viserys approached, brushing soot from his scorched cloak. His white-and-gold dragon, Shrykos, had landed not long before with a shriek that echoed across the bay. Viserys looked weary, his golden-white hair streaked with ash, but his step was steady.

“The field is ours,” he said simply.

Rhaenar clasped his uncle’s arm. “Well flown. The realm will not forget what we unleashed here.”

Viserys smirked. “Let them whisper. Let them fear. It’s long overdue.”

Together, they turned toward the castle where their captains and lords had begun gathering. Ser Arthur Dayne, ever vigilant, stood speaking with Prince Oberyn and Lord Mace Tyrell near the broken portcullis. Ser Barristan stood nearby, flanked by Ser Garlen and Lord Randall Tarly.

Rhaenar’s eyes swept the courtyard, noting captured knights being bound, wounded stormlanders carried to the rear, and the remnants of a great resistance now scattered.

He stepped forward.

“Gather the lords,” he commanded. “Tonight we feast. Tomorrow, we march.”

Oberyn looked over his shoulder. “And the prisoners?”

“Bring them to the Great Hall,” Rhaenar said. “Renly. Loras. All of them. They will face my justice and my mercy.”

Arthur gave a nod. “As you command, Your Grace.”

Rhaenar turned back to his queen and his kin, his voice quiet but resolute.

“We’ve broken the storm,” he said. “Now we ride the winds to Duskendale.”

And as his words faded, a distant rumble echoed from the sea, thunder, or dragon.

It no longer mattered. The realm was watching now.

And the dragons were no longer in hiding.

War Council in the Hall of the Stag

The Great Hall of Storm’s End had once held the weight of Baratheon thunder, now it bore only silence and smoke.

The stags had been torn down. The long banner above the high seat, black with the crowned gold stag of House Baratheon, lay in a heap upon the dais. Only the stone antlers carved above the throne remained, cracked and scorched by heat.

Rhaenar Targaryen stood at the head of the war table, where once Robert Baratheon had toasted victories and roared his songs. The table was now surrounded by new voices, dragons, roses, and sun-spears.

Daenerys stood to his left, resplendent in her traveling cloak of grey and crimson, her eyes fierce. To his right, Viserys leaned on the edge of the map table, a goblet of wine untouched in his hand. Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Barristan Selmy stood at the rear, flanking the throne itself like alabaster shadows.

Around the map stood the great lords of the South:
-Prince Oberyn Martell, still bearing the dust of battle, his gaze like wildfire.
-Lord Paxter Redwyne, sea-hardened and calm.
-Ser Baelor Hightower, ever silent, his armor polished bright.
-Lord Randyll Tarly, iron-jawed and tense, fingers tapping the pommel of his valryian steel sword, Heartsbane.
-Lord Garlan Tyrell, regal and composed.
-Lord Jon Fossoway, eyes flicking between each voice.
-Lord Edric Dayne, youngest among them, pale but proud, and next to him, Ser Gerold Dayne.
And several lesser lords of the Reach and Dorne, still bloodstained from the fight, but upright and alert, stood around the table. Their cloaks were torn, their helms held under arms, soot smudging their faces. Yet their eyes were clear, and their ears keen. They had survived dragons and weathered the storm, and now waited for the next order.

Rhaenar placed both hands on the table.

The map of Westeros lay beneath him, paint faded, edges charred in places. Carved stags still marked Harrenhal. Trout lingered at Riverrun. But now, newly placed, were three dragon tokens set at Storm’s End. One white, one black, one green.

“Storm’s End is ours,” Rhaenar said, his voice low, steady. “But the war is not won.”

He raised his eyes to the gathered lords.

“How many prisoners? How many slain?”

Ser Baelor Hightower was the first to answer, brushing soot from his surcoat.

“Seventeen thousand Stormlanders dead in the field, some minor lords included,” the knight reported grimly. “Five thousand more taken captive, lords and knights of standing among them.” He paused. “Renly Baratheon is among the captured. Wounded, but alive. Ser Cortnay Penrose and Lord Eldon Estermont are dead. Lord Beric Dondarrion was taken alive. Thoros of Myr as well.”

Oberyn Martell stepped forward next, his spear still notched at his back, his armor cracked at the shoulder. “We lost close to two thousand, Dornish and Reachmen both. The dragons spared us more.”

He gestured toward the map. “The enemy outside the castle was routed. But there are pockets of resistance still scattered throughout the Stormlands. Ravens have flown. Some will yield. Others may not.”

Garlan Tyrell spoke, standing tall despite a fresh bandage at his jaw. “Lord Swann was wounded and taken alive. Ser Ronnet Connington... is dead. Ser Donnel Swann was pulled from the battlefield. He may live.”

“And Loras?” Rhaenar asked.

Garlan hesitated. “Unconscious. Not badly wounded. But… shaken.”

Rhaenar nodded slowly, his eyes drifting to the stag marker still planted at King’s Landing.

Viserys stood at the far side of the room, his arms crossed. “We should press the advantage. The Baratheons are broken. The Stormlords will scatter like frightened crows.”

“And leave the Rock at our back?” said Lord Tarly, voice like flint. “The West still fields forty thousand men. Even caged, Tywin Lannister casts a long shadow.”

Rhaenar said nothing for a moment.

Then he reached forward and moved the dragon marker, towards The Gods Eye.

He looked around the table, his grey eyes meeting each lord in turn. “Robert Baratheon gathers his strength at Harrenhal. The North marches to join him. And while Tywin Lannister has not yet struck, we all know he watches from the shadows, sharpening his teeth.”

“They’ll expect us to strike at King’s Landing,” said Oberyn. “Now that the South is open.”

Viserys leaned forward. “So we don’t. We bleed them elsewhere.”

“Good. Ser Gerold and five hundred men remain to hold Storm’s End,” Rhaenar said. “If Robert turns south, he’ll find a garrison waiting. The rest of our forces converge on Duskendale. It’s close enough to strike the Crownlands, and far enough to keep Robert  guessing.”

“Duskendale will give us a port to cut off the Gullet from the west,” said Garlan. “And if the Velaryon fleet pushes in from the east,  we can blockade the capital.”

“It also lets us draw the Baratheon forces east,” said Viserys. “Away from Harrenhal. Away from their strength.”

“The field is shifting,” Daenerys said, glancing toward the Blackwater on the map. “Let the usurper see dragons closing in from the coast. Let him fear shadows that do not yet strike.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Lord Randyll Tarly stepped forward, ever the blunt hammer. His armor was still scratched with soot, his brow lined with contempt for anything soft or slow.

“We’ve broken one line,” he said gruffly. “But Harrenhal is no Storm’s End. It’s in the riverlands. Closer to the North. He’ll have more men. Better terrain.”

He leaned on the edge of the table, the carved stag at Harrenhal directly beneath his gauntleted hand.

“Robert Baratheon fights with a fury, but he thinks like a soldier. He’ll dig in, use the lake, the woods, the roads. If he sees us coming, he’ll make us bleed.”

Rhaenar nodded once, then pointed to the marker at Storm’s End and traced a path along the painted coast with his finger, northward, toward Duskendale and the Kingsroad.

“Which is why with speed,” Rhaenar said, voice calm but edged with steel, “we can trap him before he knows he’s in a war he’s already lost. Once we reach Duskendale, we send ravens announcing the fall of Storm’s End. The moment the capital hears, they’ll assume we march on King’s Landing. So will he.”

He tapped the space beside the Gods Eye, just north of the old woods and south of Harrenhal.

“They’ll act on old information, not knowing our true heading. Robert will rush south to defend the city, believing the dragons aim for the throne.”

A smile touched his lips, cold and without mirth.

“And when he does… we strike. On open ground. No walls. No high towers. Just banners and blood.”

Ser Arthur stepped forward then, his white cloak trailing behind him.

“And no stone to cower behind,” he said quietly. “Only tents and arrogance.”

Lord Randyll gave him an approving nod. “That’s a fight we can win.”

Rhaenar straightened.

“And must win. If Robert falls, the rest will follow. The Freys will kneel. The Riverlords will splinter. And the North will be faced with a choice. Blood or honor.”

The fire snapped in the hearth. The storm was gone, but war had only begun.

Rhaenar’s voice was quiet, but it cut through the chamber like steel.
“Let Robert come. Let him believe this was our grand stroke. When he looks south, he’ll see smoke. When he looks east, he’ll see sails. But when we strike next, it will be with the full fury of fire and blood.”

The hall was silent.

Then Prince Oberyn raised his goblet.

“To the Demon of the Trident,” he said. “We’ll break him too.”

One by one, the lords echoed him.
“To the King.”

Rhaenar looked to his Queen. She smiled faintly, her eyes bright with pride.

He let the words settle like ash across the chamber.
He looked up, eyes sweeping across the gathered lords, flames glinting off his black-enameled armor.

“Screen our march well. I want no ravens from these shores. Robert must not know where we strike until the dragons are already upon him. He thinks to meet us in the open field.”
He allowed himself the faintest smile.
“Let him. He’s marching into the dragon’s teeth, sharp, and ready to end his reign.”

A beat of silence. Then Rhaenar’s voice lowered, iron beneath silk.

“Then… only ashes will separate us from the Iron Throne.”

He straightened, closing the distance between command and commandment.

“Ready your men. Pack the wounded, count your dead. Send word down the coasts, Redwyne ships are to begin the ferrying from Griffin’s Roost at dawn. Duskendale must be ours within the week.”

He met each of them in turn, Oberyn’s fire, Garlan’s poise, Tarly’s grim nod, and Viserys’s steady pride.

“Get a good night’s rest, my lords,” he said, his tone final.
“We strike hard tomorrow. Speed will win us this war faster than steel. And I do not intend to give Robert Baratheon the luxury of a second breath.”

As the lords left to begin their duties, Rhaenar turned to Ser Barristan, “Bring in the prisoners.”

The Fate of the Fallen

The storm had passed, but the air in the great hall of Storm’s End still crackled with tension. The black and red banner of House Targaryen now hung behind the high seat, covering the antlered stag. Soot streaked the stones, and smoke from still-burning debris lingered faintly in the air.

Rhaenar Targaryen stood before the throne, his black armor dulled by ash and blood. At his side stood Daenerys, serene and silent, and Viserys, his silver hair pulled back, a golden chain marking his status as heir and Hand. Behind them were Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Barristan Selmy, silent sentinels.

Before them knelt the captured knights and lords of the Stormlands.

Loras Tyrell stood with his head bowed. His face was bruised, but defiant. Beside him, Ser Donnel Swann and Lord Eldon Estermont were grim-faced but silent. Thoros of Myr leaned heavily on a cane, his forehead still bleeding. Lord Beric Dondarrion stared straight ahead, eyes hollow.

Renly Baratheon, disarmed and shackled, remained silent on a bench to the side, guarded closely. His green cloak was torn, his pride fraying with it.

Lord Mace Tyrell stood before the dais, red-faced from exertion and shame. But when he spoke, his voice was steady.

“Your Grace,” he said to Rhaenar, bowing low, “I come not as a Lord, but as a father. I beg mercy, for my son.”

His voice cracked on the last word, and he cast a glance at Loras.

“He is young. Proud. But his sword is no longer raised against you. Let him live. Let him serve.”

Rhaenar studied Loras. His grey eyes, as cold as the sea outside, held no hate.

“Your son fought fiercely,” Rhaenar said. “But he did not die with the rest. And that means he must now live wisely.”

Loras raised his chin, bruised pride clinging like battered armor.
“I ask no mercy for myself, only for Lord Renly. He stood for his brother. He did what honor demanded. Spare him.”

Rhaenar’s gaze shifted to Renly, slumped, sullen, silent.

“Renly Baratheon’s fate,” he said at last, “belongs to his brother.”
He looked to Loras once more.
“For his sake… I hope Robert chooses wisely.”

Loras said nothing, but a slow breath left him, half-gratitude, half-despair.

Rhaenar rose slowly.

“Lord Beric. Thoros of Myr. You fought well. Loyal to your liege. But the war is not yet over. You fought for Robert. What say you now, with his youngest brother in chains?”

Beric looked up at the Dragon King, then to his ruined men behind him. His voice was low but clear.

“I fought for the realm,” he said. “For peace. For duty.”
He knelt. “And I’ll fight for it still, if you will have my sword.”

Thoros said nothing for a long breath. Then he stepped forward, eyes never leaving Rhaenar’s.

“I’ve seen you,” Thoros said softly. “In the flames.”

Murmurs stirred in the chamber, but Rhaenar did not flinch. His steel-grey eyes met the red priest’s gaze without blinking.

“You stood before a wall of ice. Cold that burns. Shadows that wear the faces of the dead. You were fire, but not fire alone. You were the Dawn.”

Viserys’s brow furrowed. Daenerys said nothing.

“I saw you,” Thoros repeated, louder now. “The prince who was promised. The flame reborn. And the sword that would break the long night.”

Rhaenar’s jaw tightened, but he did not speak. Not yet.

Thoros knelt beside Beric.

“I bend the knee not for dreams. But for what I’ve seen. Because the flames show me truth. And you, Rhaenar Targaryen, are the fire that will not be extinguished. I swear it by R’hllor, the Lord of Light.”

Silence followed.

Then Rhaenar spoke, his voice measured, but touched with something deeper.

“I do not know if I am this prince. I do not claim the favor of gods.”
He looked down at them both. “But I will end this war. I will burn the rot from the realm. And if the cold you speak of comes…”
He paused. “…then I will meet it with fire. With blood. And with the swords of Westeros.”

He extended his hand.

“Rise, then. Lord Beric. Thoros of Myr. Stand and serve the crown reborn.”

The two men rose.

Beric gave a tight nod. Thoros only smiled faintly, his eyes still dancing with unseen fire.

Then Rhaenar turned toward Brienne of Tarth.

She stood between two guards, her jaw bruised, her shoulder wrapped in a bloodstained bandage. But her eyes were steady as they met his.

“Lady Brienne,” Rhaenar said. “You fought with honor… but for the wrong side.”

He was about to pass sentence, likely captivity, perhaps worse, when Ser Arthur Dayne stepped forward.

“Your Grace,” he said calmly, but with conviction. “Hear me.”

Rhaenar nodded once.

Arthur turned to Brienne.

“She fought me blade for blade,” he said, and even Ser Barristan lifted an eyebrow at the compliment. “There is rare steel in this woman and rarer loyalty. We are short two Kingsguard. Ser Gerold and Ser Oswell are at Duskendale, Aurane remains at Dragonstone protecting your grandmother. We need more than swords. We need strength. And she is that.”

Brienne blinked in astonishment.
“I am no knight,” she said hoarsely.

“Then bend the knee,” Arthur said gently. “Not as a knight of the Kingsguard, but as a sworn sword to Her Grace, Queen Daenerys. Serve her. Protect her. Show the realm what honor truly looks like.”

Brienne hesitated.

Then she dropped to one knee before Daenerys.

“My sword is yours, Your Grace. If you’ll have it.”

Daenerys stepped forward, her silver braid gleaming. She reached out and laid a hand upon Brienne’s shoulder.

“Rise, Lady Brienne of Tarth. And serve.”

Brienne rose, taller than most men, towering even over Daenerys, but her voice was low as she said:

“I will. Until death takes me, or your enemies do.”

A ripple passed through the room. Rhaenar looked to Arthur, gave a slight nod of approval, and then returned his gaze to the map beside the throne.

“Then let it be done.”

He turned to Mace Tyrell.
“Loras will return with you, to Highgarden. He is not our prisoner. But he is not yet forgiven. He must prove himself loyal.”

Mace bowed again, relief flooding his face.

“You have my thanks, Your Grace. And my allegiance.”

They brought in a boy, young, defiant, and proud. His hair was coal black, his eyes an icy blue, sharp with fury and fear. He looked so much like Renly that for a moment, even Rhaenar paused.

“Who is this?” he asked, voice low.

“King Robert’s bastard,” Thoros replied solemnly. “Edric Storm.”

The boy lifted his chin. “I will never kneel to the dragon,” he spat. “My father will crush you, just as he crushed your father.”

A ripple of silence passed through the room.

Rhaenar’s smirk was cold.

He turned to Thoros. “You spoke of fire. But what of ice? That vision you mentioned, the wall of ice. Do you think it could be the Wall?”

Thoros hesitated, then nodded. “Yes, Your Grace. I believe so. North of the world. Far older than kings and thrones. There is darkness rising there, the flames have shown it.”

Rhaenar turned back to Edric.

“So you won’t kneel.”

The boy’s glare was answer enough.

“Then I have no choice but to sentence you to the Night’s Watch,” Rhaenar said, tone even. “After I’ve taken King’s Landing, I imagine you’ll have good company, lords and sons too proud to bend the knee.”

He stepped closer, until Edric had to look up to meet his gaze.

“And if Thoros is right,” he added, “the Wall will need every sword it can get.”

He turned to the guards.

“Confine him to quarters. He leaves when the throne is mine.”

Edric didn’t speak again, but his fists clenched as he was led away, another boy of storm and pride, now cast into the snow.

As the lords and prisoners were escorted out, and the room began to clear, Rhaenar stepped down from the dais and joined Arthur and Daenerys.

“The pride of these stags is exhausting,” Rhaenar murmured, watching Edric Storm disappear through the doorway.

Ser Arthur Dayne stood beside him, arms crossed, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

“Heavy is the crown, Your Grace,” he said lightly. “Heavier still when worn among antlers.”

Rhaenar gave a dry chuckle, but his eyes stayed hard. “Then it’s time we snap the last of them.”

A Sword and a Son

Evening settled gently over Storm’s End, the sky bleeding into soft hues of lavender and gold. The storm had passed, leaving the sea quiet, the surf below murmuring against the cliffs like a lullaby for the dead.

Rhaenar Targaryen walked the outer battlements alone, the wind teasing at his black cloak, the ruby dragon on his breastplate catching the dying light. He had removed his helm. Salt spray clung to his damp hair, and though the battle had been won, a heaviness lingered in his bones. Victory did not erase the cost.

Footsteps sounded behind him, measured, familiar.

Ser Arthur Dayne joined him in silence, arms crossed behind his back. The Sword of the Morning wore no helm now either. His pale violet eyes scanned the horizon, then turned to his king, his pupil, his heir in more ways than one.

For a while, neither spoke. The wind spoke for them.

Then Arthur said, quietly, “You fought like a Targaryen today.”

Rhaenar gave a faint huff of breath, more tired than amused.

“I am a Targaryen.”

Arthur’s mouth twitched. “Not for your name. For your blood. Your restraint. You fought with command, not rage. That’s rare in a king. Rarer still in a dragon.”

Rhaenar glanced sideways at him. “You taught me that.”

Arthur exhaled slowly, looking out across the field where tents of the Reach and Dorne flapped in the night breeze.

“I taught you to hold a sword,” he said. “What you’ve done with it, that’s you.”

He was silent again, the wind pulling faintly at his white cloak. Dawn was sheathed over his shoulder but ever present, like the man himself.

“I served your father,” he said at last. “I would have died for him. For your mother too. And when you were born… it was like the gods had given us a second chance.”

Rhaenar didn’t respond. He let the words hang in the evening air.

“Rhaegar was the noblest man I ever knew,” Arthur said, voice thickening just slightly. “But he bore the weight of prophecy. He never looked at the world without seeing destiny. You…” He paused. “You see people. You listen.”

Rhaenar’s throat tightened. He looked away.

“He would be proud of you, Rhaenar. I know I am.”

That struck deeper than any sword.

Rhaenar looked down at his gauntlets, at the hands still sore from battle.

“I don’t know if I’m doing this right,” he admitted. “The killing. The threats. The war. I feel like every step forward costs me something I can’t name.”

Arthur gave a slow nod.

“That means you’re still a man,” he said. “Not a tyrant. Not a mad king. Just a man trying to hold a broken realm together without letting it break you.”

They came to the far end of the wall. The sea spread out below them, black and eternal.

“I told myself I’d raise you to be stronger than Rhaegar,” Arthur said. “Not just in battle, but in judgment. I think… I think you’ve already passed him in both.”

Rhaenar’s voice was barely more than a whisper. “You were the father I knew.”

Arthur turned to him, grasping his shoulder.

“Then let me say this as a father: you did well today.”
A beat. “With Thoros. With Brienne, even with Edric. With all of them.”

Rhaenar looked at him. The steel in his eyes softened, just for him.

“I’m glad you’re still here.”

Arthur nodded, eyes never leaving his king’s face.

“And I’ll be here until the throne is yours. And even after, if you’ll have an old sword at your side.”

Rhaenar smiled faintly.

“Always.”

They stood there for a time, no longer commander and sworn sword, but as close as blood. The sea below them, the storm behind them, and the war still ahead.

But for this moment, there was peace.

A Table of Dragons and Roses

The great hall of Storm’s End had known war and siege, but tonight, it held something different. The long oaken table, once carved by shipwrights of old, now bore plates of roasted fowl, honeyed carrots, lemon cakes, and Dornish wine in abundance. Tapestries fluttered in the drafty breeze, but firelight warmed the stone, and laughter, true, tentative laughter, rose beneath the vaulted ceiling.

Rhaenar sat at the head, clad in black and crimson, though his armor had been traded for a high-collared tunic embroidered with a three-headed dragon wrought in ruby thread. To his right sat Daenerys, radiant and sharp-eyed, her silver hair drawn back in a braid bound with sapphire pins. Viserys lounged to Rhaenar’s left, cup in hand, his usual edge dulled by wine and the satisfaction of victory.

Across from them, Ser Garlan Tyrell sat upright in his fresh-plated armor, ever the dutiful knight even in peace. Beside him, Lord Mace tore into a haunch of venison with enthusiasm. And between them, Loras sat stiffly, his plate untouched, his wine barely sipped. He had not removed his sword belt, though he sat among victors.

Conversation meandered from tales of the battle to courtly gossip. Rhaenar laughed softly at Viserys’s gripes about flying in armor, while Daenerys traded sharp-tongued jests with Garlan.

Then Rhaenar turned to Lord Mace.

“I trust your quarters have been made comfortable, Lord Tyrell?”

Mace dabbed his chin with a napkin and smiled. “Comfortable enough, Your Grace. Though I must admit, it’s strange to dine as guests where we once laid siege. Strange... but not unwelcome.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Rhaenar said.

At that, he cast a glance toward Loras, who stiffened slightly.

Rhaenar continued, tone still pleasant. “Which is why I’ve decided to formally confirm the match between your daughter, Lady Margaery, and my uncle, Prince Viserys. Let all of your lords know, that the bond with Rose and Dragon will be bound by blood.”

The hall quieted.

Loras looked up sharply, wine sloshing in his goblet. “What?”

Viserys cleared his throat, setting his cup aside. “The pact was made in Highgarden before Dragonstone fell. Your grandmother sealed it with her word. I am to wed Margaery once we take the capital.”

Loras’s voice dropped. “And she agreed?”

“It was my will, and your grandmothers.” Mace said, not unkindly. “And the will of House Tyrell. It was not meant as an insult. But a bond. A new future.”

Loras looked to Rhaenar, fire simmering beneath his blue eyes. “And is this your idea of mercy? You take my lover captive. You burn my soldiers. You hold my father’s fate in your hands and then you take my sister too?”

Rhaenar’s voice remained calm. “I take nothing. Margaery gains a prince. Viserys gains a wife. You gain peace. And your house will stand at the heart of the new realm we build.”

Daenerys placed a hand gently over Rhaenar’s. “We build it together, Ser Loras. We do not mean to break what’s left of the realm, only to forge it anew.”

Loras looked down, jaw tight. The room held its breath.

Then, slowly, he nodded once.

“I swore to stand by my kin. If my sister is to be wed… then I will stand with my new goodfamily,”

Viserys chuckled. “If she’s anything like you, then I imagine I will have a strong and loyal wife.”

Laughter broke the tension. Mace clapped Garlan on the back. Garlan offered Loras a quiet look—one of understanding, and pride.

Rhaenar lifted his goblet.

“To victory,” he said. “And to the future.”

The others raised their cups.

“To House Targaryen,” said Daenerys.

“To House Tyrell,” Viserys added with a smirk. “Let it bloom in the shadow of dragons.”

The wine flowed, the fire burned, and for a time, beneath the battered roof of Storm’s End, hope took root in the ashes of conquest.

Three Heads of the Dragon

The great hall had quieted. The last of the lords and captains had retired, their armor clinking faintly as they dispersed into the castle’s long corridors. The scent of wine and roast meats lingered in the air, mingling with the sea-salt dampness that always clung to Storm’s End’s stones.

Only three remained at the high table.

Rhaenar, seated at its center, cradled a half-full goblet between his fingers. Daenerys leaned against him, her head resting lightly against his shoulder, silver-gold hair tumbling down her back. Viserys sat across from them, legs stretched, his expression contemplative as he swirled the last of his wine.

“Gods,” Viserys muttered, “that was the strangest dinner I’ve ever attended. A Reach lord begging for mercy, and Loras Tyrell looking like he wanted to kill us all.”

Daenerys snorted softly. “He might’ve tried, if Rhaenar hadn’t been faster.”

Rhaenar’s mouth curved into a faint smile. “He fought well.”

“He fought foolishly,” Viserys countered. “He thought he could take you with a sword and a broken heart.”

“Sometimes,” Rhaenar said, “that’s all a man has left.”

The fire crackled in the hearth. For a while, no one spoke. The wind howled beyond the castle walls, and the waves crashed against the cliffs in endless rhythm.

Viserys lifted his gaze. “Do you think he’ll forgive them? Mace? Garlan?”

Rhaenar shook his head. “That’s not ours to judge. Let the Tyrells sort out their blood between themselves. We’ve given him mercy. What he does with it is his own burden.”

Rhaenar reached for his goblet once more, but before he could lift it, Viserys leaned back in his chair with a sly grin.

“My future goodfamily,” Viserys said with mock reverence, lifting his cup in a lazy salute. “I imagine my wife and I will reside mostly in the Red Keep. I could only endure the Tyrells in… polite servings.”

Daenerys choked on a laugh, covering her mouth with one hand.

Rhaenar chuckled, raising his goblet. “I’ll send you to Highgarden if you ever displease me.”

Viserys smirked. “Then I’ll be sure to keep my tantrums to a minimum. Margaery can handle the court. I’ll handle the wine.”

The three of them laughed, for once without burden.

Daenerys turned slightly in Rhaenar’s arms. “And Renly?”

A long silence.

Rhaenar exhaled slowly. “His fate lies with Robert. I gave him that much. Whether that proves mercy or damnation, we’ll see.”

Viserys leaned forward now, elbows on the table. “You made the right choices tonight. All of them. Even if half the room hated you for it.”

Rhaenar looked at him, and something warm passed between them, acknowledgment, earned respect, kinship stronger than blood.

“I couldn’t have done this without you,” Rhaenar said quietly. “Either of you.”

Daenerys smiled up at him. “You didn’t do it without us.”

Viserys lifted his goblet again. “To House Targaryen. To the King, the Queen… and the Hand.”

Rhaenar chuckled. “You do love your titles.”

“Well, I was denied mine for long enough. I intend to enjoy them now.” He paused, then added with real feeling: “You’ve given us back everything, Rhaenar. Our house. Our name. Our future. I’ll never forget that.”

Daenerys took Rhaenar’s hand in hers. “And soon, we’ll take the rest.”

Rhaenar looked at them both, Daenerys, fierce and full of fire, Viserys, older but unbroken, and somewhere between them, he felt… whole. Not just as a warrior. Not as a king.

But as family.

For a moment, there were no thrones to reclaim, no wars to wage, no shadows waiting on the horizon, only a brother, a sister, a nephew, a husband and wife… family again, if only for a night.

Chapter Text

Harrenhal 

The wind groaned through the broken towers of Harrenhal, rattling loose stones and forgotten banners like bones in a crypt. The vast hall, meant for kings, forged by madmen, echoed with the clang of mailed boots and the clatter of goblets. Smoke from the hearths coiled toward the rafters, unable to warm the cold in the walls.

King Robert Baratheon sat at the head of the long war table, draped in a worn doublet that bore the crowned stag. He looked more bear than man, thick-bearded, broad-shouldered, eyes bloodshot from drink and too little sleep. His warhammer leaned beside him like a loyal dog. The goblet in his hand was his third that hour.

“We’ll crush the bastards before the leaves turn,” Robert said, voice gravel rough and too loud for the quiet company. “Viserys will crawl back to whatever hole he crawled out of once he sees the North ride.”

Across from him, Jon Arryn said nothing at first. The Lord of the Eyrie was newly arrived, his armor still dusty from the march. Behind him, the knights of the Vale settled quietly along the wall, young falcons armored in cold silver and silence.

“He’s not crawling anywhere,” Edmure Tully muttered, arms crossed at Robert’s right. “He’s reclaimed Dragonstone, and he’s sent threats to every lord in the realm. That much we know.”

“But he hasn’t moved,” Robert growled. “Hasn’t landed a single soldier on the mainland, hasn’t shown his face. That’s not a king. That’s a coward playing at conquest from behind sea walls.”

“No word yet from Storm’s End?” Jon asked.

Robert shook his head. “Renly holds the seat, has thirty thousand men around the gates. He’s keeping the stormlands loyal, and if Viserys thinks to land there, he’ll find steel and fury waiting.”

“And if he lands elsewhere?” Jon’s tone was cautious.

Robert leaned forward, eyes glinting. “Then I ride south and end this nonsense myself. No more rebellions. No more dragonspawn. I’ll kill this one like I killed the last.”

He raised his goblet in toast. “To the end of the Targaryens.”

Edmure drank out of duty. Jon did not.

The Riverlord cleared his throat. “The Riverlands stand with you, Your Grace. My father is sick, but the bannermen have rallied. Will we march as soon as the North arrives?”

Robert grunted. “Stark will come. Always does. We finish gathering, we ride, Harrenhal will be our anvil, and Dragonstone the hammer’s fall.”

Jon Arryn looked to the map stretched over the table, rivers, forests, and roads inked in black. Dragonstone sat small in the east, like a single ember forgotten. But embers could catch. Embers could burn.

He said nothing.

Outside, a storm brewed in the distance. But within Harrenhal’s halls, Robert Baratheon still believed himself master of the realm.

And he had no idea the fire was already coming.

The Crown’s Council

The hall stank of wine, steel, and smoke.

Even in ruin, Harrenhal was massive, its melted towers looming like the broken bones of some dead god. The High Hall had been cleared for council, braziers blazing against the autumn chill, banners hung halfheartedly on cracked stone. And at its heart, upon a makeshift throne of dark oak and iron nails, sat King Robert Baratheon.

He drained a goblet of wine and waved for more before Lord Jon Arryn had even finished speaking.

“We’ve received word from the Lord of the Crossings. Most banners are accounted for, Bracken, Mooton, Vance. The Darrys send token forces. But the Freys… well, the Freys send ravens and promises.”

Robert snorted. “Old Walder sends promises the way whores give kisses. And they’re worth about as much.”

He glanced across the chamber at his son, perched stiffly in a carved chair beside Ser Jaime Lannister and the Hound. Joffrey’s golden hair gleamed in the firelight, and his face was frozen in what he likely thought was a lord’s expression, serious, sharp, disdainful.

“We should hang the traitors when we win,” Joffrey said suddenly, speaking louder than he meant to. “The Freys. The Darrys. Anyone who doesn’t march when called. Let their heads rot on spikes from Oldtown to the Wall.”

Robert blinked at him. Then barked a laugh.

“You hear that, Jon?” he said, nudging the Lord of the Vale with his goblet. “My son’s got a bloodthirst. Might be there's a man in him after all.”

Joffrey flushed, unsure if he was being mocked. “It’s just sense, Father. Treason must be punished. Like that silver-haired pretender.”

“The boy’s right,” growled Sandor Clegane. “You can’t let traitors breathe your air.”

Jon Arryn silenced them with a glance.

Robert leaned forward, resting his elbow on the arm of the chair, his smile fading. “Viserys,” he said, the name dripping distaste. “He’s the last of them. A paper dragon waving an old banner. When the North arrives, we’ll have the men we need. Then I’ll find him. And I’ll kill him myself.”

“No sign of dragons,” Jon said cautiously. “No wildfire. No mad king reborn. Just a fleet that struck fast and took Dragonstone. He’s bold. But not clever.”

Robert leaned forward, resting his elbow on the arm of the chair, his smile fading—then returning with a grin that curled like a blade.

“Viserys,” he said, the name bitter on his tongue. “He thinks himself Aegon, but he’s not.”

He let out a bark of laughter, sudden and sharp.

“He’s short three dragons.”

The jest hung in the air a moment before Robert snorted again, clearly pleased with himself. “A boy playing at kingship. A crown without a realm. A threat only if we let him become one.”

“And when we take his head,” he went on, voice hardening, “we’ll see how long the rest of the realm remembers the name Targaryen.”

Jon Arryn said nothing. Jaime smirked faintly. The Hound grunted his approval.

But Joffrey’s eyes sparkled, drinking in the thunder of his father’s certainty.

He looked back at Joffrey.

“Pay attention, boy. War’s not just battles. It’s feasts. It’s alliances. It’s what you do with the crown once the killing’s done.”

“I will remember,” Joffrey said stiffly.

Robert grinned. “Good. Maybe by the end of this, you’ll be less of a lioness’s cub and more of a Baratheon. By the time I’m done, you’ll be a real prince. One I won’t be ashamed to call heir.”

Jon Arryn raised a brow but said nothing.

Robert stood, stumbled to the table, and filled his goblet of wine. His frame still formidable despite the wine and years.

He turned to the hall’s entrance, where a pair of camp followers lingered in the shadows, brought in with the ale and left behind like the cups.

“You,” Robert barked, pointing to the curvier of the two. “Come. The King’s earned his rest tonight.”

She stepped forward without hesitation, practiced and numb-eyed. Robert grinned wide, already unfastening his belt.

Then he paused and glanced back at Joffrey.

“What about you, boy? Time you learned what a man does after a council. Choose one. You’re half a man already, best start acting like it.”

Joffrey flushed crimson, caught between pride and uncertainty. He glanced nervously at the other girl, who averted her eyes.

Jon Arryn cleared his throat, voice cool but firm. “Your Grace! He’s too young for such nonsense.”

Robert waved him off, chuckling. “So was I when I first learned to unsaddle a wench.” He looked to Joffrey again. “Tomorrow then. The battlefield will do what a woman cannot, make a man of you, one way or another.”

He turned and disappeared to his chambers with the girl in tow, his laughter booming behind him.

Inside the hall, silence lingered for a long moment.

Joffrey sat stiffly, his fists clenched at his sides.

The Hound smirked. Jaime said nothing.

And Jon Arryn, weary and grave, looked down at the map of Westeros, at the rivers soon to run red and wondered how many more boys would be made into men before this war was done.

Outside, a cold wind howled through the ruins. And still, no raven had come from Storm’s End.

The Riverlands 

The march from the Twins was slow and steady, the kind of movement only a host of thirty thousand could make. Banners snapped in the cold wind, grey direwolves of Stark beside the twin towers of House Frey. Hooves chomped on the muddy road, carts creaked under the weight of grain and steel, and war horns sounded occasionally to keep order in the long column of men, stretching for miles across the Riverlands.

Eddard Stark rode at the head of the army beside his son.

The morning mist had not yet lifted, and the fields were wet with dew. Ahead, a stream curved like a silver ribbon across the path, and a line of foragers moved carefully along its bank. Nearby, Ghost and Grey Wind padded silently through the brush, white and grey shadows at the edges of the road. Neither needed reins nor commands. They followed their masters, as they always had.

Robb shifted in his saddle and looked over the mass of soldiers behind them.

“Lord Walder sent four thousand,” he said at last, breaking the quiet. “I thought he’d balk.”

“He likely did,” Ned replied. “But Walder Frey has lived through three kings already. He knows which way the wind blows.”

Robb smiled faintly. “He sent two of his sons to lead the men. Ser Stevron looked half-asleep during our last council.”

“He always looks that way,” Ned muttered. “Do not mistake it for loyalty.”

They rode a little farther before Robb spoke again. “Do you think the Riverlords will join us, Father?”

“They already have, or most have. The Tully name still carries weight along the Trident, and your uncle rides with them.” Ned’s voice was even, though something flickered in his eyes. “It is the others I worry for. Bracken. Darry. Mooton. The Freys may send men, but their oaths are thin as ice in spring.”

Robb nodded, then looked ahead to the open path. “I wonder what they’ll think of us… when we reach Harrenhal. When the full host of the North crests the ridge. Will they see men? Or wolves come south to support the  throne?”

“That depends on what we leave behind us,” Ned said. “If we ride like butchers, they will call us invaders. If we ride with honor, they may yet call us saviors.”

“And the Targaryens?” Robb asked, his tone darkening. “What do you believe they want, truly?”

Ned’s expression hardened. “Vengeance. Blood. Legacy. That letter they sent from Dragonstone made no true claim, just a declaration of their return. They want the world to remember their name, and fear it.”

“Then we’ll teach them to fear ours instead,” Robb said. Grey Wind gave a low growl, sensing the shift in his master’s mood.

“You speak with strength,” Ned said after a long pause. “But strength alone does not win wars. Do not forget the cost of every sword raised. Every man lost.”

Robb was quiet for a moment, brow furrowed. Then he looked to his father, a question in his eyes.

“Do you think I’ll be ready, Father? When the battle comes?”

Ned turned to him fully. “You were born in a time of peace. You’ve grown in a time of calm. But the world does not care for the years behind us, it only knows the ones ahead.”

He reached across and placed a hand on Robb’s forearm.

“You are my son. You carry the North in your blood. When the time comes… you will do what is right.”

Robb’s throat bobbed slightly. “I’ll try.”

“Good,” Ned said. “Because that’s all any of us can promise.”

They rode in companionable silence for a time, the clatter of hooves and rumble of the host filling the air behind them. Crows cawed from a distant tree line. Ghost moved ahead, white fur stark against the greening hills, while Grey Wind remained beside Robb, his yellow eyes sweeping the road like a silent sentry.

Robb cleared his throat.

“Are you looking forward to seeing the King again?” he asked.

Eddard Stark did not answer at once.

He stared ahead, toward the haze where the road disappeared behind a low hill, toward Harrenhal, and what lay beyond. His brow furrowed slightly, as though the question had reached somewhere deeper than expected.

“Robert was like a brother to me,” he said finally. “We bled together during the Rebellion. He fell silent, then added with a grim note, “This is something that will make Robert thrive. He was made for war. The Robert I grew up with would hate the thought of being king, he’s more a man of action than not.”

“Tired of peace, perhaps,” Ned said, his eyes narrowing. “He misses the days when men cheered his name for victories won, not for debts unpaid. But war does not remember the names of those who grew weary, it remembers only those who endured.”

“We buried friends side by side. We laughed louder than the halls could hold.”

“But that was before,” Ned continued, quieter now. “Before crowns. Before grief. Before time made strangers of us.”

Robb glanced at him. “You don’t trust him anymore?”

“I trust him to be Robert,” Ned said, with the faintest smile. “Loyal in his own way. Brave, to be sure. But ruled more by passion than patience. And too often, passion breaks more than it builds.”

Robb’s jaw tightened. “Do you think he’ll listen to you? About the Targaryens?”

“I hope so,” Ned replied. “But I do not ride to give him counsel. I ride because the North has chosen its side and we do not break faith once it’s sworn.”

They rode on.

Behind them, the long thunder of Northern boots and Frey spears echoed against the hills. Ghost emerged from the trees then, padding silently up to Ned’s side, red eyes scanning the path ahead. Grey Wind trotted beside Robb’s mount, tongue lolling, ever alert.

They were close to the Gods Eye now. Close to Harrenhal.

And closer still to the war that would decide the fate of the Seven Kingdoms.

The Inn of the Crossroads

Summer heat shimmered on the roads where the armies of the North and West met at the Inn of the Crossroads. The dust rose thick beneath boot and hoof, the air heavy with the scent of horse, sweat, and steel. Crows circled high above, their cries lost amid the clamor of campfires being lit and wagons being unpacked.

Two great hosts had become one.

Lord Eddard Stark dismounted beside his son Robb. Grey Wind paced ahead of them, ears alert, while banners flapped above, direwolves on grey, lions on crimson, the spears of the Freys bobbing near the rearguard. The North had brought nearly thirty thousand men, joined now by the forty thousand strong host of House Lannister, resplendent in their red and gold.

Across the trampled yard stood Lord Tywin Lannister, cold and unmoved in his gleaming plate. His eyes swept the Northerners with practiced judgment, then met Ned’s.

“Lord Stark,” he said, coolly civil.

“Lord Lannister,” Ned returned with a nod, equally terse.

They were flanked by banners and steel, but the chill between them had nothing to do with weather.

“The Freys opened the gates,” Ned said. “Lord Walder may be craven, but he’s not a fool. He knows the realm still belongs to Robert Baratheon.”

“For now,” Tywin replied, voice even. “He sent four thousand men, as promised. Whether they’re loyal or not remains to be seen.”

Robb had fallen in quickly with the other young lords, Smalljon Umber and Harrion Karstark, the three already grinning over crude jokes at Theon Greyjoy’s expense. Theon, red-eared but trying to hide it, offered a biting remark in return that only earned louder laughter.

Inside the old inn, Tyrion Lannister sipped from a cup of summerwine beside Ser Kevan, observing the merger of the armies with a sardonic smile. “Quite the gathering,” he murmured. “Wolves and lions in one den. What could possibly go wrong?”

Back beneath the awning, Ned and Tywin stood over a large map spread on a table between them. The rivers, castles, and roads of the Crownlands and Stormlands lay sketched in fading ink. Pins marked Dragonstone, Harrenhal, and King’s Landing, each one a thread in the coming war.

“No word yet from Storm’s End?” Ned asked.

“None,” Tywin said. “We assume Renly still holds it.”

Ned nodded grimly. “Then we must prepare for the worst. The Targaryens took Dragonstone without resistance. If they strike again, it will be sudden.”

Tywin’s lips thinned. “The Reach has called its banners. The roses are blooming, but they haven’t moved. No word from Mace Tyrell or Oldtown. Either they wait for Robert’s call or they wait to see which way the wind turns.”

“And Dorne?”

“Silent,” Tywin answered. “As they often are before they strike.”

Ned studied the map. “If the Targaryens press inland, Harrenhal will become the line of defense. The old kings knew it. That’s why it was built, to hold the Riverlands.”

“Then we hold it,” Tywin said. “Your men in the center. Mine in the flanks and reserve. Robert will choose to lead the vanguard.  Let the dragons come.”

“They may not,” Ned said. “Viserys Targaryen has never commanded a real army. He may hide behind allies.”

“Or behind schemes,” Tywin murmured.

They stood in silence a moment longer, the weight of old wars between them. The past had not been forgotten. Nor had the blood spilled.

But for now, they were allies.

The King’s Welcome

The towers of Harrenhal loomed like broken spears against the morning sky, their jagged tops silhouetted in the light of a summer dawn. Smoke from dozens of cookfires drifted through the camp, where tents flapped in the warm breeze and banners snapped above them—Baratheon stags, Arryn falcons, and the trout of House Tully, raised in preparation for their lord’s arrival.

Inside the Hall of a Hundred Hearths, where the ghosts of old kings lingered in the burned stone, King Robert Baratheon stood near a high window, sipping from a silver goblet. His eyes, bloodshot but bright with something more than drink, scanned the horizon.

He was freshly bathed, his beard trimmed, his hair damp, his frame pressed into dark leathers too tight across the gut. But he stood tall, the weight of command returning to his shoulders like a long-lost cloak.

“They’ve been spotted,” said Jon Arryn, stepping in behind him. “The dust on the road is theirs. Forty thousand from the West. Thirty thousand from the North. The gates will open by midday.”

Robert grinned. “Good. The wolf and the lion, at last.”

He drained the cup and tossed it to a squire, then motioned for another.

“You’ll want to receive them in the yard?” Jon asked.

“I’ll greet them as they deserve,” Robert said. “The man who was raised with me. One’s my brother by choice. The other’s my goodfather. And both are here to defend my kingdom.”

He looked to Ser Jaime Lannister, standing silent in gold armor beside the Ironwood doors. The Hound, grim and hulking, flanked the opposite side. Joffrey, dressed in fine velvet and furs too grand for the warmth, fidgeted at the edge of the hall.

“Can I ride out to meet them?” Joffrey asked. “I should be seen. I’m the prince. The heir.”

Robert laughed, loud and sudden. “Aye? And what will you do, recite poetry to your grandfather or quote the Seven to Ned Stark?”

Joffrey’s face colored. “I could give a speech of welcome. Something noble.”

“You’ll give them a sour stomach,” Robert said, clapping his son on the shoulder hard enough to make him stumble. “Sit that ass of yours on a horse long enough to feel saddle sores, boy. Then we’ll talk about speeches.”

The king turned back to the window, his voice lower now, shaded with thought.

“Ned will want to talk of tactics. Of careful steps and honorable war.” He chuckled. “Tywin will already have ten plans in motion. Ten knives waiting to slip into ten backs. I’ll have to keep one eye on the enemy, and the other on my allies.”

Jon said nothing, but his expression darkened slightly.

“We need this march,” Robert muttered. “I need it. Sitting in that damned throne room, listening to fools bicker and flatter, I’d rather die swinging than rot in red silk.”

He looked again to the horizon.

“Let’s remind the realm what a real king looks like.”

Convergence

Outside, the drums began to sound. Horns echoed over the fields.

The wolves and the lions had come to Harrenhal.

And soon, they would march to war.

The melted towers of Harrenhal loomed ahead like the fingers of some dead god, black and broken, clawing at the summer sky. The wind carried the scent of horse, sweat, and river mist as the combined host of the North and West drew near, seventy thousand strong, steel ringing with every hoofbeat. They came in columns, banners streaming above their heads: the roaring lion of Lannister, and the direwolf of Stark leading the vanguard.

Eddard Stark rode at the front of the northern host, Ice strapped to his back, the wind tugging at his grey cloak. Beside him, Robb rode with a quiet intensity, Grey Wind loping alongside like a ghost made flesh. Theon Greyjoy rode a few paces back, still nursing bruises from Umber jests.

The gates of Harrenhal groaned open as their banners approached and out rode a party to meet them. Jon Arryn was at the front, regal and composed despite his years, the sun glinting off his armor. Edmure Tully rode beside him, his auburn hair bound back, blue cloak trimmed in silver. And at the center, broad-shouldered, black-bearded, warhammer resting across his saddle like a promise of ruin, was Robert Baratheon.

The King.

Robert broke into a grin the moment he saw Ned, and spurred his destrier forward, bellowing a laugh that scattered the birds from the trees.

“Ned Stark! You cold-blooded northern bastard!”

Ned reined in just as Robert reached him, and the King dismounted with surprising grace for a man so heavy. They met halfway between their horses, and Robert crushed him in a bear’s embrace.

“By the gods, I’ve missed that sour face,” Robert said, clapping Ned’s back. “You took your time getting here. Thought you were walking the whole way.”

“And risk you winning the war without me?” Ned said with a faint smile. “I’d never hear the end of it.”

Robert laughed again and turned toward Jon Arryn. “Our war council is now complete.”

Jon nodded, eyes warm. “The realm will stand taller with Winterfell at our side.”

Edmure dismounted next, clasping Ned’s arm with brotherly affection. “It does my heart good to see you, goodbrother. My father sends his regards, he’s too ill to ride, but he speaks of you with pride.”

“My thanks,” Ned said, his voice softer now. “And yours for leading the Riverlords.”

Edmure flushed slightly. “They followed for duty. I only pointed the way.”

From behind, the Lannister banners approached with thunder. Tywin rode tall in the saddle, flanked by his brother Kevan and his son Tyrion, who regarded the proceedings with quiet amusement.

Lord Tywin’s golden armor caught the sun like a flame. He stopped beside the Northern host and nodded toward Ned.

Their eyes met, flint to steel. No warmth passed between them.

“Your Grace,” Tywin acknowledged the King.

But Robert clapped both men on the shoulders before tension could stir. “Enough of this. We have a war to win. The Targaryens crawl out of their holes and think to steal back a crown. But we’ll crush them, just like we did last time.”

He turned toward the castle. “Come. There’s wine in the great hall. And meat enough to feed this entire army. We’ll drink to victory and start planning how to end this damn war.”

As the hosts moved forward into the ruins of the greatest castle in Westeros, the wind shifted.

It did not carry the scent of dragons.

Not yet.

But soon

War Council

The halls of Harrenhal were vast and shadowed, the firepits burning low beneath the blackened rafters. The remnants of old grandeur lingered, cracked mosaics of dragons underfoot, melted sconces shaped like crowned skulls, but the heart of the ruin pulsed with steel and purpose once more.

At the high table of the great hall, King Robert Baratheon stood with his hands braced on the map of Westeros spread across a long oaken table. Lords clustered around him, Jon Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie and Hand of the King; Eddard Stark, Warden of the North; and Lord Tywin Lannister, golden and grave, his lion cloak sweeping the ground.

The room quieted as Tywin took a measured step forward and inclined his head.

“Your Grace,” he said, his voice cool as the gold in his armor. “The West stands ready.”

Robert looked up and grinned broadly. “And well it should, Lord Tywin. I’d have worried if  you hadn’t called your banners.” He clapped the table with his palm. “But now the realm’s teeth are all bared. The North, the West, the Vale… and the Riverlands too.” He cast a glance at Edmure, who stood straight and proud beneath the Tully banner. “Even the Freys managed to remember which side to stand on.”

There was a ripple of dry chuckles. Tyrion Lannister smirked from the benches by the fire, swirling wine in a goblet too fine for the ruin it rested in.

“I trust the Reach has not yet stirred?” Jon Arryn asked quietly.

Tywin’s brow barely twitched. “They’ve called banners. But they do not march.”

“Cowards,” Robert spat. “Hedge-sitters. Mace Tyrell’s more flower than thorn.”

“They may be waiting to see how the wind shifts,” Eddard said cautiously. “If Viserys gains more ground…”

Robert slammed his fist into the map, rattling the carved cities of Westeros.

“He won’t!” he growled. “That boy was born under a doomed star. He has no dragons, no lords worth a damn, no claim that wasn’t soaked in his mad father’s blood.”

He looked to Jon Arryn. “Once Ned’s army settles, we’ll march south together.”

“Viserys will not reach King’s Landing,” Tywin said. “We’ll see to that.”

“I want his head,” Robert snapped. “His...his and any other snake hiding behind that banner. I’ll take it myself. I’ll mount it on a spike beside his sisters’. Let the world remember what happens when dragons raise their heads again.”

Tyrion sipped his wine. “Let’s just hope they haven’t grown wings.”

Several lords chuckled. Only Tywin did not smile.

“I’ll see you all in the yard at first light,” Robert said. “We ready for war tomorrow.”

Then, with a crooked grin, he called out to the far end of the hall.

“Girl! Wine. And your prettiest friend.”

A pair of camp followers approached, hesitant under so many noble eyes. Robert grabbed one by the waist and hoisted her with a grin, then pointed to the other.

Robert laughed again, the war already in his blood.

And outside, the banners of House Baratheon whipped in the rising wind, unaware that approaching from the sea, real dragons waited to spring their trap.

The Queen’s Court

The Red Keep shimmered in the summer light, its towers rising like red spears over the haze-drenched rooftops of the capital. Beyond its walls, the city stank of heat, sea rot, and the sweat of too many bodies packed too tightly. But within, all was order, silence, and the slow, measured beat of power.

Cersei Lannister stood atop the Tower of the Hand, her golden hair loose and gleaming in the sun, a goblet of Arbor gold in hand. From here, she could see everything, the domes of the Great Sept of Baelor, the muddy coils of the Blackwater, and the distant haze where armies marched, unseen but not unfelt.

She smiled, sharp as a cat before the pounce.

With Robert at Harrenhal, and Jon Arryn deep in the Riverlands, she was the highest voice in King’s Landing. The true ruler of the capital, the beating heart of the realm. The court bowed to her, the smallfolk feared her, and her children were watched over by blades sworn to her house.

“My lady,” said Ser Meryn Trant, bowing stiffly behind her.

She did not turn. “Is Tommen safe in the nursery?”

“Guarded day and night,” he replied. “Ser Arys and Ser Preston are stationed there.”

“And Myrcella?”

“In the solar with Septa Saranella. Ser Boros stands watch.”

Cersei sipped her wine. The sunlight lit her eyes like polished emeralds.

“Good,” she said. “See that it stays that way.”

Behind her, Ser Mandon Moore lingered like a wraith in white plate, silent as ever. She’d once thought him dull, now, she found his silence refreshing. A man who listened more than he spoke was a man she could mold.

The council still met, of course, but Pycelle drooled through most of it, and the other lords were too busy tripping over each other to matter. It was Cersei who made the decisions. Grain to the city. Patrols in the Flea Bottom. Letters to the Lords Paramount. All sealed with the lion’s paw.

And yet...

That letter still lingered in her mind.

The one that came from Dragonstone.

Unsigned. Unnamed. Only a seal of red wax, with a dragon’s heads, and a promise of fire.

She hadn’t told Tommen. Or Myrcella. They were too young. She hadn’t told the court how her hands had trembled when she’d first read it, alone in her solar. Or how, for one breathless moment, she’d wondered if Rhaegar’s ghost had truly returned.

But she had mastered herself. As always.

They killed Stannis, she thought. Whoever wears the crown of the dragon now has teeth.

Let Robert rage at Harrenhal. Let the northern wolves howl, and the lions march. The city was hers. And if the Targaryens came...

Well.

She sipped her wine again and looked out over the city with narrowed eyes.

Let them come.

Cersei lingered at the window, watching the gold-tipped towers of the Red Keep shimmer in the late afternoon light. Somewhere below, a bell tolled faintly, temple hour. Time passed, as it always did, beneath her heel.

The doors creaked open.

The sound was soft, deliberate. Unhurried.

And there he was, gliding into the solar like a shadow dressed in silk, Varys, the Spider, his robes violet today, his slippers whispering against the floor, his powdered face solemn.

Cersei narrowed her eyes.

“You don’t knock.”

“I am the Queen’s spider,” Varys said smoothly, bowing low. “And I bring only what the web provides.”

“Then spit it out.”

He straightened, folding his hands. For once, the playful glint in his eye was gone.

“Troubling news from the Stormlands, my queen,” he said softly. “Very troubling indeed.”

The wind caught at the open window behind her, and the fire in the hearth flickered.

Cersei’s smile vanished.

The Hammer Stirs

The solar above Harrenhal’s vast hall was thick with heat and tension, the summer sun turning the black riverstone walls into an oven. Lords filled the chamber, their voices low with speculation. But they all fell silent as the raven arrived.

Jon Arryn broke the seal with practiced calm. His eyes moved across the parchment. His jaw clenched. He handed it to Robert without a word.

Robert Baratheon read slowly, then twice more, as if the words might change if he stared hard enough.

Then he exploded.

“They took Storm’s End?” Robert roared, flipping the table. “They took my families seat?”

The lords in the chamber backed a step, all save Tywin Lannister, who watched with narrowed eyes from beneath his golden brow.

“And Renly?” Robert demanded. “Is he dead?”

“No,” Jon Arryn said. “Taken captive, it seems. Brienne of Tarth is unaccounted for. Lord Beric and Thoros of Myr have bent the knee to the Targaryens.”

“The Reach marched with them,” Tywin said coolly. “Mace Tyrell’s banners fly beneath the dragon now.”

“And Dorne,” Jon added. “Oberyn Martell led the vanguard.”

Robert’s breath came in ragged bursts. He looked around the chamber, red-faced, a storm behind his eyes.

“They’ve thrown in with Viserys?” he spat. “The Silver Shit thinks himself Aegon reborn, does he?”

“It was no fleet of Essosi sellsails that took Storm’s End,” said Edmure, newly arrived from his own disbelieving reading of the report. “They came swift. Planned. This wasn’t luck, it was strategy.”

“Stannis died,” Tywin said, folding his arms. “They mounted his head on the Iron Throne. This is a war, Your Grace.”

Robert turned on his heel and hurled the goblet across the room. Wine splashed across the banners of the Seven. “Then we give them war,” he snarled.

He paced, the wine in his grip his refuge.

He turned to Tywin “Frey and Bracken, are they loyal?”

“They’ll follow the stronger horse,” Tywin said. “Make sure we are that.”

Robert nodded, his fury crystalizing into focus.

“They think they’ve broken us. That we’ll bend. But the realm forgets who I am. Let them come. We’ll hammer them down to bone.”

“And Renly?” Jon asked quietly.

Robert’s face fell for just a moment. “We’ll get him back.”

He looked again to the message. Then at the shattered map table.

“And when I find the bastard leading this, Viserys or whoever they’ve crowned, I’ll show the realm what happens to dragonspawn who think they can steal a kingdom from me.”

A Council of Steel

The king’s war tent smelled of sweat, steel, and smoke. Outside, the banners of the North, the West, The Vale, and the Riverlands flapped in uneasy union, the murmurs of campfires and sharpening blades filling the night.  Some 100,000 men ready to ride to war.

Inside, the map table had been righted after Robert’s earlier fury, though a dark scorch still marred the edge where wine and rage had met flame. Now four men gathered in its flickering torchlight: King Robert Baratheon, Lord Eddard Stark, Lord Tywin Lannister, and Lord Jon Arryn.

Ghost lay at Ned’s side, a pale shadow against the rushes. The direwolf had grown large over the moons of marching, taller than a pony now, his eyes still red and watchful, his breath quiet as falling snow.

“They’ve taken Storm’s End,” Robert said, the words like iron on stone. “My brother captured. My seat in the Stormlands fallen. The Reach and Dorne ride under dragon banners. And Viserys Targaryen, gods help him, thinks this makes him king.”

He drank from his goblet, just a sip, this time and slammed it down. Half splashing out.

“No word yet from King’s Landing,” Jon said carefully. “But we must assume the enemy moves quickly.”

“They’ll march for the capital,” Robert said. “I would, if I were them. They won’t wait for us to catch our breath. We ride for King’s Landing.”

Eddard leaned forward, bracing his hands against the map table. Ghost lifted his head.

“You’re certain that’s wise, Your Grace? It could be bait. We don’t know how many men the Targaryens command. And if they hold the south—”

“Then I’ll take back the south, and their heads with it,” Robert growled. “Let the people see the crown is not broken.”

Tywin’s golden gaze swept across the table. “Let me ride west, Your Grace. I’ll take the Goldroad, enter the city through the Lion’s Gate. It will give us two fronts, we’ll crush the rebels between our two forces

“A sensible plan,” Robert muttered, but there was no real heat to it. “Fine. Take your son. Take Joffery too, just in case the unthinkable happens, better to keep my heir separated if I should fall.”

Tywin inclined his head. “Joffrey will be guarded by Jaime, and all the strength of House Lannister. We’ll march with all haste to ensure we arrive in time.”

Ned watched Tywin carefully. Beside him, Ghost cocked his head, eyeing Tywin wearily. Tywin’s eyes flicked toward the direwolf but said nothing.

Robert turned to Ned. “You’ll ride with me, old friend. Bring the North and the Riverlands. Together with the Vale, we’ll march straight down the Kingsroad. The people will see the king returning to his city.”

Jon Arryn nodded slowly, studying the Riverlands laid out before them on the great war map.

“And if they come to meet us?”

Robert leaned forward, his gauntleted finger stabbing the parchment just above the Blackwater.

“We have a quicker march to King’s Landing than they do,” he said. “We’ll arrive first and prepare the field to our choosing. Let them come to us. The dragons will find no soft underbelly waiting, only steel.”

His voice carried the same fierce certainty that had once rallied ten thousand men at the Trident. But Eddard Stark, standing across from him, saw the cracks behind the conviction. The warhammer at Robert’s back weighed heavier now. The crown heavier still.

“And if they march faster than we expect?” Ned asked carefully, his voice low.

“They won’t,” Robert snapped. “We’re not fighting Rhaegar’s court of poets this time. Viserys is a fool. He moves like a child in his brother’s armor. Whatever strength he has came from surprise. That ends now.”

Tywin Lannister’s mouth twitched. “If he is indeed the one leading,” he said, voice like carved stone. “We still don’t know who commands their host. Or what their strength truly is.”

“Let them come,” Robert growled. “We’ve beaten dragons before.”

“But not yet,” Jon said softly. “And the last dragons died over a century ago.”

A beat of silence passed between them.

Ghost rose with a silent grace and padded after Ned as they left the tent, white fur gleaming like moonlight.

The war had begun in earnest.

And now the wolves, the stags, the falcons and lions all marched for the same prize, unaware they were moving right into the dragons maw.

Chapter Text

The Gods Eye

The thunder of hooves was unrelenting.

From Duskendale’s rolling hills to the reed-choked shores of the Gods Eye, the Targaryen host had stretched like a crimson tide. Close to eighty thousand strong, Dornish spears, Reachman lancers, white-armored knights of the King’s Guard, they rode beneath banners of sun and rose, tower and spear, and above all, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, echoing the return of the dragon.

They had rode hard for a week, keeping their march secret as best they could, their swiftness had paid off, they were now just outside the Gods Eye, and Robert and his forces still remained at Harrenhal, it would be his doom.

Dust rose behind them in great plumes, and the iron-shod din of a hundred thousand boots and wheels echoed like distant war drums.

At the head rode Rhaenar Targaryen, black cloak trailing behind him, helm adorned with a dragon’s maw, eyes steel grey beneath its shadow. To his left, Daenerys rode in her black Valyrian steel, regal and calm despite the forced pace. To his right, Viserys, proud and flushed, barked orders to a column of Dornish outriders moving ahead to scout the king’s road.

The heat of summer clung to everything, and the wind from the east brought only more dust and whispers of ash.

They had ridden hard since dawn, no tents, no rest, no banners flown. The dragons had stayed hidden high in the clouds. They now rested on the Isle of Faces, cloaked in the mist and magic of that strange place. Hidden, for now. A secret sharp enough to slit a kingdom’s throat.

They would not be needed until the trap closed.

Rhaenar leaned forward in his saddle as Ser Arthur Dayne approached, dust-laced and grim.

“Our scouts report movement on the Kingsroad. Robert’s host marches south, sixty-thousand strong, as expected. Edmure Tully with him, and the North and the Vale not far behind.”

“What of the West?” he asked, his voice low and even.

Arthur answered. “We’ve seen no sign of them, Your Grace. Not a banner. Not a rider. Perhaps Robert sent them on another path.”

Rhaenar nodded once. “Nothing to do about it now. We are in place here.”

Arthur fell into pace beside him. “Do we wait for them to pass?”

No,” Rhaenar said flatly, eyes scanning the tree-lined ridges ahead. “We don’t wait for them to pass. We move now, and we make ourselves seen.”

Ser Arthur Dayne cocked a brow. “You want to be spotted?”

Rhaenar nodded. “We’ll march out from the treeline just as the sun breaks the lake. Put the Reach banners at the front. Dornish spears to the rear. Make it look like we’ve been waiting. Let Robert’s scouts see it all, let them realize we stole the march.”

Viserys gave a short, sharp laugh, wiping sweat from his brow. “That’ll rattle the old stag.”

“It will,” Rhaenar agreed, his tone steady. “They expect us far to the south, still regrouping after Storm’s End. They’ll think us still in the Stormlands, tending our wounded, counting our dead.”

“They’ll be wrong,” Daenerys said. Her voice was low, but sure. “And they’ll know it too late.”

Rhaenar leaned forward in the saddle slightly, eyes narrowing at the field below. “Surprise is worth more than steel. We don’t attack. Not yet. We form our lines where their scouts can see them. Let them watch us. Let them wonder how we moved so fast, how we knew where to strike.”

“And if they take the bait?” Arthur asked.

“They’ll send riders,” Rhaenar said. “Mayhaps to test our strength. Mayhaps to talk. They’ll want to stall, give their army time to adjust, to rest, to prepare for battle.”

“You mean to grant them that?” asked Ser Gerold Hightower, his white cloak trailing behind him as he rode up.

Rhaenar’s expression hardened. “I mean to grant them just enough rope to hang themselves. If they offer parlay, we meet. Not to end the war, but to mark the hour it begins.”

Daenerys shifted in her saddle, her silver hair braided back beneath a dark helm, the light glinting off the blackened steel of her armor. Her violet eyes scanned the western banks of the Gods Eye, where the trees thickened and mist crept low over the lake’s surface. The Isle of Faces loomed distant and veiled, silent, ancient, sacred.

“And the dragons?” she asked.

Rhaenar didn’t look at her, but he didn’t hesitate either.

“I’ll head to them once we know Robert’s forces are bearing in,” he said, voice low, deliberate. “Whether we decimate his army in fire or shock them at the parlay… either way, we send a bold statement to the realm today.”

The others listened in silence.

Viserys nodded grimly. “So the dragons wait in the mist. And we wait in the open.”

Rhaenar’s grey eyes swept across the rising camp, the banners unfurling in the breeze, the clank of armor, the hiss of boiling water, the nervous murmur of eighty thousand men preparing to meet the greatest host Westeros had seen since Robert’s Rebellion.

“Let them see our strength,” Rhaenar said. “Let them see their doom on the horizon.”

Oberyn Martell spurred his horse forward, his orange cloak snapping behind him. “Then let’s make this field a painting worthy of history.”

Rhaenar turned toward the Isle of Faces. Beneath the shifting fog, somewhere among the weirwoods, Vhagar waited. So too did Balerion and Shrykos, their wings folded for now, but their wrath caged only by command.

He tightened his reins.

“Form the lines,” he said again. “And keep a watch out for his scouts, let them see and return to him, that is when I’ll head to our dragons.”

And behind him, the thunder of hooves began again, this time not as a march, but a revelation.

The King’s War Council

The air was thick with dust and heat as Robert Baratheon’s host wound through the riverlands, banners streaming behind them like tongues of defiance. The creak of wagons echoed for leagues, the might of the realm pressing south toward King’s Landing.

But word came swiftly, too swiftly.

A rider galloped into the heart of the host, his horse lathered and his cloak black with sweat and road-muck. Robert’s scouts had eyes on the horizon, and what they’d seen had brought the march to a shuddering halt.

Within a hastily pitched command tent, a few leagues past Darry.  Robert stood hunched over a freshly drawn map. Eddard Stark, Jon Arryn, and Edmure Tully and the Blackfish flanked him, their armor still dusted from the day’s ride.

“They’re ahead of us,” Robert said, his voice like gravel dragged over steel. “Eight leagues out. Along the Kingsroad. Gods Eye at their back. Close enough to spit on.”

Jon Arryn leaned over the map, placing a carved token marked with black and red at the appropriate pass. “And not just a few scouts. A host. Nearly eighty thousand, if the report’s to be believed.”

Eddard narrowed his eyes. “The Reach. Dorne. And Targaryen loyalists from the Narrow Sea. They’ve joined in force.”

Robert’s jaw worked. “The bastards stole the march. I thought they were still mired in the Stormlands.”

Ser Brynden gave a slow shake of his head. “They must have split their forces. Ferried through Duskendale or Maidenpool, I wager. A clever feint. They bypassed the long march north and used ships to strike fast.”

Robert slammed a gauntleted fist onto the table, rattling inkpots and tokens. “So they want to fight. Good. I’m done waiting.”

Jon Arryn raised a hand. “Your Grace, if we march blind into that field, we give up every advantage. We don’t yet know who leads them, or what their aim is.”

“They want the throne,” Robert snapped. “And my head on a spike beside Stannis. What more do I need to know?”

Eddard’s voice was quiet. “You need to know their face. Their numbers. Their strategy. If they show themselves, perhaps they’ll speak before they strike.”

“They’ve set their lines so we’ll see them,” Jon agreed. “This smells of parlay.”

“Aye,” Edmure added. “A show of force and a delay. They want us cautious.”

Robert grabbed a skin of wine from his squire, Lancel, and pulled a long gulp. The red wine ran down his beard, staining it like blood.

“Gods, I needed that,” he muttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his gauntlet. “We’re riding into battle, might as well be warm on the inside.”

Then, turning to Eddard, his tone shifted, just slightly.

“I meant to end the Targaryens fifteen years ago, Ned. I meant to pull them root and stem. And now here we are again, old friend. You, me, and the ghosts of dragons.”

He handed the skin back to Lancel, swung his hammer over his back, and strode toward his horse, the ground trembling beneath his steps.

“Mount up,” he called over his shoulder. “Let’s see what kind of pretender hides behind all those banners.”

He stepped out into the morning sun. His army stretched for leagues behind him, Northmen, Riverlords, the knights of the Vale, banners snapping in the wind. All waiting. All watching.

But now they moved with purpose.

South, toward the Gods Eye.

Toward the dragon’s jaws.

North of the Gods Eye 

The banners of House Targaryen snapped in the wind, black and red, fire and fury dancing over the rise above the Gods Eye. Below, the host stirred like a slumbering beast waking to the scent of blood. Seventy-five thousand men made ready for what lay ahead, steel catching the rising sun, tents bristling with the emblems of dragon, rose, and spear.

Rhaenar Targaryen stood at the edge of the command tent, a vision of fire-forged royalty. He wore gleaming black plate, lacquered to a mirror finish that caught the dawn and turned it into menace. The three-headed dragon of House Targaryen adorned his chest in a blaze of rubies, each scale catching the light like a spark. The armor was regal and terrifying, made not just for war, but for legend.

At his hip hung his longsword, castle forged steel, and cradled beneath his arm was his helm, a dragon’s visage wrought in blackened steel, the visor shaped into a snarling head of a dragon, fangs bared, nostrils flared, as if ready to breathe fire. When he wore it, it turned his gaze into that of a beast unbound.

Even without the helm, his presence was undeniable. The armor had weight, not just of metal, but of birthright.

A rider returned, his horse lathered and eyes wild with urgency. He dismounted and knelt.

“They’ve sent riders under white banner, Your Grace. King Robert calls for parlay.”

Murmurs passed through the assembled nobles and knights, but Rhaenar’s face remained still.

“Let him have it,” he said. “But we’ll choose the terms.”

He turned to those gathered. Viserys and Daenerys stood near, armored, ready for the fight. Ser Arthur Dayne was at his right, hands folded over the pommel of Dawn. Ser Barristan Selmy, Ser Gerold Hightower, and Ser Oswell Whent,  stood close, white cloaks shining in the morning sun.

Brienne of Tarth stood behind Daenerys, her faithful sworn sword.

“To the parlay,” Rhaenar said, “ride my blood. My family. Let them see Targaryens not as ghosts, but the blood of this kingdom returned.”

His eyes moved to Viserys and Daenerys. “You’ll ride with the host. No dragons. No threat. Let them believe what they want until they can’t.”

He turned as others joined. Prince Oberyn Martell, lean and dangerous, clad in copper and leather. A spear gleamed on his back.

“You wouldn’t think of hosting a party without inviting Dorne?” Oberyn asked with a grin.

“You’ll be there,” Rhaenar replied. “You and your kin.”

Quentyn Martell, armored in bronze and orange, stood beside his uncle, nodding silently. Rhaenar gave him a look of measured approval.

“Let them see the South rides with us.”

Lord Monford Velaryon stepped forward next, clad in sea-green armor trimmed in silver, the seahorse of his house bold on his breastplate.

“We’ll speak for Driftmark,” he said. “Let them know the seas are closed to them.”

Rhaenar nodded. “You’ll ride beside Lord Mace and Lord Randyll. Ser Baelor Hightower joins as well. Lord Beric Dondarrion. Thoros of Myr. Show the realm we are not rebels, we are Westeros united to bring down the usurper.”

“And you?” Daenerys asked quietly.

“I will come on dragonback,” Rhaenar said, his voice steady. “They expect a ground battle. Let them see their future.”

Ser Arthur gave a faint smile. “Let us hope their scouts wear brown breeches.”

Barristan only inclined his head. “The Conqueror came from the sky. So will his heir.”

Rhaenar turned to his Kingsguard. “Prepare the vanguard. When you meet their party, Vhagar takes flight.”

He turned to Daenarys

Their lips met in a kiss, long and deep, not frantic with goodbye but sealed with promise. Fire kissed fire. She clung to him, and he held her as if the world were about to shift beneath their feet.

When they parted, their foreheads touched.

“We end the mummer’s farce today,” Daenerys whispered. “No more shadows. Let them see the dragon’s face.”

Rhaenar nodded. “No more masks. No more guesses. We give them truth, sharp as steel, hot as flame.”

Behind them, Ser Arthur Dayne stepped forward with Ser Gerold Hightower, Ser Barristan Selmy, and Ser Oswell Whent, already armored and astride their horses. Brienne of Tarth waited by Daenerys’s steed, reins in hand. The lords of the realm, Oberyn, Tarly, Velaryon, Dondarrion, Tyrell, and Redwyne, gathered silently, watching their king and queen.

He turned and lifted the dragon helm over his head. When it settled into place, he was no longer a man, he was The Dragon Reborn, and Westeros was about to remember what fire truly was.

The Parlay

The ground outside the Gods Eye was uneven, scattered with low stones and patches of summer grass. The lake rippled behind them, dark and placid, a mirror to the storm building between the lines of men.

Eddard Stark rode beside his son, Robb, his eyes ever on the horizon as banners approached from the south, the red sun of Dorne, the golden roses of the Reach, the seahorse of Velaryon, the Tarly huntsman, and foremost among them... the three-headed dragon of Targaryen black and red.

He could feel Robert’s anger radiating beside him like heat from a forge. The king’s knuckles were white around the reins of his charger. His warhammer, onced used  to slay Rhaegar Targaryen, rested across his saddle. It had not seen use since the Greyjoy Rebellion. Eddard feared it would soon drink its fill again.

The two parties met in a stretch of neutral field, surrounded by bannerless guards and spearmen forming a loose perimeter. Jon Arryn, dignified even in the shadow of war, flanked Robert’s left. Ser Brynden the Blackfish stood nearby, arms crossed. Edmure, his goodbrother, said little, face drawn and pale. Lord Yohn Royce, armored in ancestral bronze, surveyed the enemy with grim curiosity.

Eddard’s eyes, however, were on the ones approaching.

Viserys Targaryen, regal in his bearing, sat tall in the saddle, his silver hair shining in the sunlight. Beside him, Daenerys, her braid tight, her violet eyes unreadable, wore armor shaped for a queen of old Valyria.

And behind them...

Eddard swallowed hard.

Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, clad in white, bearing the sword Dawn. Ser Gerold Hightower. Ser Oswell Whent. Ser Barristan Selmy, his expression solemn.

So they live... Ned thought, unease stirring in his chest.

The lords of the Targaryen camp fanned out behind them. Lord Mace Tyrell, florid and stiff; Lord Randyll Tarly, ever severe; Lord Monford Velaryon, wind-burned and tight-lipped. Then came Prince Oberyn Martell, smiling with venom, his eyes never leaving Robert.

The two lines faced each other in silence. All parties dismounting from their steeds.

Robert broke the silence.

“Let’s not pretend at courtesy,” he growled. “You’re all traitors. This should be a battlefield, not a parlay.”

Oberyn chuckled. “Coming from the butcher-king who gave mercy to Gregor Clegane, that’s a rich jest.”

Sandor stiffened behind Robert but said nothing.

Robert ignored the slight. “You—” he jabbed a finger toward Tarly and Mace, “—I gave you your lives after the Rebellion. I let you keep your lands. Your titles. And this is how you repay me?”

Mace shifted awkwardly. “You gave us peace, Your Grace. We now seek a lasting one.”

“By marching with dragons and ghosts?” Robert barked. “You think I’ll kneel to a boy who comes from the loins of the Mad King? Storm’s End burns, Stannis is dead, and my brother, Renly, what of him? Is he next?”

Viserys opened his mouth, but Robert silenced him with a glare. “You don’t speak unless I say you do, silver shit.”

Ned’s jaw clenched, but he said nothing. He watched Robb carefully. His son’s hand hovered near his sword pommel.

Robert turned to Oberyn.

“And you,” he sneered. “Looking for vengeance after fifteen years? I should’ve put your snake’s head on a pike with your sister’s.”

Oberyn’s face darkened.

“And where,” he asked slowly, “was your mercy when my sister was raped and butchered? When her babe was bashed against the wall?”

“They were Targaryens,” Robert said, his fury building. “Same as this lot.”

Daenerys shifted slightly, but still said nothing.

Robert snorted and turned to Viserys and Daenerys.

“Well?” he snarled, advancing a step. “Nothing to say after murdering one brother, and gods know what with the other? Are you not capable of speech?”

Still silence.

Then Viserys looked up, a calm confidence in his voice.

“We are waiting for the King.”

Robert blinked.

“What?”

Viserys repeated it, only slower, every word a blade, as if explaining it to a child.

“We. Are. Waiting. For. The. King.”

The air changed. A murmur rippled across the field.

And above, from the west, came the sound of wind breaking. Something massive moved through the sky, blotting out the sun.

A shadow passed over them all.

Wings.
Fire.
A roar split the heavens.

And then he came.

Descending through the clouds atop a green-scaled behemoth, a dragon rider, black armor gleaming, his dragon helm shaped like a snarling maw. The dragon screamed as it circled and landed just behind the Targaryen host, shaking the very earth with its weight.

Two more dragons flew behind it. One black as night, the other white as Ghost, both saddled, riderless.

The black dragon, vast and terrible, circled once, flame leaking from the corners of its mighty jaw.

The white one flew lower, silent and elegant, its pale wings cutting through the air like a blade through silk. Ned didn’t know its name. He didn’t want to.

The Dragon King dismounted with practiced ease, pulled the helm from his head and revealed the face of Eddard’s sister.

Lyanna’s grey eyes. Her strength. Rhaegar’s grace.

The dragon had a face.

Eddard could not move.

Robert stared, as if struck by a hammer. His voice came hoarse.

“…Who the fuck is that?”

Viserys straightened, and turned to Robert’s party.

“May I present, Rhaenar of House Targaryen, First of His Name. King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. Trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. The rightful King of Westeros. And the last face your crown will ever see.”

He strode forward slowly, flanked by the other two dragons above, circling like sentinels in the cloudless sky. He passed Viserys and Daenerys first, his kin by blood and fire. The younger man leaned in and spoke something, soft, unheard, words that pulled a quiet chuckle from Viserys. Even Daenerys smiled faintly, her violet eyes never leaving  Rhaenars eyes.

Then he turned.

And faced the King.

Robert Baratheon stared at him like he had seen a ghost. His jaw clenched. His hand hovered near his warhammer. But he said nothing.

Neither did Rhaenar, at first.

Eddard Stark couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. Not for what he saw, but for what he knew.

He had seen that face before, not in the man, but in the boy's mother. The way his dark hair curled above the brow, the angle of the jaw, the steel-gray eyes that belonged to no Targaryen. Those were Stark eyes. It was like staring into a looking glass. Robb gasped beside him.

Ned's heart clenched. His limbs went cold.

He didn’t need Ser Gerold to speak. He didn’t need proof. He knew.
Lyanna’s child had lived.
Her son.

And he had been raised as a dragonlord.

A sword of fire and vengeance.

Ser Gerold had lied.

Ned looked to the Kingsguard, Gerold, Arthur, Oswell, the men who were absent from the Trident. They had known. They had raised him. They had shaped him into this.

Into the man standing before Robert now, calm and composed, a king by bearing and blood.

And Ned Stark, Warden of the North, brother to Robert Baratheon, could do nothing. Could say nothing.

Because he could not raise a sword against Lyanna’s son.

Not now.

Not ever.

“You dragonspawn bastard!” Robert spat, his voice rising like thunder over the field.

He stepped forward, his face flushed and wet with sweat despite the chill wind. His warhammer was already in hand, clenched so tightly the veins bulged on his knuckles.

Ser Arthur mirrored his movement, calm but resolute, his white cloak stirring in the breeze. One hand rested on the pommel of Dawn, that pale blade of legend forged from a falling star. He did not draw it, but he did not need to. Just the thought of it bared had silenced halls before.

Their eyes met, Robert Baratheon and Arthur Dayne, battle remembered in their posture, in the way their boots planted in the grass. One a hammer. The other a sword. The storm and the dawn.

But it was Rhaenar who held the moment.

“Your father raped your mother and made you, do you think that gives you the right to be King?”

Rhaenar didn’t flinch. He didn’t move. His black-trimmed helm still hung under one arm, but the black plate gleamed in the midday sun, casting his face in long, unreadable shadows.

“I’ll smash your chest in just like I did your rapist father,” Robert roared. “You think that dragon scares me, do you, boy?!”

Ned could feel the tension from the men around him, Robb tensed at his side, Jon Arryn’s expression tightening with concern, Ser Brynden’s hand drifting toward his blade. The Kingsguard of the Targaryens shifted as well, though none moved. They didn’t need to.

Rhaenar finally tilted his head, the faintest flicker of curiosity in those storm-grey eyes. His voice, when it came, was calm.

“Ser Arthur. Explain to Lord Robert the truth of his new reality.”

Arthur Dayne stepped forward.

His violet eyes burned behind the slit of his helm. He unlatched it slowly, revealing the face that had once made even bold men falter, a warrior of legend, worn with years, but unbent.

“Prince Rhaegar and Lady Lyanna were wed,” Arthur said quietly. His voice was soft but carried like echoes in a small hall. “On the Isle of Faces. Not far from where we now stand. Before a heart tree. Before the Old Gods of House Stark.”

Gasps rippled through the gathered lords, Northmen and Riverlords alike.

“He took her to wife,” Arthur continued. “Because she wished it. Because she loved him. From the moment he discovered who she was at Harrenhal, when he realized she was the Knight of the Laughing Tree. He did not take her. He did not force her.”

Robert laughed, a harsh, strangled sound. “Lies.”

Arthur’s eyes narrowed. “Aerys found out her identity through Varys. He meant to summon her to King's Landing for trial. Rhaegar found her first. He intended to bring her to Storm’s End...to you, but they chose another path.”

Arthur’s voice darkened with pain. “They were young. They made foolish choices, and it was those choices that led to this war… to all this madness.”

“Liar!” Robert’s fury exploded. He turned toward Ned, desperate, pleading. “Ned...tell him! Tell him it’s all lies! You saw her...she was dying! She...she never—”

But Ned said nothing.

He couldn’t. His eyes were locked on Rhaenar, on the Stark features that mirrored his sister’s too close for chance. He felt his breath shallow, his voice caught somewhere deep in his chest.

Ser Arthur was not lying. Not about this.

“That’s enough, Lord Robert.” Rhaenar’s voice was clear now. Sharp. Commanding.

Robert froze at the sound, not because it was loud, but because it carried the weight of a king’s judgment.

“This is a parlay,” Rhaenar said. “You’ve had your say. Now I will have mine.”

He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, and the lords on both sides gave way. Even the dragons above circled lower, their shadows dancing over the field.

“You think this war is about pride,” Rhaenar said. “About vengeance. But it’s not. It’s about truth. And whether the realm will kneel to it or burn fighting to deny it.”

A beat of silence followed his words. Then Rhaenar’s gaze turned, slowly, deliberately, until it met Eddard Stark’s.

The moment stretched taut as a bowstring.

“I have longed to meet you, Lord Eddard,” Rhaenar said, voice steady, every word laced with something deeper than formality. Not warmth, but something older. Something like sorrow.

Eddard could not answer. The wind seemed to die between them. He stared into the face of the boy he had once believed dead, a boy now grown into the shadow of two legacies. The blood of his sister, and of the dragon prince who’d upended a kingdom.

Then Rhaenar looked at the youth beside Ned.

“And this,” he said with a faint nod, “must be your son and heir. Lord Robb. My cousin.”

Robb Stark straightened instinctively, his brow furrowing beneath the weight of that word, cousin. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came.

The air turned thick.

Eddard's voice finally found breath.

“So it’s true,” he said quietly. “You’re Lyanna’s.”

Rhaenar gave a slight tilt of the head, not in triumph, but in grim acknowledgment.

“And Rhaegar’s,” he said. “But not Aerys’s. Not his madness, although I do share his blood. I claim no love for the tyrant you overthrew. But I do claim the right stolen from my blood and sealed in my siblings’ graves.”

Behind him, Viserys watched with a quiet pride, and Daenerys stood tall, her expression unreadable.

Ned stared into those grey eyes once more, his sister’s eyes and felt the world shift.

Rhaenar Targaryen turned from Ned and Robb Stark and swept his gaze over the assembled host of nobles behind them. His eyes, molten-steel and unwavering, moved from Lord  Yohn Royce to Lord Edmure Tully, to Jon Arryn, to the knights and bannermen who had once fought to destroy his house.

“There is no need for any of you to die today,” Rhaenar said, voice clear as a cloudless day. The wind stirred his cloak and the dragon-helmed visor glinted in the sun.

“As you can see,” he gestured behind him, where ranks of Dornish and Reachmen stood in gleaming mail, “with the army my allies have provided and the dragons of my family, I will take back control of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Gasps whispered through the ranks of Robert’s host. No one had spoken the word aloud, but now it rang like the bells announcing a royal birth, dragons.

Rhaenar pressed forward.

“But I would prefer not to rule over a wasteland of ash and bone. I would prefer not to reduce your keeps to rubble, nor your lineages to dust. You may yet rise, not as rebels, but as lords loyal and leal to the crown, just as your ancestors once knelt to Aegon the Conqueror.”

He let the silence settle before he turned back to Robert, who stood red-faced and seething.

“I understand what my grandfather was,” Rhaenar said, quieter now, but no less resolute. “He needed to be removed from power. Aerys was mad. His madness would have drowned this realm.”

That hung there, unexpected, an acknowledgment from the mouth of a Targaryen. A chisel to pride, not a sword.

“And I understand the Rebellion, Lord Robert. From your point of view, my father took your beloved. My mother. My uncle, Brandon Stark, was murdered. So was Lord Rickard, my other grandfather, my mother’s father. You fought to protect your family and your future. Honor demanded it.”

Even Robert blinked at that. It was not what he expected.

Rhaenar’s gaze hardened, the fire beneath the steel kindling once more.

“But that war is over. And this war will be, too, one way or another.”

He stepped forward.

“So I offer you this once, Lord Robert, bend the knee. Bend the knee, and I will grant you Storm’s End, as Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. I will return your brother Renly to you. I will allow your children to live out their days in peace, with lands and titles befitting their name.”

The final words rang like the strike of a blade in a silent hall.

“Choose wisely, Lord Robert,” Rhaenar said. “The Baratheon line depends on your answer.”

“Never!” Robert roared, stepping forward so forcefully that even his Kingsguard flinched. “I will never bend for a dragon. I destroyed your father, smashed his line to dust and I’ll destroy you too, dragon or no dragon! You think you can ride in on wings and demand I kneel, after what you did to Stannis?” His voice cracked with fury. “You murder my brother and dare speak of honor? You have some set on you, bastard, to think I would ever bend the knee to the likes of you.”

The words echoed across the field like thunder.

Rhaenar did not flinch. His face remained unreadable. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and cold as the Gods Eye’s deepest depths.

“You dare speak to me of murder?” he said. “You, who took your crown over the corpses of children?”

Robert opened his mouth, but Rhaenar’s voice surged, sharp as steel.

“Lord Stannis’ death, while regrettable, was necessary. You do not realize it yet, but I have already won. I knew his death would enrage you. That it would draw you from your walls and your capital, out here, to meet me where I wished. You are far from your throne, Robert. Far from your lords. And you’ve marched into the teeth of the dragons!”

He stepped forward again, and the air itself seemed to waver around him.

“You fell into my trap, my lord. And if you will not bend... then you will burn.”

Mumbling stirred behind the lines. Even Jon Arryn paled.

“Do not make the mistake of choosing your pride over your House,” Rhaenar said, his words now for all to hear. “The blood of every Baratheon left in this world now hangs on the choice you make. Speak to your council. Look into the eyes of your allies. See if they wish to burn for your pride.”

The silence was deafening.

Then, Rhaenar turned. But not before fixing his gaze, haunted and pleading, on Lord Eddard Stark.

“Reason with him,” he said. “This man you call King. Do not let him make me a kinslayer, Uncle.”

The word landed like a blade to the heart.

“I have so little family left. Think, how would my mother counsel her beloved brother now?” His voice cracked with feeling.

Then he turned and strode back toward his dragon.

Daenerys was already moving, her hand reaching for his. Rhaenar took it without hesitation. Viserys walked beside them, silent and watchful, silver hair catching the wind.

Their Kingsguard, Arthur, Barristan, Gerold, and Oswell, fell into step, their white cloaks fluttering behind them. Brienne of Tarth cast one long look back at Lord Eddard before following her queen.

The Targaryen host rode away, dragons rising with shrieks above them, circling like judgment incarnate.

Behind them, the field was silent.

Eddard Stark stood rooted in place, the wind tugging at his grey cloak, his heart pounding like a war drum. He stared after the dragonlords, his mind awash with memories of Lyanna, her laughter in the godswood, the way she rode, the flowers in her hair, her still face in death. The boy was hers. There was no mistaking it. No denying it.

“Lyanna,” he whispered, barely audible.

Jon Arryn approached; his face grim.

“We cannot win this, Ned,” he said softly. “Not if dragons fly.”

Ned nodded once, slowly. “Then we must find a way to end this… before everything we know is ash.”

And far above, three dragons wheeled in the sky, their shadows long upon the earth.

Chapter Text

The Crown’s Camp 

The storm in Robert Baratheon’s tent wasn’t of wind or thunder, it was fury, pure and unbridled.

The king reached down and flipped the oaken table, scattering carved tokens of their battle plan. Soldiers jumped outside the tent at the sound.

“Dragons!” Robert bellowed. “They think fire and wings make them kings? I’ll smash their skulls with my own hand!”

His face was flushed with drink and rage, his beard wet with spittle, eyes wild and bloodshot. The air reeked of sweat, steel, and sour Arbor red.

Jon Arryn stood calmly across the table, his pale blue eyes unwavering. “You cannot charge them, Robert. Not now. Not like this.”

“Why not?” Robert snapped. “The longer we wait, the stronger they get. We ride now, strike before they can burn us from the skies.”

“You’ve seen them, Robert,” Eddard Stark said quietly, voice like the wind through dead leaves. He stood beside Jon, arms folded, Ghost at his side like a silent shadow. “Three dragons. Three riders. This isn’t a rebellion. This is a reckoning.”

Robert pointed his hammer at Ned. “You would cower from a fight? The Warden of the North, frightened by scales and wings?”

Ned’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t mistake caution for cowardice. I’ve fought your wars, Robert. I bled beside you at the Trident, and in the Iron Islands. But that boy, Rhaenar, is my sister’s son. My blood. And even if he were not, no man alive can stand against what rides with him.”

“Then we die fighting!” Robert roared.

“You’ll die alone,” Ned said, flatly.

The tent fell into heavy silence.

Robert’s jaw worked as if chewing his fury. He turned away, knuckles white around his hammer’s handle. “Then go,” he growled. “Run back to Winterfell. Run back to your snows and your trees. I don’t need the North. I don’t need any of you. I’ll finish this myself, and when I finish with the Targaryens, I’ll march my army North and show you how I deal with oathbreakers!”

Ned stared at him for a long moment. Then, without another word, he turned and strode out.

Outside the Command Tent

The air outside was crisp and still. Soldiers and bannermen lingered anxiously in loose knots. As Eddard emerged, Robb stepped forward, flanked by the Greatjon, Karstark, and Maege Mormont.

“What now?” Robb asked, blue eyes tight with tension.

Ned took a breath, his words heavy with finality. “You saw the dragons. You saw the boy. That is Rhaenar Targaryen, son of Rhaegar and Lyanna. My nephew.”

Murmurs rippled through the Northern lords.

“And the dragons?” asked Harrion Karstark, grim-faced.

“Three of them,” Ned confirmed. “One black, one green, one pale as snow. Enough fire to burn down the realm.”

He looked out over the gathering banners of the North. “We now know why Torrhen Stark bent the knee to Aegon. He saw what we’ve seen. He chose survival over pride.”

The lords were silent. Even the Greatjon said nothing.

“And even if it were not dragons,” Ned said, voice lower, “you would have me raise sword against my sister’s son? Spill the blood of kin for a man who will not listen to reason?”

He looked each of them in the eye. “No. The North will not fight this war. Not for pride. Not for Robert.”

Robb stepped beside him. “And if he commands us?”

Ned’s jaw set. “Then he commands alone.”

Jon Arryn

The tent had emptied, save for Sandor Clegane, his white cloak hanging low, but fear etched on his face.

Robert sat slumped in his  chair, the firelight casting dancing shadows across his face. His warhammer rested beside him, untouched now. In his hand, a goblet of wine, still half-full, despite his fury.

Jon Arryn stood across from him, still and patient as a mountain in winter.

Robert finally broke the silence. “He walked away. Ned. After everything. The Trident. The Rebellion. He walked away.”

Jon nodded slowly. “And yet… can you blame him?”

Robert growled low in his throat. “He was my brother. He knew what we were fighting for.”

“We were fighting to end madness,” Jon said gently. “To free the realm from Aerys. But this… this is not that war.”

Robert stared into the fire. “He offered me Storm’s End.”

“It’s more than we could have hoped for,” Jon said, voice quiet. “You hate ruling, Robert. Always have. You said it yourself a hundred times, the throne is a cursed chair for cursed men. You never wanted it.”

Robert said nothing. The wine sloshed gently in his hand.

“You could live the rest of your days how you choose,” Jon pressed on. “Free of scheming lords and petty fools. The boy, Rhaenar, he even offered to spare your children. You could return to Storm’s End, hunt and feast, drink yourself into legend if that’s what you wish.”

Robert’s head bowed. “You think Cersei will allow that? That Tywin will hand the realm to a dragon and step quietly into the shadows? I may surrender the crown, Jon, but do I sentence my wife and good-family to death in doing so?”

Jon was silent for a long moment, the weight of the day’s revelations pressing down on him like an avalanche. When he spoke, it was not as a young man, but as one who had seen too much and carried more still.

 “Perhaps. But if you fight, Robert… if you ride out now, with dragons in the sky and an army twice our size arrayed before us, you are sentencing all of us to death.”

Robert’s hand tightened on the goblet.

“I’ll stand beside you,” Jon said firmly. “You know that. I always have. But I’m telling you as your friend, as the man who raised you, as your Hand, this is a war we cannot win. Not unless the gods themselves ride with us.”

“I know,” Robert said at last, his voice barely more than a rasp. “I know. But maybe I can take him with me. Maybe I can kill just one more Targaryen. That would be enough.”

Jon sighed. “And Joffrey?”

“Tywin has him. He’ll see the boy crowned, one way or another.”

“What of Renly?” Jon asked quietly.

A long silence followed.

Robert drained the goblet, then looked to the embers. “He died the moment Storm’s End fell. All I can do now is avenge him.”

Jon stepped closer, speaking with rare steel. “You must speak with Ned. You know the choice he faces. You can’t expect him to raise his sword against his sister’s son. You must forgive him that.”

Robert gave a curt nod. “Aye. You’re right. I let my anger get the better of me.”

He rose, slow but steady, and looked at the tent flap with heavy eyes.

“Send him to me. I’ll speak with him. One last time.”

Parting Ways

The tent was quieter than it had ever been.

Gone was the bluster, the rage, the storm of fury that had roiled through the command tent for days. Only the wind stirred the canvas now, fluttering it like the sigh of a dying god. A single candle burned beside the war table, its flicker casting long shadows over maps and empty cups.

Robert Baratheon stood with his back to the entrance, his shoulders broad and unmoving. He did not look up when the flap opened.

“Come, Ned,” he said, his voice low, almost hoarse.

Eddard Stark stepped inside.

He stopped just beyond the threshold, reluctant, heavy-hearted. Ghost padded silently at his side, the direwolf large now, as tall as Ned’s chest, his red eyes glowing faintly in the gloom.

Robert turned then.

There was something different in his face. Not weariness exactly, Robert had never admitted to such a thing, but something quieter. A resignation. The fire was still there, but banked now, like a hearth left burning for comfort rather than war.

“You’re the best friend I ever had, Ned,” Robert said simply. “And I’m sorry it had to come to this.”

Ned swallowed, saying nothing. The years fell between them like autumn leaves, quiet, brittle, final.

“I don’t expect you to raise your sword against your own blood,” Robert continued. “Seven hells, I can barely say the boy’s name without choking on it. Lyanna’s son. Your sister’s boy.” He laughed, but it was joyless. “The gods are cruel bastards.”

Ned’s voice was quiet. “Then you won’t fight?”

Robert looked at him, truly looked. “Oh, I’ll fight.”

He walked past Ned to pour himself a cup of wine, his back to the wolf lord.

“There can be no surrender,” he said, swirling the wine. “Even if I wanted to, Tywin would never allow it. Cersei would kill me before she gave up her crown. They’ve wrapped that chair in Lannister gold, and they’ll die trying to keep it.”

He took a long drink.

“I’ll ask for volunteers,” he said. “The Riverlords. The men of the Vale. Maybe a few who remember what it meant to be Kingsmen, not kneelers. We’ll form up, charge one last time. One final great battle. Let the bards sing of it, if any live long enough to hear.”

Ned was silent for a long moment. Finally, what Robert was saying dawned him.

“You mean to die.”

Robert looked over his shoulder. “Don’t say it like that. I mean to die well.”

He set the cup down and turned to face him.

“I’d rather go out on my feet, weapon in hand than rot like a dog in that damn capital. I’ve grown fat. Slow. Soft. This war… it’s the only thing I’ve ever been good at.”

He paused.

“Maybe… maybe when I’m gone, you can convince the boy, your nephew, to spare my children. Tell him I fought for the realm once. For his mother’s honor. Even if I failed at the end.”

Ned stepped closer. His heart ached like it hadn’t since the end of the rebellion.

“I’ll do what I can,” he said quietly. “If it’s in my power to spare them, I will.”

Their eyes met. For a moment, there were no crowns between them. No banners. No sides. Just two men who had once bled together for a world they’d tried to save.

“I’ll miss you, Ned,” Robert said, his voice thick. “You were the only one who ever told me the truth.”

Ned inclined his head, slow and solemn.

“And you were the only one who ever called me brother and meant it.”

A long silence passed.

Then Ned turned, heading for the exit. Ghost followed at his side, a silent sentinel beneath the torchlight.

He stopped just before the tent flap, and turned back.

“I wish you good fortune in the wars to come,” he said.

Robert’s smile was the saddest thing he had ever seen.

“Go, Stark. Get out before I start weeping like a maid.”

Ned left.

And he knew, deep in his bones, beneath steel and scars and silence, that he had just spoken his last words to Robert Baratheon, King of the Seven Kingdoms, the man who had once been a brother.

And the last friend who ever called him one.

The Final Charge

The air in the command tent was thick with tension, the flicker of lamplight throwing tall shadows across maps and armor. The silence that followed the parlay hung like a blade between them all.

Oberyn Martell was the first to break it.

“You would let him live?” he said sharply, his voice like a dagger unsheathed. “After what he’s done, after Elia, after Rhaenys and Aegon, you would offer mercy to that usurping drunk?”

Rhaenar looked up slowly from the war table, his grey eyes calm, unreadable. “Mind your tone, Prince Oberyn.”

The silence crackled.

Oberyn’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t look away. “We crossed half a continent for vengeance, and now you want to spare the beast who bathed in our family’s blood?”

“I said,” Rhaenar repeated, louder now, “mind your tone. I am not here to soothe old wounds, I am here to win a war.”

The table grew still.

He rose, his black and ruby armor gleaming like a living shadow, the three-headed dragon carved across his chest catching the light like fire beneath a kettle.

“I did not offer Robert Baratheon mercy,” Rhaenar said, voice like iron in the flame-lit dark. “I offered the realm a choice. I showed the lords of the North, the Riverlands and the Vale that I am not my grandfather. That I can end this without blood if they choose wisely.”

He turned to Oberyn, eyes flashing.

“Robert will never kneel. We all know that. He will ride to his death because that’s the only ending his pride will allow. But I will not rule through fear alone. The lords needed to see that I could be merciful… even if mercy was never truly on the table.”

Oberyn stepped back, the fire in his eyes smoldering low but not extinguished.

From the shadows, Daenerys spoke softly, her voice barely above the crackle of the fire.
“And the North?  What of the Starks?  Will they kneel?”

Rhaenar was silent for a moment. Then, with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of generations, he answered quietly,
“I hope they do not rise at all. But if they do… I will do what I must.”

There was no pride in the words, no heart, only the quiet certainty of a king who understood the cost of war.

Daenerys moved to him without hesitation. She reached for his hand, her fingers curling around his with familiar warmth, and pulled him close. Her arms wrapped around him, holding him tightly, her cheek resting against the cool steel of his breastplate.

“Then I’ll stand with you,” she whispered. “No matter what must be done.”

He closed his eyes, resting his chin against her silver-gold hair. For a heartbeat, they weren’t dragonlords or conquerors, just two souls clinging to each other in the eye of a storm.

A moment later, a messenger burst through the tent flap.
“Your Grace. A rider from the Baratheon camp. Lord Eddard Stark… requests a private audience.”

Before Rhaenar could answer, the horns sounded.

The storm had begun.

A second scout stumbled through the flap, armor half-buckled. “They’re coming, my King, riders, a few-hundred men, charging hard from the north slope!”

Rhaenar didn’t flinch.

He turned to Daenerys and gently removed her hand from his cloak. “Stay with the Queen,” he told Ser Gerold. “Keep her safe but keep her back.”

Daenerys grabbed his wrist. “Should I call the dragons?”

He shook his head. “We won’t need them.”

He stepped from the tent into the fading light of the day, the sound of hooves growing louder beyond the rise. Thunder and war cries and the desperate last gasp of a dying dynasty.

He stood at the edge of camp as his lords gathered behind him. Arthur Dayne, Barristan Selmy, Garlan Tyrell, Lord Monford Velaryon, Oberyn Martell, Lord Randyll Tarly, Ser Oswell Whent. A shield wall in velvet and steel.

From the ridge, they came like a thunderstorm made flesh, a black tide of riders crashing down the slope, iron and fury at their heels. At their head rode Robert Baratheon, a mountain of a man clad in gold-plated armor that caught the dying sun like a ray of light shining through glass. His great antlered helm turned him into something more than mortal, a horned god of war, born for slaughter.

His warhammer, heavy as judgment, flashed with every stride, and the stag of House Baratheon, scorched and battle-torn, billowed behind him like a banner of defiance.

Behind him rode the last embers of a dying age, grizzled lords with faces like carved stone, knights whose sigils were faded by blood and time, and young men too proud or too foolish to kneel.

They rode not for victory, but for legacy. For the memory of kingship. For the heat of battle one last time.

Rhaenar watched them ride.

And for a moment, he pitied the King.

“So few,” he muttered.

Beside him, Arthur had drawn Dawn. The pale blade gleamed like morning light. “Still fierce.”

“But doomed,” Rhaenar said.

He looked to Arthur. “Give him a clean death. For the love he bore my mother.”

Arthur nodded once and then moved to intercept.

Rhaenar stood unmoving as the thunder of hooves shook the ground, and he whispered under his breath:

“Let it end.”

The Last Ride of the Stag

The two met on a field where thousands had stood not hours before, now empty, now silent. A graveyard waiting to be filled.

Robert dismounted, his armor scuffed and dented, his great warhammer resting across one shoulder. He looked more bear than man, sweat streaking his face, fury boiling in his eyes.

Arthur Dayne approached calmly, his white cloak fluttering behind him, Dawn held with practiced ease. The sword shimmered like starlight, as if the very gods watched through its edge.

“You’ll not reach the King” Arthur said. “You’ll not live long enough to try.”

Robert spat.
“Then I’ll die swinging.”

With a roar, he charged, the hammer arcing toward Arthur’s ribs.

The Sword of the Morning moved like smoke, his first parry deflected the hammerhead with a shriek of steel. His riposte sliced the air just inches from Robert’s neck.

Robert bellowed and swung again, this time lower, Arthur sidestepped, then brought Dawn down in a diagonal sweep that scraped sparks from Robert’s breastplate.

Blow after blow rained down. Robert fought like a storm, brute strength and ferocious will behind every strike. Arthur countered each one, sometimes narrowly, sometimes with grace, but not without cost. One hammer strike clipped his shoulder and spun him sideways, another slammed into his thigh, denting the armor and staggering him.

Blood dripped down Arthur’s temple, but his eyes never wavered.
“You are still strong,” he said, almost with respect.
“Stronger than your King,” Robert snarled.

Robert lunged, hammer raised high and Arthur stepped in.

In one fluid motion, Dawn cleaved upward. There was a sound like thunder and splintering wood as the head of Robert’s warhammer flew, shorn clean off its shaft. Robert staggered, stunned and Arthur spun, reversed his grip, and drove the blade of Dawn through the center of Robert’s chestplate.

The steel screamed. Then it broke.

Robert gasped, blood bubbling from his lips as Dawn pierced his heart. His legs gave out beneath him, and he sank to his knees, a mountain brought low.

Arthur knelt with him, supporting his weight as the life began to fade from the king’s eyes.

Robert looked up, eyes glazed and distant, searching for something beyond the field, beyond the pain.

“Lyanna…” he whispered.

Then the storm passed.

Across the field, silence fell. The crowned stag had fallen.

Arthur withdrew Dawn, wiped it once on the cloth at his side, and stood.

The Demon of the Trident was no more.

The Realm That Rose

The field still stank of ash and blood. The sun hung over the Gods Eye like a second fire, burning away the morning mist, casting long shadows over the battlefield where the Demon of the Trident had fallen.

But there would be no more war today.

The Targaryen host moved as one down the Kingsroad, banners fluttering like the wings of the dragons that flew overhead. Balerion, black as a starless night. Vhagar, green as old bronze. And Shrykos, white and gold, streaking like lightning through the sky. Their roars echoed across the hills.

At the head of the host rode the three heirs of House Targaryen.

Rhaenar, mounted on a sable destrier, his armor a living shadow, black plate chased with ruby, the three-headed dragon emblazoned on his chest. His dragon helm gleamed in the sunlight, the visor shaped like a dragon’s open mouth. He wore no crown, but he needed none.

Daenerys rode beside him, silver hair braided for war, her Valyrian steel armor shining with each beat of her mount’s hooves. Beside her, Viserys sat tall in his saddle, His armor, black as shadow and glossy as volcanic glass, shimmered with movement. The jaws of dragons were sculpted across his breastplate, open wide as if in mid-roar, fangs bared, tongues of flame curling up toward his shoulders, his face set with purpose.

Behind them rode the Kingsguard, Ser Arthur Dayne, blood still drying on his cloak, Ser Gerold Hightower, Ser Oswell Whent, Ser Barristan Selmy, and Lady Brienne of Tarth, armored in the blue of Tarth, a look of pride and awe on her face.

And ahead of them, riding out to meet them, came the last of Roberts lords.

Lord Eddard Stark, with Robb Stark and the Lords of the North at his side, the Greatjon, Rickard Karstark, Maege Mormont, Roose Bolton, and more. Jon Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, rode in a column of knights bearing the falcon and moon. Beside him rode Ser Edmure Tully, bearing the trout of House Tully, with his uncle Ser Brynden, the Blackfish, grim and silent. 

They dismounted as one. The winds of history blew down the road behind them.

Rhaenar stopped before them and removed his helm. His steel-grey eyes met Ned Stark’s. There was silence.

And then, Eddard Stark knelt.

No fanfare. No flourish. Just a quiet man, bowing his head to the boy who bore his sister’s eyes.

One by one, the lords followed. Jon Arryn, slow with age but proud still, dropped to one knee. Edmure next. Then the North, one lord after another, Greatjon, Karstark, Mormont, Bolton, and every bannerman who had made the march from the North, Vale, and River Lands.

They bent the knee to Rhaenar Targaryen, son of Rhaegar and Lyanna. The King who had been raised to rule and had been forged in exile and returned in fire.

Viserys looked on, eyes wide and wet. Daenerys reached for her brother’s hand, silent and still.

And Rhaenar, Rhaenar said nothing at first. His eyes scanned the kneeling lords, the sons and fathers who had once marched to end his family.

He stepped forward.

“Rise,” he said softly. “Rise as men of the realm once more. This battle is over. And now, we have to deal with the West.”

A rustle of cloaks and armor followed as the lords rose, some with stiff limbs, some with trembling hands. Rhaenar turned away from them, only to let his eyes fall on a lone figure near the edge of the gathering.

The Hound.

Sandor Clegane stood in his battered armor, the white cloak of the Kingsguard still clinging to his shoulders, soiled and singed. His burned face locked in perpetual anguish, half-shadow, half-scar.

Rhaenar’s voice sharpened.

“You wear a white cloak,” he said. “But you didn’t fight for your king.”

The words echoed, heavy as judgment.

Clegane met his gaze without flinching. “I don’t fight for the boy either. Or his bitch of a mother.” He shrugged, the white cloak shifting like a burden. “I fought for myself. I always have.”

The silence that followed was taut as a drawn bow.

Rhaenar stepped closer, not breaking eye contact.

“And would you do so again, if it came to fire and blood?”

A pause.

Then, with the ghost of a grin, the Hound said, “Depends who’s holding the leash.”

“Very well,” Rhaenar said, his voice even but resolute. “But you’ll have to remove your cloak.”

He gestured with a slight nod to the white fabric draped over Clegane’s shoulder, dirt-streaked and fraying at the hem.

“You are not a member of my Kingsguard.”

The words weren’t angry, but they rang like a gate being shut. Final. Formal.

For a heartbeat, Sandor Clegane said nothing. Then, with a grunt, he reached up and unclasped the cloak from his broad shoulders. The fine silver pin clattered to the stone floor.

He let the cloak fall.

It landed in a heap, like shed skin.

“I never asked to wear it,” the Hound muttered. “And I sure as shit never swore any vows.”

Rhaenar studied him, unmoving. Then, with something unreadable flickering behind his eyes, he nodded once.

“Then we understand each other.”

Eddard Stark stood, eyes shadowed, heart heavy, but for the first time in years, not in denial.

“I knew,” he said quietly. “I knew the moment I saw you.”

Rhaenar gave a slight nod. “You will always be my mother’s brother. I hope you’ll stand as her memory’s shield in the court I build.”

“I will,” said Ned. “You have my sword. You have the North.”

And in the sky above them, the dragons circled once more, not as weapons of conquest, but as symbols of a future none of them could have imagined.

The Crown of the Dragon

The wind whispered through the black and red banners flanking the king’s pavilion. Torchlight cast flickering shadows along the canvas walls, and the scent of pine smoke and damp earth filled the air. Inside, the great tent was arranged not for war, but for governance.

Rhaenar Targaryen stood at the head of the long oak table, tall and unbending, cloaked in the colors of conquest. His tunic was black as midnight, the crimson dragon of his House stitched in fine ruby thread across his chest, each of its three heads rearing in silent defiance. His black hair was pulled back and bound with a strip of red leather, revealing a face both noble and sharp, Rhaegar's high cheekbones, but Lyanna Stark’s eyes, grey, cool, and unflinching. Eyes that saw through lies as easily as they once had seen snow.

To his right stood Daenerys, regal and composed, her presence like flame held in a glass lantern. She wore a gown of jet-black silk, its flowing sleeves and bodice threaded with winding dragons the color of dried blood. A tiara now rested upon her brow, subtle, but undeniable. The Queen in truth, if not yet in name.

Opposite her, Viserys stood less adorned, but no less marked by the moment. He wore a plain black tunic, tailored to fit his lean frame, and pinned at his breast was a silver brooch shaped like a dragon in flight, temporary, ceremonial. Soon, he would bear the weight of the realm on his shoulder, when Rhaenar named him Hand.

Gathered before them stood the newly reconciled Lords of the Vale, North, and Riverlands.  Jon Arryn, wise and quiet as always; Eddard Stark, reserved but watchful; Robb Stark, silent and proud; Edmure Tully, his expression torn between war’s regret and hope for renewal; Yohn Royce, in heavy bronze and stone-faced vigil; and a half-dozen other lords who had once called Robert their king.

Rhaenar’s voice broke the quiet.

“Lords of the Vale. Lords of the North. Lords of the Trident. You stand now not as rebels or enemies, but as brothers once more. Peace has come, not by bloodshed alone, but by choice. I do not demand fealty. I ask it.”

He turned slightly.

“My uncle, Prince Viserys of House Targaryen, stood beside me when we had nothing. When exile was the only supper on our table. He has been a sword at my side and a voice in my council. Today, he is no longer my uncle alone, he is my heir until a son is born to me, The Prince of Dragonstone, and Hand of the King.”

Viserys stepped forward, breath caught in his throat. Jon Arryn, eyes wet with the weight of generations, removed the silver badge of office from his own chest and stepped forward. His voice, as always, was calm.

“May you serve as a strong and justful hand, my prince.”

He extended the pin. Rhaenar took it, and with quiet gravity, fastened it to Viserys’s tunic.

“Serve me as you’ve always done,” Rhaenar said to him. “And serve the realm, Lord Hand.”

Viserys bowed low. “With all I have, and all I am.”

Rhaenar turned then, and addressed Jon Arryn once more. “You are a man of law and wisdom. A steady hand in a time of strife. I would have you stay, with title and purpose, as Master of Laws on my small council.”

Jon bowed, hand to chest. “Your Grace. I will serve.”

Then Rhaenar turned to back to Daenerys, and held out his hand for his  Queen. She grasped it quickly.

“My Lords,” he said, “may I present Daenerys of House Targaryen, my wife, my Queen, by fire, by rite, by blood.”

The room fell to its knees as one. Even the old lords who had bent the knee at Aegon’s Hill now bowed with sincerity. One by one, they stepped forward to kiss Daenerys’s hand, offering words of loyalty. She accepted them with grace and steel behind her violet eyes.

“I do not forget those who bend in peace,” she said quietly to Lord Edmure.

Rhaenar gave them a moment before turning to a Kingsguard at the back of the tent.

“Bring in Lord Renly.”

Renly Baratheon, disarmed but not dishonored, entered flanked by Ser Gerold and Ser Oswell. His face was bruised from days in chains but not broken. He stood tall before the King he once denied.

“You are free,” Rhaenar said simply. “Your brother made his choice. He chose battle. He chose death.”

Renly blinked. “And you offer me life?”

“I offer you your family’s future,” Rhaenar said. “Robert's body will be given to you. We will hold a pyre tonight, that his friends and family may say farewell with dignity. You may take his bones back to Storm’s End.”

Renly swallowed. “You do this… why?”

Rhaenar met his gaze. “Because vengeance does not build kingdoms. And because mercy does not make me weak, it makes me worthy.”

Silence followed.

Then Renly lowered his head. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

Rhaenar nodded to Arthur, who placed a hand on Renly’s shoulder and guided him out.

As the tension finally broke, Rhaenar looked out at the gathered lords.

“The war is not over yet,” he said. “But today, peace has taken its first breath.”

The murmurs of allegiance had faded, but the fire in Rhaenar’s voice had not.

“The last obstacle to ending this war,” he said, pacing slowly along the edge of the war map, “is the West. Tywin Lannister, his butchers, Ser Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch, they must face the King’s Justice.”

He looked up, eyes hard as northern steel.

“For my brother Aegon. For my sister Rhaenys. And for Elia Martell of Dorne.”

A hush fell over the lords assembled. Prince Oberyn, standing to the side, said nothing, but his jaw tightened, and his eyes blazed with remembered grief.

Eddard Stark stepped forward, his grey cloak trailing behind him, Ghost padding silently at his heel.

“You’ll have no argument from me,” Ned said solemnly. “I was at court when the bodies were brought to the Red Keep. The girl… the babe… and Elia. I’ll never forget it. Nor forgive it.”

Rhaenar turned to him. “Where is Lord Tywin?”

“After Storm’s End fell, Robert feared your army would take King’s Landing next. He ordered Lord Tywin to march west and enter the city from the Golden Road, to beat you to the capital.”

Rhaenar stepped closer to the war table, his gloved hand brushing across the carved stone hills and valleys. He tapped the Gold Road, and then King’s Landing.

“We can reach it first.”

He looked up to the room.

“We’ll march hard at dawn. If we make good time, we can reach the city walls before Tywin does. We’ll secure the battlefield outside of Kings Landing, force him to face us on our terms,”

The lords began to murmur again, orders forming on their tongues, maps adjusted, commands filtering through captains outside the tent.

Rhaenar turned to them one last time.

“Tell your men to prepare. We break camp at first light. The Dragon rides for the capital.”

The lords filed out, eager, purposeful, leaving only the Targaryens, their Kingsguard, Ned, and Robb.

Rhaenar approached Ned, his tone quieter now.

“Lord Stark,” he said. “Cousin.”

That word still felt strange in the air between them, but no less true.

“I would like to speak with you more. Share a meal with you and your son. Come dine with me tonight, just us. My Queen. My Hand.”

Ned hesitated, then gave a slow nod.

“I would like that.”

Rhaenar turned to Robb, whose blue eyes were still full of trepidation. “You as well, Lord Robb.”

Robb bowed his head. “I’ll bring my appetite.”

A faint smile tugged at Rhaenar’s lips.

“Then come hungry.”

Behind him, Daenerys took his hand as Ghost padded after the Starks, vanishing into the evening fog. Outside, horns called for riders. Campfires flickered against the darkening horizon.

Breaking Bread

The tent was large, but its interior was warm, quiet, and bathed in soft golden light from lanterns hung along the center poles. The sound of the camp outside had faded to a low murmur, steel sharpening, orders whispered, horses shifting in their tethers.

Rhaenar sat at the head of a modest wooden table, still clad in his tunic, but unbuttoned, he looked relaxed. Daenerys sat beside him, her silver hair unbound, a subtle smile playing at her lips as she poured wine. Viserys lounged across from her, boots dusted from the road, his mood high despite the long day.

Ned Stark entered first, pausing just inside. Robb followed a step behind, his red hair tousled from wind and sweat, but his bearing steady and respectful. The direwolves Ghost and Greywind flanked them silently, settling near the hearth.

Rhaenar rose, offering a small smile.

“Welcome, Lord Stark. Lord Robb. Please, sit. You’ve marched long, and this table offers better company than most.”

Ned gave a nod, the shadow of weariness still clinging to his brow.

“We’re honored, Your Grace.”

Rhaenar smiled at the familiar edge of gruff affection in the older man’s voice. He raised his cup again, not in command, but in kinship.

“No formalities tonight,” Rhaenar said. “Family, not titles.”

Eddard Stark gave a slow nod, his eyes crinkling faintly at the corners. “Alright then, Rhaenar. But if it’s family you want, you must call me Uncle Ned… or Eddard, whichever you prefer.”

Rhaenar’s lips curved into a deeper smile, something gentler than war or legacy allowed him most days. “Uncle Ned it is,” he said quietly, like a truth that had waited fifteen years to be spoken.

Beside him, Daenerys smiled as well, watching the bond begin to form. Viserys lifted his cup and smirked. “To Uncle Ned, then.”

Robb raised his own cup, eyes alight with curiosity and something more, hope, perhaps. “And to the family we still have,” he added.

They clinked goblets softly, the sound lost amid the firelight, but the meaning rang clear. In a world of war, betrayal, and blood-soaked crowns, here sat the chance for something long thought lost.

Family.

They took their seats.

“I must admit,” Ned said, cutting into roasted venison, “I did not expect this. War makes savages of most men. But you… you show restraint. Mercy.”

Rhaenar met his gaze. “I don’t fight for revenge, Uncle Ned. I fight to rebuild. The Iron Throne is not the end, it is only the beginning. The realm must heal. I cannot rule over bones and bitterness.”

Viserys chuckled. “You sound more like Baelor the Blessed than the Conqueror.”

“Perhaps I am both,” Rhaenar said. “Perhaps that’s what the realm needs.”

They ate quietly for a few moments, save for the occasional clink of metal on wood.

Then Ned leaned forward, his voice softer now, tinged with the weight of years and unanswered questions. “Where were you all these years?”

The warmth from the hearth danced in Rhaenar’s eyes as he set down his goblet. For a long moment, he said nothing, then met Ned’s gaze evenly.

“We were on the ancient Targaryen stronghold,” Rhaenar answered. “The Dragon’s Lair. It lies hidden in the Stepstones, a forgotten remnant from before the Dance, Prince Daemon built it when he conquered the Step Stones. Few remember it even exists.”

Robb’s brow furrowed. “And no one found you?”

“No one ever came close,” Viserys said, his tone proud. “Not pirates, not spies, not even the maesters who think they know every stone in the world.”

Rhaenar continued, his voice low but steady. “It was my grandmother’s plan. After Dragonstone was set to fall, we fled there with loyalists, Kingsguard, Velaryon sailors, a handful of knights. We used the caverns beneath the island to train, to raise our dragons… and to prepare.”

“Wait,” said Robb, his eyes widening. “You raised the dragons there?”

Daenerys nodded. “Three eggs were brought from Essos. Thought to be petrified. My brother Rhaegar left them with Lyanna in Dorn. They hatched… when Rhaenar was born.”

Ned sat back, stunned. His voice was barely a whisper. “So they weren’t gone. Just sleeping.”

“Waiting,” said Rhaenar. “For the world to be ready or desperate enough to need them again.”

“And now you’ve returned,” Ned murmured. “With dragons… and vengeance.”

“With justice,” Rhaenar corrected gently. “We stayed hidden to protect what was left of our house. We came back to reclaim what was stolen, but not through shadow or whispers. Through fire, yes… but also through peace, if we can manage it.”

Ned studied him, eyes hard and uncertain. “And you would rule? Not just with dragons, but with honor?”

Rhaenar looked to Daenerys. Then to Viserys. Then back to Ned.

“I would rule with them beside me. With wisdom where I lack it. With mercy where I can offer it. And with fire  where it is needed.”

A long silence stretched between them, filled only by the soft crackle of flame and the distant howl of wind through the banners outside.

Then Ned nodded once. “Then you may be the first dragon I can follow.”

Rhaenar extended a hand, not as a king, but as kin.

And Eddard Stark took it.

The fire crackled low in the brazier behind them, casting soft golden light across the tent. Plates were cleared, wine half-finished, the weight of war momentarily set aside for something simpler, kinship  newly discovered.

Eddard sat back in his chair, the weariness of a long campaign on his shoulders, but a gentleness in his eyes now as he looked across the table at his sister’s son. The boy who was gone before he was known. The man who had returned with dragons.

“After the dust is settled,” Ned said quietly, “and the war is won… you should come to Winterfell. Meet the rest of your cousins. See the home your mother grew up in.”

Rhaenar paused, struck by the invitation. A place he had heard of only in stories, spoken of in quiet tones by Ser Gerold and his  Kingsguard, snow-covered ramparts, grey stone halls, the godswood older than time. Lyanna’s home.

“I would like that,” Rhaenar said, his voice softer now. “I’ve always wanted to see the North. The Wall too… to stand where the world ends.”

Ned nodded, his expression wistful. “Your mother rode through the Wolfswood like she was half-horse when she was young. She loved it. Hated the heat down south.” He gave a faint smile. “She would’ve wanted you to know the North. It’s in your blood.”

Daenerys reached for Rhaenar’s hand beneath the table. “Then we’ll go,” she said gently. “Together.”

Robb looked between them, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’ll find no better hosts. And if you ask nicely, I might even let you win a sparring match.”

That earned a laugh from Viserys, and even Rhaenar chuckled as he raised his goblet again.

“To Winterfell,” he said.

“To Winterfell,” they echoed.

For a moment, the war was far away.

And family was all that remained.

Rhaenar rose first, the flickering light of the brazier casting his shadow long across the tent wall. His gaze lingered on Eddard and Robb, the quiet reflection of kin he’d only just begun to know.

“Lord Robert’s funeral will begin soon,” he said, his voice calm, composed, but not without weight. “I’ll let you say your goodbyes. We’ll talk more tomorrow… Uncle Ned. Robb.”
He gave a small smile, almost shy. “It was good to spend time with you. I enjoyed it.”

Ned stood, his eyes steady. “Aye,” he replied. “And I hope this is the first of many meals we share… as family.”

They shook hands, firm, respectful. Robb followed, clasping forearms with Rhaenar in the old northern way. “You may fight well,” Robb said. “But I’d like to see how you fare when there aren’t dragons overhead.”

Rhaenar chuckled. “Break your fast with me before we ride, and perhaps we’ll see whose sword is quicker at the table.”

“Aye,” Robb grinned, and with a nod to Daenerys, followed his father out into the darkening night, where the flames of Robert Baratheon’s pyre would soon rise.

Viserys excused himself next, already undoing the clasps of his cloak as he headed toward his own tent, Ser Oswell moving silently behind him like a pale wraith.

Only Daenerys remained.

She said nothing at first, just watched Rhaenar with eyes that burned like candleflame. Then she crossed the tent in three silent steps, and wrapped her arms around him. She buried her face in his chest, breathed him in.

Without a word, she pulled his tunic over his head, her fingers slow and sure.

Rhaenar caught her hands gently. “You’ve barely slept,” he said softly.

“I’ll sleep when we wear the crown,” she whispered. “Tonight, I want you. Not the king. Just you.”

He needed no further coaxing. They fell together onto the bed, limbs tangled, hearts steady, the world outside briefly forgotten. For all the blood that had been shed, and the blood yet to be spilled.

Chapter Text

The Small Council chamber smelled of rose oil and cold fear.

The painted table in the Red Keep was surrounded by silence, not reverent, but stunned. The fire crackled in the hearth, though no one looked toward it. All eyes were on the spymaster cloaked in lavender silks.

Varys.

He moved like a shadow given breath, gliding into the chamber with a bow so slight it was almost mocking.

“My queen,” he said smoothly.

Cersei Lannister did not rise. She sat coiled on the Iron Chair of the king, like a serpent before the strike. Her green eyes gleamed like poison glass. “Speak plainly, eunuch.”

Varys inclined his head again. “Robert Baratheon is dead.”

Gasps erupted. Ser Meryn Trant cursed aloud. Grand Maester Pycelle choked on his wine. Ser Boros Blount’s hand drifted to the hilt of his sword as though it might protect him from the truth.

But Cersei only narrowed her eyes. “How?”

Varys folded his hands. “Slain. At the edge of the Gods Eye. The North, the Riverlands, and the Vale have all bent the knee.”

The words echoed in the chamber like a tolling bell.

“Bent to who?” she demanded.

Varys’s pause was deliberate. “Rhaenar Targaryen. Son of Rhaegar… and Lyanna Stark.”

For a moment, she said nothing.

Then, like a dam cracking, Cersei surged to her feet, fury washing over her in waves.

“Lyanna,” she spat the name like bile. “That wolf bitch has stolen everything from me twice now.”

The Small Council flinched.

“The first night Robert came to my bed, drunk and doing what little he could, he whispered her name,” Cersei hissed, pacing. “And now this… this bastard of hers comes back from the grave to destroy everything I’ve built.”

Cersei turned back to the room, eyes wild with fury and desperation.

“Then we must go to the High Septon,” she said. “He must speak out. Condemn this… Rhaenar. Let the Faith call him what he is, a bastard. A pretender born of a kidnapped girl and a mad prince. The Faith will turn the people against him. They’ll march for the Seven, not for some dragon-touched boy.”

Varys did not flinch.

“I do not believe whether he is a bastard or not will matter, Your Grace,” he said calmly. “He is a dragonrider. And that alone, in the eyes of many, makes him legitimate.”

Cersei blinked, as if struck.

“Dragon… rider?” she whispered.

The room fell still.

Varys gave a subtle nod. “Yes. It is true, though not yet widely known. He descended upon the parlay from the skies on a beast with wings as wide as the red fork. Green-scaled, old, and powerful. And behind him flew two more. Black, and white.”

Ser Mandon Moore muttered a curse under his breath. Even Pycelle paled.

Cersei clutched the edge of the table, her knuckles bone-white.

“So the rumors were true…” she murmured. “Dragons. Real dragons.”

Varys inclined his head slightly. “The old blood of Valyria has returned in full fire and fury. And if the smallfolk saw him descend from the clouds atop a winged monster… they will not listen to septons or lords. They will listen to a myth made flesh.”

Cersei’s voice dropped to a whisper. “How did this happen? We burned them out. We ended their line. Aegon was smashed. Rhaegar was broken. Rhaella died… and Daenerys and Viserys were nothing but babes, scattered and broken.”

She turned to Varys.

“You said they were shattered. You swore it.”

Varys’s expression didn’t shift. “Even shattered swords can be reforged, Your Grace. Especially when tempered by fire.”

Cersei swayed, grasping for control again.

“Then we kill the myth. We kill him.” Her eyes sharpened. “If he comes for the city, we man every bridge. Every gate. Let them see what happens when you threaten the lion’s den.”

Varys only bowed once, deeply. But when he rose, his eyes were distant, unreadable.

“And if the lion is already aflame?” he asked softly. “What then, Your Grace?”

She turned to Varys, teeth bared. “What of Joffrey? My son, our new King? What of Jaime and my father?”

Varys raised one delicate hand. “The western host still marches. Tywin Lannister, Ser Jaime, and young Joffrey were sent to flank the Targaryen army, reinforcing the capital. They have not engaged. By my birds say they are still advancing along the Gold Road.”

Cersei’s lips curved, sharp and dangerous. “Then the gods are not blind after all. My father will come. And when he does, he’ll put this false king and his dragon-bred siblings to the sword. The lords who bent the knee will burn for their treachery. I’ll see their castles turned to rubble.”

She turned her back to the council, looking out over the city through high stained glass. The light cut her in red and gold.

“I want ravens sent to every loyal house. The West will not stand alone. Call the banners.”

“And the people, Your Grace?” Pycelle wheezed. “The smallfolk whisper of dragons. Of fire in the sky and shadows in the sea. They are frightened.”

“Let them be frightened,” she snapped. “Fear is the only thing that will keep them in line. Until the lion devours the last of the dragon’s brood.”

Varys said nothing. But as his eyes flicked toward the firelight, he could almost hear the wings already beating.

The Spider’s Web

The night’s wind howled outside the tower of the Hand, but within Varys' chambers, the candles burned low and steady. Scrolls littered the desk, sealed and unsealed, bearing marks from Dorne, Essos, and the Stormlands, now obsolete. A raven cooed softly in its cage. The bird would not fly tonight.

Varys sat unmoving, save for the slow, thoughtful motion of his fingers as he traced the edge of an old wax seal, one he had not looked at in years. The three-headed dragon of black on red. The true sigil, yes, but not of the boy that now rode dragons above Westeros.

Rhaenar…

He let the name sit there in the gloom.

Son of Rhaegar. Son of Lyanna. The prince he had not accounted for. The one not bred, but born, not molded in exile, but raised in secret.

His plans… his long, patient schemes… were crumbling.

He had spent so many years sowing whispers for another.

Aegon. No, Daemon, his mother called him. The boy with the silver hair and violet eyes. His sister’s son, raised to be King, even if it was a false name he would rule under. Make people believe he is the true heir of Rhaegar Targaryen.

Varys had believed it. Needed to believe it. That the perfect prince could be built, shaped for rule, for justice, for mercy. And now?

Now, a different dragon had risen.

And he has dragons indeed…

Real ones. Living ones. Winged judgment above the godswood and the kingsroad. No mere legend.

What chance does Aegon have against that?

Unless…

Varys rose from his seat and stepped to the window, gazing over the rooftops of King’s Landing. Fires still glowed faintly in distant chimneys. Smallfolk who would soon know that kings were falling and dragons flying again.

He clasped his hands behind his back.

Perhaps not all is lost.

Rhaenar is bold. Charismatic. Even merciful, they say. But peace makes men soft. And nothing breeds discord like family.

If Aegon, Daemon, were to be revealed now, the realm would laugh. No one would care for birth order, not when one brother had already conquered.

But in time… after the dust settled, and Rhaenar crowned… if there were division. If the Dornish could be tempted. If he could drive a wedge through this perfect dragon triad, Viserys as Hand, Daenerys as Queen…

Yes, he thought. The Dornish. They must be the key.

Perhaps… an offer of alliance. Arianne Martell for Aegon. Prince of Dorne, heir to the Iron Throne. And Dorne owed Elia’s memory a reckoning.

He would reach out to Connington soon, and Illyrio would need to know right away, all the careful planning come crashing down.

Quietly. Carefully. The fox could still play while the lion roared and the dragon slept.

Let the Targaryens revel in their triumph. I shall work in silence.

And when they least expect it… the seeds he sowed would bloom.

The Queen's Vigil

The sea was calm today.

That in itself was strange. Dragonstone was a place of winds and fury, of salt-stung stone and storm-lashed cliffs. But this morning, the Narrow Sea whispered instead of roared. It was as if the island itself were holding its breath.

Queen Rhaella Targaryen stood in the solar of the Stone Drum, draped in a flowing gown of black and crimson silk, a mantle of silver-threaded velvet resting gently across her shoulders. Her silver hair, once a cascade of light, had thinned and faded with age, but her bearing had not dulled. Not even exile could dim the fire in her spine.

She turned as a knock sounded at the door.

Ser Aurane Velaryon entered, armored in white and sea-steel, the Targaryen sigil stitched in silver thread upon his cloak. He bowed, one hand extended.

"A raven, Your Grace. From the King."

She took it with a trembling hand, though her expression betrayed no weakness. The seal was red wax, pressed with the three-headed dragon, her house, her legacy, her grandson’s future.

She broke it and read.

First in silence.

Then aloud, her voice measured, steady.

“Robert Baratheon is dead.”

She looked up at Aurane, who only inclined his head.

“The North has bent the knee. As have the Riverlands and the Vale. Storm’s End is ours. Renly lives as our guest. The dragons flew, and the world watched.”

She drew a long breath, letting the words settle in her chest like hot wine on a cold night.

“We march next toward King’s Landing. The West and the Iron Isles remain. Soon, the realm will be whole again. Soon, we will return home.”

She closed the parchment, her eyes shining not with tears, but with something deeper, relief, pride, hope long deferred.

“They did it,” she whispered. “My children… my Rhaenar.”

Aurane spoke softly. “The campaign has turned. The crown is no longer a dream.”

“No,” she said. “It is within our grasp.”

She crossed the chamber to the high window, gazing out across the dark waters where so many dreams had drowned and where so many had been born anew.

“I once stood in the Red Keep with my husband beside me, and the world at my feet. Then came madness. Blood. Death, and silence.”

Her fingers curled into a fist against the cold stone sill.

“But now the song begins again. With a different verse. With my grandson on the throne. My blood restored.”

Aurane said nothing, but his hand drifted to the hilt of his blade, a silent vow that he would see her home.

Rhaella turned, her chin lifted.

“See to the preparations, Ser Aurane. If the West and the Ironborn have any sense left, they will bend the knee before fire finds them too.”

“And if they do not?” he asked.

She smiled thinly.

“Then they shall learn what the dragon's wrath truly means.”

She looked once more to the horizon.

Soon.

After so many years, so many graves, so many nights spent dreaming of fire and vengeance.

The Queen would return to the Red Keep.

Winterfell 

The snow had not yet begun to fall, but the air had the bite of change in it.

Catelyn Stark stood by the hearth in her solar, the fire crackling low and steady, casting long shadows across the stone walls. Outside the arrow-slit window, the wind whispered through the godswood, tugging at the last clinging leaves of autumn. A wolf howled in the distance, Summer, she suspected, keeping vigil with his siblings.

In her hands, she held a letter. The parchment trembled slightly, not from cold, but from the weight of the words inked upon it.

Ned’s handwriting was familiar, precise, and unflinching, like the man himself. But the words... they did not belong to the world she remembered.

Lyanna had a son.

A trueborn Targaryen. Named Rhaenar. My sister wed Prince Rhaegar before the old gods. He did not steal her. She went to him of her own will.

And now their son rides with dragons. Three of them. Like Aegon of old.

Catelyn sat heavily in her chair, the furs around her shoulders shifting as if disturbed by unseen hands. She read the letter again. And again.

Lyanna…

So much grief had been built on a lie. A misunderstanding.

And now, Robert Baratheon dead, her husband had bent the knee, to the very blood he had once fought to destroy. To the son of Rhaegar Targaryen, the man whose name had been whispered like a curse across the North for nearly two decades.

But if what Ned wrote is true… then none of us ever understood the truth to begin with.

Her eyes lifted to the flames, their flickers dancing like dragonfire. Three dragons. She imagined them, wings vast enough to block out the sun, fire crackling in their throats.

And one of them calls himself king.

She thought of her children. Robb, already gone to war. Sansa and Arya, ageing while their father was away, starting to show semblances of being sisters. Bran, trying so hard to be a man grown. And Rickon, still small enough to cry for his father in the night.

What kind of world are we sending them into?

A knock shattered the quiet.

“Come,” she said, voice firm despite the tightness in her chest.

Ser Rodrik Cassel entered, snow dusted on his shoulders, his whiskers stiff with frost. His expression was grim, the kind of grim that came with drawn swords and bloody shorelines.

“My lady,” he said without preamble, “a raven has arrived. From the Rills. Reavers have been sighted on the Stony Shore.”

Catelyn’s breath caught. “Ironborn?”

“Aye. Longships seen under cover of night. Smoke rising. No word yet of the scale.”

Her fingers clenched around Ned’s letter.

As the realm burns, the krakens rise from the depths to carve their own share of chaos.

“How many men can we spare?” she asked.

“I’ve already sent word to the Manderlys and the Tallharts,” Ser Rodrik said. “They’ll rally what they can. We’ll dispatch five hundred from the Winterfell garrison before first light.”

Catelyn nodded, though her lips pressed into a thin line. The great hall still felt foreign without Eddard seated at its end, and the weight of decisions was heavier in his absence.

“And Bran?” she asked, her voice quiet but firm.

Ser Rodrik Cassel stood before her, snow melting slowly in the gray whiskers of his mustache. He shifted, armor creaking faintly.

“He gave the command, my lady,” Rodrik said. “Calm as you please. Said the gates would not close to allies, but no man would cross without our leave. Just as Lord Eddard might have.”

Catelyn’s fingers tightened on the carved armrest of her chair. Her boy. Her brave, foolish boy.

“Where is he now?” she asked, unable to keep the strain from her voice.

“In the godswood,” Rodrik answered. “With Maester Luwin. He asked for quiet before he returned to the hall. I believe he seeks guidance.”

Or solace, she thought. Or his father’s face in the bark of a tree.

“Send a guard,” she said sharply. “Double it. No chances.”

Rodrik bowed and left her in silence.

Catelyn stood, moving to the window. The wind had picked up again, moaning against the stone like a grieving widow.

The dragons have returned. The stag has fallen. The kraken stirs.

The game had changed.

And Winterfell, once thought far from such storms, now stood on the edge of a new war, one of fire, salt, and shadow.

She pressed Ned’s letter to her chest, and whispered into the cold:

“Gods keep us all.”

The Stony Sept

The banners of House Lannister snapped in the wind, gold against crimson, as some forty thousand men moved like a great tide across the green fields east of the Blackwater Rush. War drums beat low and steady. Steel clanked. Hooves beat the river mud to sludge. The skies above were clear, but every man in the army knew a storm was coming.

In the old sept-house that gave the town its name, Tywin Lannister stood before a rough-hewn map of the crownlands, his gloved hands braced on the table.

The chamber was cold despite the blaze in the hearth, and the crackling of the fire only seemed to deepen the silence.

A scout came rushing in.

“My lord…” the messenger said, breath shallow with the weight of the words he carried. “Robert Baratheon is dead. Slain at the Gods Eye.”

The crack of firewood echoed like a war drum.

“The North, the Vale, and the Riverlands have bent the knee,” he continued. “The Targaryen… Rhaenar… now styles himself King.”

The words dropped into the chamber like a blade, and all sound ceased. Even the fire dared not speak.

Tywin Lannister did not move. He sat behind his desk, still as carved stone, his hands steepled before him. His eyes, pale gold and unblinking, fixed on the trembling man who delivered the blow.

“Who is this Rhaenar?” Tywin asked at last, his voice a whisper of silk drawn over steel.

“They say he is the son of Rhaegar and Lyanna Stark, my lord,” the messenger said, eyes on the floor. “Born during the Rebellion. Raised in secret.”

“A bastard,” Tywin said, the word spoken with more contempt than rage. “A bastard dares call himself king. And the realm bows? Not while I still draw breath,” he turned back to the scout. “How did Robert die?”

“Reports vary my lord; some say dragons have returned. All that’s known is Storm’s End fell in a night, King Robert slain in single combat by Ser Arthur Dayne.”

At that, Ser Kevan Lannister stirred at the edge of the room. Tyrion, lounging in a high-backed chair, set down his cup with deliberate care.

“Dragons,” Tyrion said, softly. “How poetic. Or absurd. Depending on how drunk the ravens were.”

Tywin’s face was stone. He stepped away from the table and turned toward Joffrey, who stood beside Ser Kevan, dressed in gilded mail and a lion-crested cloak far too grand for the boy he still was.

“It’s time,” Tywin said.

Joffrey’s lips parted. “Grandfather?”

“You are the King now,” Tywin said simply. “By right of blood, and death of your predecessor. Kneel.”

Joffrey dropped to one knee, still blinking in disbelief. Ser Kevan removed a circlet of gold from a velvet-lined case, plain but regal. Tywin took it in his hands and placed it firmly on the boy’s head.

“I crown you Joffrey of House Baratheon, First of Your Name,” Tywin said, his voice echoing off the old sept’s walls, “King of the Andals , the Rhoyner and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.”

Joffrey rose. “I name my grandfather Tywin Lannister as Hand of the King,” he declared proudly.

Tyrion chuckled behind his goblet. “So young. So swift to pass off the burden.”

Tywin ignored him. “We march at once. We must reach King’s Landing before the Targaryens do. The Iron Throne is the symbol of power, he who wields it controls the people.”

“But the dragons,” Kevan muttered. “If the rumors are true...”

“Then it changes nothing,” Tywin said sharply. “A dragon is still mortal. And dragons or not, the lords who bent the knee to this boy-king did so only after defeat. That tells me what I need to know. They are not loyal. They are afraid.”

He turned back to the table, eyes sweeping across the names of the traitor lords.

“We exploit that. We sow fear. We send ravens to Lord Roose Bolton. Promise him the North, if he delivers Ned Stark’s head. We write to Lord Walder Frey, offer marriage pacts and lands, make him Lord Paramount of the Trident. These are not men of honor. They are men of opportunity. And now is the moment.”

He looked to Tyrion.

“You will write the letters. Subtlety is needed.”

Tyrion gave a mock bow. “You wound me with your flattery.”

“Time is not our ally,” Tywin said. “The capital must be secured. If we get there before the dragons, we hold the Iron Throne in truth.”

“And if they arrive first?” Kevan asked.

Tywin’s jaw tightened. “Then we do what lions do best. We fight. But on our terms.”

He turned to Joffrey.

“You wanted to be King. Now you will learn what it means to rule. Not from your drunk father, but me. I ruled the realm for twenty years under Aerys, I will teach you what is needed to be a great King.”

Joffrey paled but nodded. “I… I will make the realm remember me. I will defeat this Dragon Bastard as my father killed his father.”

Tyrion raised a brow. “I’m sure you will dear nephew.”

Outside the sept, the banners of House Lannister swayed like a thousand golden threats in the wind.

And somewhere far ahead, dragons waited beyond the horizon.

The Weight of Oaths

The rhythm of hoofbeats had become a lullaby of war, steady, ceaseless, and ominous. The Lannister host wound its way eastward, banners snapping in the summer wind, some forty thousand strong, and still Jaime Lannister could find no peace in the march.

He rode near the vanguard, His cousin’s Martyn, Willem and Tyrek on one side, Ser Addam Marbrand on the other. The sun glared off his gilded armor, and the wind tugged at his red cloak, but beneath the splendor Jaime felt no pride. Only heat. And pressure.

Word had reached them days ago, carried on the wings of panic.

Ser Arthur Dayne lives.

At first, Jaime scoffed. It couldn’t be. The Sword of the Morning died in the rebellion  or so they said. But the name had come again and again. Arthur Dayne. Barristan Selmy. Oswell Whent. Gerold Hightower. All of them alive. All of them fighting for a son no one had known existed.

Rhaenar Targaryen.

And now Jaime could not stop thinking about Arthur.

He remembered the heat of Dorne, the scent of sand and steel, and how he’d once knelt in awe at the feet of a man he’d idolized since boyhood. The man who knighted him. Arthur had been taller than memory, eyes like burning amethysts, voice calm even as his sword split the air like dawn itself.

He had never called Jaime “Kingslayer.”

The word clung to Jaime now, always. In the whispers. The sneers. The songs. Even his own dreams. Especially his dreams.

Burn them all. The words still echoed, soaked in blood and wildfire.

King Aerys had been mad. Rotten from the inside. And yet… he had worn the crown. And Jaime had worn the white cloak.

“I swore to protect him, and his children,” he muttered under his breath.

“Ser Jaime?” asked Ser Addam beside him.

“Nothing,” Jaime said. He forced a smile. “Ghosts.”

But the ghosts weren’t silent.

What will he say if I see him again? Arthur Dayne, still in white, still true to his oaths, still the greatest knight to ever live. And me? A golden lie.

Would he draw Dawn against me? Would I raise my sword in return?

Jaime tightened his grip on the reins.

No. I couldn’t. Not against him.

He wondered what Ser Arthur Dayne thought of him now, if he thought of him at all.

The Sword of the Morning had been a living legend, a paragon of honor and deadly grace, the shining star around which Jaime's boyhood dreams had orbited. He remembered the way Arthur moved, fluid as flame, the way he spoke, soft-spoken, solemn, unwavering. And the way he looked at Jaime when he was knighted, when the white cloak was clasped to his shoulders.

That look haunted him more than the screams of Aerys.

He had broken his vows. He had killed a king. He had betrayed the sacred charge that the Kingsguard was meant to uphold.

Everything that white cloak stood for, he had soiled with blood.

And yet…

Was I wrong to do it?
The thought whispered through the cracks in his pride, a phantom voice that returned each time he looked in the mirror and saw gold instead of white.

No.
Aerys had to die. There was no choice. He would have burned the city, every man, woman, and child, just to destroy Tywin. He would have set wildfire to the Red Keep, to the Sept of Baelor, to the very foundations of the realm. Jaime had heard the laughter in the king’s voice when he gave the order. Burn them all, he had said, eyes gleaming like a mad prophet’s.

So he killed him.

And still, they whispered Kingslayer like a curse. Like a brand burned into his soul. They never asked why.

Arthur might have.

But he wasn’t here. And if he ever returned, if he still lived at all, Jaime knew what he’d see in those violet eyes; disappointment. Judgment. The echo of a vow broken.

Let them call me Kingslayer. Let them sneer and scorn. I saved them.
And none of them ever thanked me for it.

He looked ahead. The road was long, the dust thick, the capital still far off. But the pace was relentless. The Targaryens were coming, and so were their dragons.

Time was running out for the lions.

And the debts they owed, every murdered heir, every oath broken, were coming due.

The Queen of Thorns

The sun was bright over Highgarden, golden and sweet as summer wine, and the scent of roses drifted through the open windows of the solar. Bees hummed lazily in the distance. It was a beautiful day to dream of power.

Lady Olenna Tyrell sat beneath a trellis of blooming goldbuds, a letter from her grandson Garlan open in her wrinkled hands. Her eyes, still sharp despite the years, scanned each line with the precision of a battle commander surveying a map.

When she reached the final passage, her smile turned predatory.

"Well," she said aloud to no one in particular, "the dragons have returned in all their splendor."

She tapped the parchment against her lap, rereading the key lines over and over again, savoring them like a tart lemoncake.

“The King offered Lord Robert mercy. He told him to bend the knee and reclaim Storm’s End. Robert refused. His death was clean. Merciful, even. More than our late mad king would have given.”

More than Aerys. How like Rhaegar, she thought. But swifter. Sharper.

“Truly his father’s son,” Olenna muttered. “But better.”

She reached for her cup of Arbor gold and took a long, satisfied sip.

It had all happened so fast. Dragonstone, Storm’s End… already his. The North, the Vale, the Riverlands, all bowed now. Only the West and the Iron Islands remained. Two kingdoms left to tame.

"And soon the Reach will rise with him fully," she said with a smirk, glancing at the untouched embroidery across the table. "Our banners already fly beside his, and soon my granddaughter will sit beside his Hand."

She thought of Margaery.
All silk and smiles, ambition folded neatly beneath a maiden’s laugh. A rose with thorns sharp enough to draw blood if touched without care.

Margaery had asked her once, in the quiet of their solar, why not demand she wed the King? Why not reach for the crown itself, now that Rhaenar had returned with a vengeance?

Olenna had smiled then, not kindly.

“Because, child, with dragons at his back, he will rule whether the Reach bends or breaks. A marriage won’t change that. But choosing to rise with him? That will buy us more than a crown ever could.”

It was strategy, not surrender.

But Viserys had power in his own right.

Hand of the King.
Brother to the Queen.
Brother-by-law to the Dragon King himself.

That was power, real power.

"And with luck,” Olenna mused, “she’ll give him a daughter.”

A little flower of the dragonblood. Half Tyrell, half Targaryen. One day a Queen, if things played out as was promised. And Olenna always planned for the long game.

“Growing strong indeed,” she murmured, her words like velvet wrapped around steel.

She rose slowly, passing into the shade where cool stone met blooming vines. The sun was setting over the Mander, and the bells of Highgarden rang in the distance, sounding not like warning, but celebration.

When the war ended, the Tyrells would not be licking wounds in some scorched holdfast. They would be feasting in the Red Keep, Margaery on the arm of the King’s right hand, and Olenna herself seated at court once more, watching the lions drown in their debts and the krakens thrash on rocks they should never have climbed.

The Reach had chosen well.

The Silence Screams

The Silence cut through the waves like a dagger through soft flesh, black sails full with wind, gold kraken banners flapping like wet gore. The hull groaned with hunger, and the ship’s deck stank of salt, blood, and madness.

Euron Greyjoy stood at the prow, arms spread wide, his long black coat whipping behind him like wings. The wind howled. The sea sang.

And he laughed.

Mad, unholy laughter. The sound of a godless man tasting divinity.

“Behold!” he shouted, voice rising above the creak of timbers and the drumbeat of oars. “The wealth of lions, ripe for the reaping!”

Ahead, Lannisport gleamed in the fading light. Gold-tiled rooftops, merchant harbors thick with ships, streets fat with coin and complacency. There was no alarm yet, no signal fires, no horns of war. The Iron Fleet had come silent and swift.

Behind the Silence, the rest of the fleet stretched across the sea, sails dark as night, spears ready to strike. Victarion led the left flank. Dunstan Drumm, the right. Dozens of longships, ironborn reavers from Pyke to Blacktyde, all of them chanting the old words beneath their breath.

“What is dead may never die.”

“And yet it shall kill,” Euron whispered, his smile splitting wide. He wore no helm, only a leather patch over one eye, the other blazing blue, alight with something ancient and unknowable.

He lifted his arms as if to embrace the city, or perhaps curse it.

“We’ll pay the iron price for every brick,” he said. “For every vault of gold, every harp-strummed lullaby, every soft lion’s pelt they’ve ever lain upon. But not for Baelon.”

His voice dropped, low and venomous.

“No… not for my brother.”

Baelon Greyjoy had played at kingship long enough. Let him drown in his salt stool, dreaming of the Old Way. The true kings wore no crowns, they took them.

Euron had drowned. And risen. And seen things in the deep.

When the priests of the drowned god pulled him back from the sea, choking, laughing, his veins full of brine and madness, he had whispered one truth,

“The world is mine to break.”

He drew his sword now, black and wicked, forged in Old Volantis, whispers said it was cursed, fed to fire with the tongues of slaves. The edge caught the dying light, and Euron raised it high.

“To the lions!” he roared. “Strip the gold from their bones!”

The warhorns bellowed from the decks behind him. The ironborn screamed their war cries from adjacent ships. Axes rose. Grappling lines flew. Yet, all was silent on The Silence. His crew, stripped of their tongues, only starred ahead, ready for the assault.

And The Silence slammed into the first harbor ship like a vengeful god, splintering wood and skulls alike.

The first fires bloomed along the docks. Screams followed, and Lannisport woke too late.

As the blood began to spill, Euron Greyjoy threw back his head, and howled into the storm.

“A crown of salt and rock! Let it be mine!”

Chapter Text

The Ashes Stir

The banners of the North, Vale, the Riverlords, the Reach, Dorne, and the Dragon of Targaryen fluttered like storm winds atop the ridges as one hundred-twenty thousand men poured onto the plains beyond King’s Landing.

From the high ground, the capital looked almost serene. Golden domes and red tiled roofs shimmered in the haze, the winding streets of Flea Bottom choked with smoke and fear, while the Red Keep loomed above, carved into the bones of Aegon’s Hill, as if daring the dragons to reclaim it.

Beyond the city, Blackwater Bay glittered, calm as glass beneath the afternoon sun, but there was no peace upon it.

Ships clustered in frightened huddles behind the harbor walls, the proud sails of the royal fleet drawn down in terror. Outside the mouth of the bay, the blockade stood in silent judgment, the silver sails of the Velaryon fleet, fast and elegant as sharks, and the towering green and crimson warships of House Redwyne, stretched across the water like a noose of iron and fire.

King’s Landing was cornered. The city had not yet fallen. But it would.
It was only a matter of time.

The Wolf Sets the Trap

Lord Eddard Stark stood before the gates of the city, grey cloak snapping behind him in the wind. He wore no shining armor, only the quiet weight of duty etched into the lines of his face.

Beside him, Robb and Ser Edmure Tully directed the first waves of men to begin digging trenches and raising earthen barricades. Engineers from the Reach began constructing trebuchets and mangonels, their plans laid out on parchment and dirt. Dornish scouts swept the roads behind, ensuring no Lannister ambush would come from the rear.

“Get those stakes planted,” Ned ordered calmly, watching the dust-choked labor unfold. “If Tywin means to strike, he’ll try from the west. The Golden Road is the only hope he has left.”

Ser Garlan Tyrell nodded, his tone steady. “We’ll be ready. Even lions bow their heads when thunder rolls overhead.”

The Sky Shatters

A terrible roar split the air.

Not the sound of man or wind, but something older. Something born of ash and flame and legend.

The people of King’s Landing looked up.

High above the Red Keep, a massive green dragon soared into view, wings stretched wide, its scales shimmering like emerald fire. Upon its back rode a man in gleaming black armor, emblazoned with the ruby-forged sigil of House Targaryen, the dragon helm upon his head forming the open jaw of a beast.

Rhaenar Targaryen. The trueborn son of Rhaegar. The King come again.

Behind him, two more dragons rode the wind, Balerion, great and dark, with Daenerys in black valyrian steel armor elegant, a warrior queen, and the white-and-gold Shrykos, with Viserys gripping the reins, his  silver hair  flashing through the wind and vengeance in his heart.

The dragons wheeled once over the Great Sept, once over the Street of Steel, and then dove low, wings churning wind through the alleys and towers.

The Red Keep trembled.

A child cried out. A sellsword dropped his spear. In the streets, people screamed or knelt or simply stared, mouths open, eyes full of the ancient terror that once kept the Seven Kingdoms in line for three hundred years.

The dragons were not gone. They had only waited.

The Prophecy Made Flesh

The Tower of the Hand trembled.

Bells tolled across the city in chaotic dissonance. Somewhere below, the Gold Cloaks scrambled to arms, steel clashing against steel in panic, not discipline. Ravens shrieked from their cages in the rookery as if they too could sense the end. Servants cried out and fled from their posts, scattering like leaves before a storm.

But Cersei Lannister stood motionless, rooted like a corpse in the windswept balcony of her solar.

She had prepared for traitors. For siegecraft. For Tyrell plots and Varys' whispers. For Stark swords and even Targaryen banners carried by men long removed from dragons.

But she had not prepared for this.

She had thought the dragons' return a jest, tales spun by desperate men. But now, as their fury scorched the sky, she saw the truth with her own eyes.

Above her, the sky burned, green and white and black, the three heads of the dragon.

First came the green beast, massive and terrible, with wings so vast they cast all of Visenya’s Hill in shadow. Then the white, ghost-pale with golden spines, its shriek like the scream of the gods. And finally the black one, lower than the rest, so close she could see the saddle on its back.

And the woman who rode it.

Hair like spun silver. A braid glinting with rubies. Armor of shadowed steel, shaped to the curves of a queen and edged like a blade. She sat her dragon like it was a throne.

Daenerys Targaryen.

Cersei’s breath caught in her throat. The wine goblet fell from her hand and shattered on the floor like bone.

The words rang in her skull, the prophecy she had heard as a girl in a tent that smelled of blood and dust and death.

“Queen you shall be… until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all you hold dear.”

Daenerys.

She knew it now. Felt it in her bones.

No...it was her.
The dragon girl.
The exile queen.
Fire made flesh.

And now she had returned, not to beg, but to claim.

She looked up, and Daenerys Targaryen looked down, her violet eyes distant as the stars and yet they met hers.

Cersei stepped back into the shadowed room, breath shallow, chest heaving.

The queen has come.

She turned away from the window, but the vision would not leave her, the dragons above, the girl beneath them, the city she had ruled for so long now shaking like a dying creature beneath their shadow.

And her children.

Tommen. Myrcella. Joffrey’s crown.

Everything she had fought for. Everything she had lied for. Killed for.

She pressed a trembling hand to her stomach. Her legacy, built in blood and sacrifice, now melting like wax beneath dragonfire.

“You shall be queen… until there comes another.”

Cersei Lannister, Queen Regent of the Seven Kingdoms, began to tremble.

And for the first time in all her years, she realized, she already had been cast down.

Outside the Gate

The ground quaked as the dragons landed beyond the reach of the city’s catapults.

Vhagar came first, the green queen of the sky, descending like a storm given flesh. Her wings folded with a hiss of wind and power, claws digging furrows into the earth like the roots of a mountain. Balerion, black and massive, shrieked beside her, an echo of the Black Dread of old. And then came Shrykos, gliding like a ghost, his white-and-gold scales gleaming like morning frost, his roar sharp as a trumpet of war.

And in their shadow, Rhaenar dismounted.

His black plate armor shimmered with the last rays of sunlight, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen carved from rubies, glowing like embers. His dragon-helm rested under one arm.

Beneath it all, his heart thundered, not from fear, but something worse. Hope.

He had dreamed of this moment all his life.

The city of his ancestors before him.

The red towers of the Red Keep, rising like fangs into the darkening sky. The Dragonpit, long crumbled, now a relic of the past. The city that once belonged to his house, to his father, to his name.

We have come so far, he thought. Hidden in exile, scraping together support, to this.

He turned slowly, surveying the mass of men behind him, one hundred-twenty thousand strong. Dornish spears. Northern steel. Reachmen banners fluttering beside riverlords who once fought to kill his kin. The crownlands now flowed with Targaryen blood again.

He saw their eyes, awe, fear, faith.

They had followed a name. Now they followed a dragonlord.

Father…
Mother…
I have not failed you.

His gaze lifted to the towers of the Red Keep.

That was where Aerys had burned men alive.
Where Rhaegar was meant to rule but never did.
Where Elia died. Where Rhaenys screamed.
Where Robert sat the Iron Throne, hammer in hand, and called my bloodline dead.

But the dragon was never dead. Only waiting.

His gauntlet curled around the hilt of his sword.

So close now. He could taste it.

The Iron Throne was only leagues away, steel and fire, forged in the breath of Balerion the Black Dread. It belonged to dragonlords, not to drunkards or lions or stags.

Everything I have done… everything I have lost… it has led to this.

He felt Daenerys dismount beside him, her silver hair streaming in the wind. Viserys next, eyes burning, face grave.

The wind caught his cloak, billowing like wings behind him.

And then he spoke.

His voice cut through the quiet like a blade.

“We have come home.”

Silence followed, but only for a breath.

Then the roar rose behind him, a sound like waves crashing into stone.

Steel against shields. Lords cheering. Men shouting the name they now knew, Rhaenar, the Dragon King.

And from above, the dragons screamed, as if the skies themselves knew House Targaryen had returned to reclaim its birthright.

The Fields West of King’s Landing

They arrived a week too late.

The golden lions of House Lannister crested the ridge south of the Gold Road, banners snapping in the breeze, forty thousand men, armor shining like sunlit coin. They had marched hard, driven by the fury of their king and the pride of the Rock. But pride would not carry them now.

Lord Tywin Lannister sat atop his destrier, impassive, as his force halted at the sight of the field below.

What they saw was no battlefield.

It was a chokehold.

The city was surrounded. Siege towers. Trenches. Cavalry pickets. Targaryen banners flying from every makeshift post. The Blackwater glittered behind the city like a blade at its throat, blockaded by the Velaryon and Redwyne fleets. There was no way in, and no way out.

Then the skies screamed.

Tywin turned his gaze upward and felt his breath catch. Three dragons wheeled overhead, a green queen, a black dread, and a white storm. Fire made flesh. The stories were true.

So were the nightmares.

And beside him, Joffrey Baratheon screamed at the horizon.

“Traitors! All of them! I want their heads on spikes! Burn their lands! Salt their fields!”

But then Vhagar dove, the great green dragon sweeping low over the field, her roar rattling the very marrow of their bones. Men flinched. Horses reared. Joffrey nearly fell from his saddle.

His fury vanished.

So did his courage.

And in that moment, Tywin saw the truth.

There would be no victory.

They were outnumbered three to one, and worse, they were outmatched by ancient power returned to the world. No siege. No clever maneuver. No bribery or alliance would change that now.

The letters to the Freys and Boltons had gone unanswered.
Now he understood why.

They knew. The rats always know when the ship is sinking.

And for the first time since Joanna’s death, Tywin felt something alien in his chest.

Panic. Hesitation.

He didn’t hesitate out of fear. He was simply thinking. Strategizing.

He closed his eyes and exhaled through his nose.

They had lost the war without a single pitched battle. That much was clear. The heir of Rhaegar Targaryen, riding dragons and commanding the loyalty of every kingdom save his own, had done what his grandfather could not. He had broken Westeros.

Tywin Lannister could not save the Crown.

But he could save the name.

"Sound the horns,” he said to Ser Kevan. “We do not engage.”

Kevan blinked. “We’re retreating?”

“No. We’re surviving.”

He turned to Ser Addam Marbrand and Ser Forley Prester, his closest field commanders.

“I will need ten thousand men. Volunteers, if they can be found. Conscripts, if they cannot. They will form a forward line, march on the Targaryen flank as if we intend to assault. When the dragons take to the sky, and the fire falls, they will die. But they will buy us time.”

“For what?” Kevan asked, though the answer came as his brother looked past him, to Joffrey, who was being steadied in the saddle.

“For our escape.”

He turned, eyes landing on the two knights standing in the distance. Ser Amory Lorch, sweating in his ill-fitting mail, and Ser Gregor Clegane, hulking like a beast carved from stone. The Mountain’s helm rested in the crook of his arm.

“Mad dogs,” Tywin thought, “but leashed, they are useful.”

He met Clegane’s eyes, if they could be called that, burning pits beneath a furrowed brow. Then to Lorch, who couldn’t hold his gaze for more than a heartbeat. He called them over.

“You’ll take ten thousand men,” Tywin commanded, his voice like ice over steel. “Assault their left flank. When they commit their center to support, you will break and flee.”

Clegane grunted, one thick eyebrow rising. “Flee?”

“A feint, you cretin,” Tywin snapped. “You retreat only long enough to draw them out. Once they are overextended, Ser Kevan will strike from their rear. You, Gregor, will encircle. Burn everything in your path. No quarter. No prisoners.”

The Mountain grinned. It was a gruesome thing.

“At once, Lord Tywin,” he rumbled. Then turned and stomped away, already hungry for blood.

“I mean to make the Targaryens believe we are engaging,” Tywin said. “Instead, we ride west. We take the rest of our army and ride hard for Casterly Rock.”

“But Cersei—” Jaime started.

Tywin’s jaw tightened. “She’s in the Red Keep. There’s no reaching her. No reaching the children. We ride. If she lives, she lives. Mayhaps Rhaegar’s bastard is merciful.”

Jaime’s face darkened, but he said nothing.

Tywin turned his eyes west, toward the open fields beyond the looming jaws of death.

As long as the lion has heirs, it has teeth. Let the dragon think he has won. Let him sit the Iron Throne and drink to peace. But he will never know rest. Not while a Lannister lives.

“Sound the horns,” he said again.

The order rippled through the column like a tremor. Men grumbled. The brave among them did not ask why. They simply saluted and moved to their fate.

Tywin Lannister gave no final speech.

He simply turned his horse toward the west.

And began the long ride home.

The Reckoning

The wind stirred the war-banner above his head, black silk and red flame, three-headed dragon roaring against the golden sky. From atop a ridge of scorched earth and crushed grass, King Rhaenar Targaryen looked down upon the battlefield through a spyglass carved from dragonbone. His cloak whipped behind him. His face, marked by soot and sweat, was solemn.

He saw it.

Tywin’s move.

“A feint,” he muttered. “And Clegane leads it.”

Below, the left flank of the Targaryen line had begun to press forward, confident, overreaching. They believed they had the advantage. Tywin Lannister wanted them to believe that.

But Rhaenar saw the trap for what it was.

The Mountain rode at the head of ten thousand, his sigil flying high. Three running dogs on a field of yellow, fitting for the mad dog of Tywin Lannister. A monstrous man on a massive destrier, Gregor Clegane was a butcher wrapped in steel, a killer from the old world who left nothing behind but corpses and screams.

“Finally,” Rhaenar breathed, lowering the spyglass. “He shows his face.”

He turned sharply and raised his voice.

“Prince Oberyn!”

The Red Viper stepped forward, eyes gleaming with fire. His spear was already in hand, shining gold in the sun, the blade kissed with poison and vengeance.

Rhaenar met his gaze with grim purpose.

“It’s time to claim your vengeance,” he said. “Take the knights of the Vale, the men of the North, Reach, and Trident, and the spears of Dorne. Crush the bastard who murdered your kin. Elia’s name rides with you.”

Oberyn smiled, not cruelly, but with the patience of a blade kept too long in its sheath.

“Finally,” he whispered. “Vengeance for Elia. And her children.”

He turned, cloak flaring, and strode toward his horse. Already his captains followed, knights of the Vale with their winged helms, Northmen bearing swords and fury, spears of Dorne gleaming like a thousand suns. The men of the Reach rallied behind banners of green and gold, while riverlords howled for battle.

Rhaenar turned to his left, where two shadows waited.

“Daenerys. Viserys.”

His wife stood tall, armor shining with the heat of the sun. Her pale hair lifted in the wind. Beside her, Viserys grinned, his black helm crested with dragon wings.

“It’s time,” Rhaenar said. “We take to the skies. We'll break their line from above. Burn them, make the Mountain bleed.”

Daenerys grinned. Viserys shouted for Shrykos. And Rhaenar turned toward the waiting beast behind him.

“Vhagar,” he whispered. The great she-dragon roared, wings shaking the earth.

Moments later, the skies were fire.

Above the Battlefield

The air turned red with flame.

Rhaenar led the charge, Vhagar’s mass form blanketing the ground below. He dove fast, straight for the rear of the Mountain’s force. The assault was swift and brutal.

With a single command, he unleashed hell.” Dracarys,” he screamed.

Vhagar roared, and the rear lines exploded in flame. Shields melted. Men screamed. Warhorses bolted into the fire and vanished. A thousand banners turned to cinders in mid-air. Two-thousand men, turned to ash before they even drew their swords.

Behind him, Balerion and Shrykos rained destruction in great sweeping passes. Soldiers scattered like ants beneath a god’s boot.

But it was not chaos, it was strategy.

Rhaenar saw it clearly now: the feint collapsing, the Lannister trap unraveling. From above, he spotted the red lion banners twisting south and west, retreating.

“Cowards,” he growled. “Running to the Rock.”

He signaled with his sword, and the dragons began to descend.

The Ashen Ground

Dust and death swirled as they landed behind the smoking ruins of the Lannister rear. At once, three figures in white cloaks stepped from among the chaos.

Ser Arthur Dayne, tall and silent, climbed behind his king without a word. The Sword of the Morning drew Dawn with reverence and readied himself.

Ser Barristan Selmy, battered but unbowed, mounted behind Daenerys.

And Ser Oswell Whent, calm and determined, took position behind Viserys.

Together, they were the vanguard of fire, steel and blood riding the wind.

Rhaenar looked to the east. Another host approached, the main Targaryen line, their banners proud and unbroken.

He found the Starks among them.

“Lord Stark!” Rhaenar called, voice ringing clear even through the smoke.

Eddard Stark rode up, armored in cold steel and wolf fur, ice in his eyes.

“You command the ground force,” Rhaenar said, offering no room for protest. “Press them. Leave none standing. The dragon will break the retreat.”

Ned looked up at him, a flash of recognition in his eyes and something more. Pride. Memory. Something unspoken passed between them.

But he nodded.

“As you command… Your Grace.”

Rhaenar turned, cloak billowing as he looked once more to the sky.

“Sacrifices his men so he can turn tail and run,” he muttered. “Let’s see if lions burn.”

And the dragons took flight.

The Mountain of Death

The battlefield reeked of charred flesh and smoking ruin.

Oberyn Martell rode hard through the smoke, his red-orange cloak streaming behind him like a banner of flame. The Mountain’s host lay in ruins, five thousand men reduced to blackened husks by dragonfire. And still, in the center of the carnage, the beast himself remained.

Gregor Clegane.

A mountain not just in name, but in size, towering over men, wielding a sword fit for two hands in just one, and still cutting a path of death like some dark titan of old.

Oberyn raised his spear high as his horse kicked ash beneath its hooves.

“Surround him!” he commanded. “Box him in, archers on the flanks!”

Knights of the Vale lowered their lances. Northern warriors raised shields bearing direwolves, giants in chains, and flayed men. Reachmen moved into a pincer from the right, while Dornish spears pressed in from the left. And just behind, riding with a serpentine grace, came his daughters, Obara, Nymeria, and Tyene, faces veiled, eyes sharp.

Then he saw it, Lorch’s banner. A rat amidst lions, slipping toward the treeline at the edge of Clegane’s shattered ranks.

“Obara!” he barked. “Take your sisters. Find Ser Amory. End him slowly.”

Obara grinned, wicked and proud.

“We’ll skin the coward inch by inch, father,” she said, and rode off in a blur of steel and dust.

But Oberyn had no more breath for words. His eyes locked on the beast.

HE RAPED HER, HE MURDERED HER, HE KILLED HER CHILDREN

Gregor Clegane was already soaked in blood. Not just others’, his own leaked from the seams of his scorched armor. Yet he fought like a mad god. With one massive swing, he cleaved two men in half, their screams vanishing beneath the crash of steel on bone.

Then came the volley, arrows from the Dornish bows, swift and silent.

The horse beneath him shrieked as shafts buried into its haunches. The monstrous destrier buckled and fell, rolling onto its side in a convulsion of blood.

Gregor leapt from the saddle before it crushed him, landing with a jarring thud, on his feet, sword already raised, flames curling around his silhouette.

A ring of fire surrounded them now, ash, smoke, and steel. In the heart of it, two men.

One, a monster.

The other, a prince.

Oberyn stepped forward, spear twirling in his hands with the grace of a dancer. His armor shimmered red and bronze, his face unreadable beneath the sun-and-spear helm.

He called out, loud and clear:

“My name is Oberyn Martell. You murdered my sister. You raped her. You butchered her children. Before I let you leave this world for the Seven Hells…
You. Will. Die. Screaming.”

Gregor snarled, raising his greatsword, but Oberyn was already moving, blindingly fast.

The first cut slashed across Clegane’s thigh.

The second struck under his arm.

The third, across the back of his knee.

Two more followed in the blink of an eye, glancing off steel, but deep enough to draw blood.

Gregor roared and swung, a brutal arc of death.

Oberyn ducked low, but not low enough, the strike clipped the top of his helm, shearing off the sun-and-spear crest in a spray of metal. The impact rang in his skull, stunning him for a heartbeat too long.

Gregor charged.

A killing blow fell, missed by inches as Oberyn rolled clear, dirt scraping his arms. The Mountain bellowed and followed.

Oberyn rose again, spinning, slashing, the spear’s tip caught under Gregor’s helm, ripped it off with a snap of leather straps. His face emerged, monstrous and malformed, lips split, brow crusted with dried gore.

Oberyn did not flinch. He struck again.

A wide diagonal cut across the face, from cheek to cheek, crossing the bridge of the nose. Gregor reeled.

Oberyn pressed.

A slash to the left ankle. Then the right.

Gregor stumbled, fell to one knee, trying to rise.

But Oberyn was already running.

He leapt, high into the air, eyes blazing, teeth clenched and came down like a god of war, driving the spear through the Mountain’s chest, punching through mail and flesh and bone. The weapon burst from Gregor’s back in a spray of blood.

For a moment, the beast did not move.

He knelt, frozen.

Oberyn planted a foot against his face and kicked him backward.

The Mountain dropped like a felled tree.

Oberyn stood over him, panting.

“My sister… can rest in peace now.”

He turned.

A hand like a bear trap snatched his ankle.

Oberyn cried out as he was yanked to the ground.

Gregor Clegane, impossibly still alive, rolled atop him, blood pouring from his chest, mouth flecked with foam.

“I will… drag you… to the deepest of the Seven Hells… with me!” he howled.

He tore off the rest of Oberyn’s helm with a snarl.

“Yes… I raped your sister… I murdered her… and crushed her infant’s skull… just like thi—”

He never finished.

A spearhead burst from the back of his head, and out of his face.

He twitched once, then went still.

Obara stood behind him, eyes alight with fury, hands wrapped tight around the spear.

Blood poured down the Mountain’s face, pooling over the broken earth.

She dropped to a knee and helped her father up.

Oberyn clutched her to him tightly.

“You saved my life, my daughter… and gave my sister her vengeance.”

Obara smiled grimly. “It was a good kill.”

Oberyn blinked through blood and tears. “And Lorch?”

Obara looked back toward the distant treeline.

“He squeals well,” she said. “My sisters are still toying with him. He will be long in dying.”

Oberyn nodded once, then turned to look down upon the corpse of the Mountain and spat.

“The Seven Hells are too good for you.”

He walked away, his daughter flanking him like an avenging shadow, leaving the monster broken in the ash behind them.

The Weight of Ash

The battlefield stank of scorched flesh and iron. Smoke clung to the air like a shroud, and ash fell like snow, soft and silent, upon the dead.

Eddard Stark sat astride his horse beneath a broken standard, the direwolf of House Stark torn and blackened by fire, yet still flying. Around him, the last of Gregor Clegane’s men were being hunted down and cut to pieces, the field a patchwork of charred earth and blood.

He gave no order to halt. There would be no quarter today.

This was no war of honor.

This was vengeance.

He watched as the Umber spears drove through the last of the mounted Lannister riders, while Greatjon himself gutted a bannerman bearing the sigil of House Payne. Not far off, Harrion Karstark wrenched his sword from a fallen knight’s back with a grimace.

The North had not come to speak, nor to negotiate.

They had come to kill monsters.

And now the Mountain’s host lay slain, broken beneath the heels of men who had long memories and colder hearts.

Ned looked down at the sword resting in his hand, Ice, soaked in red. He hadn’t drawn it for battle in years, not in truth. But today, it had sung.

Today, justice had returned to Westeros in fire and steel.

A rider approached through the smoke, Smalljon Umber, face streaked with soot and blood.

“It’s done, my lord,” he said, voice hoarse. “The bastards that survived the fire are either dead or fled into the marsh. We’ve sent the crannogmen after them.”

Ned nodded.

“They say the Viper faced the Mountain.”

Ned’s brows lowered.

“And?”

“He lives,” Smalljon said with a strange look. “Though just barely. The beast nearly killed him. But they say one of his daughters saved him at the last moment.”

Ned said nothing for a long time. His eyes drifted across the field, settling on a massive, unmoving corpse half-buried in ash. Even from here, he could tell it was Gregor Clegane. There was no mistaking that size, even in death.

“Seven hells,” Ned murmured. “They actually did it.”

He thought of Elia Martell, the rumors he had heard after the sack of King’s Landing. How she had screamed. How her babe had been dashed against a wall. He thought of the way Robert Baratheon had laughed when told the Lannisters had ended Rhaegar’s line. Of how Tywin Lannister had presented the corpses like trophies.

He had kept his silence, back then. For peace. For order.

But looking at the field now, Ned Stark felt no guilt in this blood.

He rode forward, passing bodies half-burned, men twisted in death. Some bore lion sigils. Some wore no tabard at all. All had believed they could face fire with steel.

They had been wrong.

At the center of the carnage, he came upon Oberyn Martell.

The Dornish prince sat on a rock, his armor cracked, blood running down his temple. His spear leaned beside him like an old friend. Obara stood beside him, wary, protective. His other daughters were nowhere to be seen.

Ned dismounted and approached. Their eyes met.

“You’re lucky to be alive,” Ned said quietly.

Oberyn wiped blood from his brow with the back of his hand. “Luck had little to do with it. I came here for justice. I leave with it.”

Ned looked at the Mountain’s corpse.

“As dead as my sister,” Oberyn said. “But not as missed.”

Ned nodded solemnly. He looked over the battlefield again.

“You’ve made many enemies today.”

Oberyn’s laugh was bitter. “I’ve had them my whole life, Stark. Today, I just gave them reason to fear me.”

As Ned turned back toward his waiting horse, a raven passed overhead, heading east.

He looked toward the horizon, where the dragon shadows still lingered above the smoke.

The war was not yet done.

But something had changed.

The world would remember this day.

And Ned Stark, who had lived through one rebellion and now marched through another, wondered whether this fire, Targaryen fire, would consume them all in the end.

The Field of Fire

The sky was smoke and scarlet.

Winds howled across the burning plain as Vhagar tore through the clouds, her wings spreading shadow and fear in equal measure. The air beneath Rhaenar’s feet trembled with every beat of her wings. Ash coated his armor like snow. His cloak billowed behind him, black trimmed with red and his raven-black hair whipped around his face, matted with soot and blood.

Below, the Lannister host was breaking, a sea of gold cloaks and crimson banners, fleeing westward in a panicked tide.

Cowards. Liars. Butchers.

“Run,” Rhaenar whispered. “A lion can’t outroar a dragon.”

He leaned forward, pressing a gauntleted hand to Vhagar’s neck. “Dracarys.”

The she-dragon screamed.

A jet of green fire erupted from her jaws, consuming the rear guard in an instant, men, horses, wagons, all gone, scorched from the earth. Flames raced across the field in wild tongues, rolling over tents and steel alike, leaving only ruin in their wake.

To his left, Balerion swept down from the clouds like a storm of night. Daenerys clung to his back, her braid streaming like a banner. The black dragon unleashed flame that painted the skies orange, turning the Lannister siege lines into a funeral pyre.

On the right, Shrykos shrieked, a high, sharp call as Viserys spurred the white-flamed beast into a dive. Where he passed, men simply disappeared in a cyclone of fire and shadow.

Together, they flew as one.

Three dragons. Three riders. One vengeance.

Rhaenar’s heart thundered in his chest.

Not with fear, but fury. Fury long chained. Fury forged in exile. Fury born of a cradle soaked in his mother’s blood.

They called us dead. They called us forgotten.
They crowned a usurper and cheered while dragons died.

But now?

Now they remember.

Below, Tywin’s command tent vanished in a pillar of emerald fire. Rhaenar could see it clearly, men screaming, burning, falling. No order could save them. No clever maneuver would undo this. Tywin Lannister's brilliance meant nothing before dragonflame.

There was no escape. Not today.

“Vengeance,” he muttered. “This is what you stole from me, Tywin. From Rhaegar. From my mother. From my brother and sister.”

He thought of Lyanna’s face, pale, broken, dying in a bed of blood. He thought of  Rhaella’s screams, the desperate flight from Dragonstone. He remembered Arthur’s silence, and dutiful instruction. The sea winds. The years in hiding.

All of it led to this moment.

The Lannister host, forty thousand men, had been whittled down to half by the time the dragons came. Now, they died by the hundreds with every beat of Vhagar’s wings.

Rhaenar directed her into another dive. Arrows whistled past, futile pinpricks, as he and his dragon crashed through the center of the retreating force. Men scattered like insects.

Vhagar’s claws smashed through a wagon. Her tail whipped across a cavalry line, breaking bones like twigs. Her fire split the world.

There was no mercy in Rhaenar. Only memory. Only rage.

“House Lannister pays its debts,” he thought grimly, “and today, they pay with interest.”

He circled again, rising above the smoke. Viserys was laughing, mad with battle lust, as Shrykos dove. Daenerys looked like a goddess wreathed in flame, her eyes glowing violet in the firelight, Balerion roaring beneath her.

Rhaenar shouted across the sky.

“One more pass! Leave none alive!”

The three dragons descended together.

And the world burned.

Later

He landed Vhagar amidst the ruin.

All around him, the earth still smoked. Bodies lay where they fell, some charred beyond recognition, some twisted in agony, others burnt so completely, their frames forever immortalized in ashen form, until the winds blew them to dust. The smell of death was thick in the air, but it no longer turned his stomach. Not today.

His boots crunched through blackened grass as he walked toward what remained of the Lannister standard, a golden lion half-melted, half-scorched, draped over the corpse of a dead bannerman.

Ser Arthur Dayne dismounted behind him, blood on his blade but none on his white cloak. Ser Barristan followed, grave as ever.  Ser Oswell silent and watching. Viserys and Daenerys joined him moments later, dragons circling high above, casting long shadows over the battlefield.

Rhaenar looked back across the field, the second Field of Fire. The first had made the realm bow. This one would make it remember.

He turned to his Kingsguard.

“Find Tywin,” he said. “Bring him to me.”

The End of the Lion

Smoke hung thick over the battlefield, curling like the fingers of the dead. The war cries had faded. What remained was silence, broken only by the distant shriek of circling dragons and the low crackle of smoldering corpses.

Ser Arthur Dayne moved like a ghost through the ashes.

His white cloak was torn and singed at the hem, but it still billowed behind him like a banner of old. In his hand, Dawn, pale as moonlight, gleamed with firelight. Beside him walked Ser Barristan Selmy, the Bold, helm upon his head, steel crusted in blood, and on  the other side strode Ser Oswell Whent, quiet and sharp-eyed, his long white cloak streaked in soot but unsullied by blood. On his head sat the fearsome helm of his House, a great black bat with wings flared wide, the sigil of Harrenhal blazing against the horizon like some omen of doom. The sun caught its ridged edges, turning the bat into a creature from nightmares, its gaze fixed forward with deathless focus.

Ahead, they found what they had been sent to collect.

A final cluster of Lannister survivors stood ringed by bodies and ruin, Tywin, grave and grim, his golden armor scraped and dented, ash clinging to the lion sigil on his chestplate; Kevan, watchful and weary, blood crusted beneath his collar; two golden-haired boys, his sons, perhaps, clinging to one another, wide-eyed and trembling; and Jaime, golden and defiant, his sword held upright, knuckles white against the hilt.

Before them, slumped in the ash-streaked mud, lay Tyrek Lannister, what remained of him.

The boy’s fine cloak had been seared to char, half his body blackened and blistered, skin peeled away in places like melted parchment. One side of his face was almost untouched, frozen in slack-jawed shock, lips parted in a final, breathless gasp. The other side was a ruin of scorched flesh and exposed bone, his eye a shriveled, ruptured thing in its socket. Blood and soot pooled beneath his ribs, where his cuirass had split from the heat.

One arm was curled beneath him, limp and useless; the other outstretched, fingers clawed as if reaching for salvation or someone who never came.

Tyrion knelt beside him in silence.

He did not speak. Did not weep. Only cradled what was left of the boy in shaking arms, lowering his forehead to Tyrek’s scorched temple. His fingers left smeared trails of blood and ash across what skin remained whole, tracing features he had known since the boy could walk.

The stench of burnt flesh clung to him like a second cloak.

Behind him, the battlefield still crackled. Smoke curled from the blackened wreckage of banners and men. Screams echoed across the distant ridge. But Tyrion heard none of it.

Only the crackle of flame where it hadn't finished feeding.

Tyrion's face was blank. Empty.

Joffrey Baratheon stood apart, pale and shaking, clutching his sword like a boy holding his own fear, made steel. He breathed in shallow gasps, his crown askew, his lip split.

Around them, ten red-cloaked guards formed a shield wall, battered but disciplined, spears raised, blades drawn, grim to the last. At their center, Ser Addam Marbrand, smoke curling from his scorched armor, flame glinting off the lion-engraved pauldron on his shoulder. His face was set in a snarl, teeth bared behind cracked lips.

Behind them, the battlefield burned.

Before them, the dragon’s shadow grew long.

Tywin raised his voice, calm as stone.

“You’ve won your battle. Do you mean to slaughter the lords of the realm in cold blood?”

Ser Arthur’s voice was quiet, deadly in its calm.

“This is no slaughter, Lord Tywin. This is justice.”

Then the guards charged.

And the Kingsguard became legends once more.

Arthur moved like wind through wheat, Dawn flashing, parrying, striking. One cut split a spear. Another opened a throat. A third took a knee, then the head above it. Ser Oswell danced beside him, his blade carving fluid arcs, graceful, precise, lethal. Barristan held the center, unyielding, unrelenting, a wall of steel.

The red cloaks screamed. None found an opening.

The Kingsguard were artists, and today, they painted only in red.

Only four still stood when the shadow fell over them.

A thunderous beat of wings shook the ash beneath their boots. Then came the rider.

Rhaenar Targaryen, cloaked in fire and blood, descended from Vhagar like vengeance made flesh. His obsidian armor was scorched black, his cloaking flapping in the wind. A long blade rested in his hand, no crown atop his head, yet no man would doubt he was a king.

Ser Addam Marbrand stepped forward.

“I’ll not kneel to a dragon’s bastard,” he spat, drawing his sword.

Rhaenar said nothing.

He advanced.

One parry. Two. A feint. A blur.

Off went Addam’s head.

The body remained standing for a heartbeat, then crumpled like a puppet with its strings cut.

Rhaenar did not break stride.

Joffrey stepped forward with a shriek, his voice cracking.

“You’ll die for this, traitor! I’m the King! I—”

He lunged with a wild swing, a squire in a man’s armor.

Rhaenar sidestepped the clumsy blow. Caught his sword arm.

Then, with a backhand that could have shattered stone, he struck the boy across the face. Joffrey flew backward, landing in a heap of gold and blood, his crown rolling away into the mud.

He did not rise.

Rhaenar stopped just short of the Lannisters.

The air was hot, charged, thick with the scent of ash and death.

Tywin stood tall, blood drying on his cheek, eyes hard as forged iron. Kevan’s hand rested on the pommel of his sword, though it remained sheathed, his posture tense, ready, but uncertain. He looked to his sons, who looked terrified. Jaime held his blade at the ready, tip low, golden hair matted with sweat and soot, his face unreadable, a lion caught between loyalty and judgment.

And Tyrion, the Imp, stood a step behind them.

Shorter than any, yet somehow the most still.

He rose from the ashes slowly, knees stiff, hands black with soot and blood. Behind him, Tyrek’s half-burnt corpse lay sprawled in the mud.

His clothes were singed, the left side of his tunic torn, half-melted at the hem where fire had licked too close. Ash clung to his face and his lip was split, bleeding down his chin in a slow, crimson line.

He wasn’t armed, not truly. Just a dagger at his side, untouched. A weapon he hadn’t drawn. Wouldn’t draw.

His eyes, once sharp with wit and mockery, were hollow now. As if something inside him had burned alongside the boy.

He said nothing.

His silence spoke louder than fire.

He stared down at his boots, where a droplet of blood was drying on the leather.

“This is how it ends,” he thought, bitterly. “Not with wine, or wit, or a whore's laugh.”

The three Kingsguard fanned out behind their king, white cloaks fluttering like wings above a battlefield turned funeral pyre.

Then came the voice.

A soft melody from Rhaenar’s lips, half-spoken, half-sung, the words laced with smoke and sadness.

"And who are you?" the proud Lord said,
"That I must bow so low..."

Tyrion lifted his gaze. Slowly.
The melody was unmistakable, the Rains of Castamere, the Lannister song. A hymn of annihilation, of House Reyne buried beneath the Rock. He had heard it at feasts, in brothels, whistled by soldiers after a brutal victory. It was their song, his father’s favorite kind of poetry; short, sharp, and final.
And now… a dragon sang it.
Not with malice. Not with fire in his throat or spit in his tone. But with something worse, perfect control.
It chilled Tyrion more than anything his father had ever said.

“He’s not just killing us,” Tyrion thought. “He’s erasing us. Turning our own song into a dirge.”

The melody wove through the ruin like a ghost returned to claim a debt.

"Only a cat of a different coat, that's all the truth I know..."
"In a coat of red or a coat of black, a dragon still has claws..."

Tywin’s knuckles whitened, but he said nothing.

"Mine are long and sharp, my lord, much longer and sharper than yours..."

Rhaenar’s eyes never left Tywin’s.

"And so he spoke, and so he spoke, that Lord of Casterly..."
"But now the flames weep o'er his hall, and not a soul to hear..."

No one moved. No one breathed.

Even Tyrion, who had once chuckled at this song in brothels and taverns, now stood transfixed. There was no mockery in the voice, only reckoning.

A reckoning with teeth.

Rhaenar continued, each verse colder, the smoke around him curling like a crown.

"And so he spoke, and so he spoke, that Lord of Casterly..."
"But now the flames burn down his hall..."
"And not a soul to hear..."

When the final note died, it left only the hiss of flame and the distant crackle of burning tents.

Tywin’s voice cut through the silence like a blade.

“You come here to mock me?” he asked coldly, his voice iron-bound.

Rhaenar’s expression did not change.

“Mock you?” he echoed, soft and low.
“There’s no need.”

His eyes locked on Tywin’s, dark steel, like storm clouds about to break.

“I’ve already won.”

Before him, Joffrey groaned, broken and senseless in the dirt, blood leaking from his lip where Rhaenar had struck him. And beside him stood the last lions of the West, Tywin, Kevan, Willem, Martyn, Jaime… and Tyrion, still staring at the ground.

Then Tyrion lifted his head, eyes finding the dragonlord once more.

“If this is the son of Rhaegar,” Tyrion thought, “then the realm never stood a chance. And neither did we.”

The silence between them stretched.

The kind that holds breath. That waits for history to turn.

Vhagar’s growl rumbled low in her throat, a thunderclap beneath the earth.

Jaime’s grip tightened on his sword hilt. Kevan looked to his brother, jaw clenched.

And Tywin Lannister, Lion of the Rock, did not move.

Not yet.

Smoke still drifted across the scorched plain like funeral shrouds. Ash clung to every boot and blade, the blackened sky above darkening to twilight as the sun struggled through the haze.

Rhaenar stood at the center of the ruin, sword lowered but voice unwavering.

“Throw down your weapons,” he said, each word sharp as Vhagar’s fangs. “Bend the knee. And beg for the dragon’s mercy.”

Silence hung, the air thick with tension.

Kevan Lannister moved first. Not with defiance, nor pride, just a weary resignation. He glanced once to Tywin, but received no command, no signal. There was no plan left. Just flame and ruin.

He unsheathed his sword… and dropped it.

Then he knelt. His sons followed their father’s lead.

Tyrion hesitated, his heart thudding. He had never knelt to a Targaryen. Had never seen one, until now.

“I was a boy when the dragons fell,” he thought. “And yet here I am, paying the debt.”

He glanced sideways at Jaime, who stood still, face carved from stone.

Tyrion knelt. Quietly. Without protest. Without pretense.

“I’m not too proud to live,” he thought grimly. “And not too foolish to miss the moment when a lion bows to a dragon.”

Joffrey stirred, groaning as he pushed himself from the dirt. Blood streaked his face, crown lost somewhere in the mud.

“You have no right!” he spat. “I am your king! I’ll have your head, dragonspawn! I’ll—”

Vhagar roared.

A guttural, bone-rattling bellow that shook the earth beneath their feet.

Joffrey went silent. Then, wet himself, visibly and audibly. His words died on his lips, replaced by whimpering silence. He collapsed back to the ground, trembling.

Tywin Lannister remained standing.

Even now.

Even ruined.

“You think this is justice?” he said, his voice low but steady, like gravel grinding against steel. “This is carnage. It always is, with your kind.”

Rhaenar said nothing. His gaze was unblinking.

“You’ll win this war,” Tywin continued, “but you won’t win the realm. Madness lies in your blood. It always returns. Today you burn us… tomorrow your heir burns a city. One of your progeny will rise as mad as Aerys. As cruel. As blind.”

Arthur Dayne stepped forward.

And punched him.

One clean strike, hard and merciless, to the gut.

Tywin folded with a strangled sound, knees hitting the dirt.

For a moment, all was still.

Jaime Lannister stood alone now. Sword still in hand. His golden hair glinted faintly in the dying light.

He looked not to Tywin, nor to Tyrion, nor even to Joffrey.

He looked to Rhaenar.

He drew a slow breath.

There was no excuse. No plea for mercy.

Jaime looked to his sword.

Then let it fall.

And dropped to both knees.

“I submit myself to your judgment, Your Grace.”

He turned to see his lords coming through the smoke and brume, horses kicking up a dust storm.

Lord Eddard Stark arrived with Robb and a host of Northern and Riverlands men. They rode through the haze in solemn formation, hooves muffled by ash. Banners of the direwolf and leaping trout hung limp in the heat, dulled by soot and blood.

At Ned’s side padded Ghost, his great white direwolf gliding silently through the smoke. His crimson eyes flicked warily across the battlefield, ears low, body taut. Beside Robb walked Grey Wind, larger now than most ponies, tail lashing with unease as he scented scorched flesh and ruin. Both direwolves were covered in ash.

The two beasts did not growl. They did not need to. Their presence alone marked the arrival of the North.

Ned dismounted slowly, boots crunching through blackened grass. The air was thick with heat and death.

The battlefield stretched wide and lifeless, blackened corpses, twisted steel, entire regiments burned where they stood. Siege towers were nothing more than ash-heaped skeletons. Men had died in mid-run, mid-scream, frozen in postures of agony.

“No sword could do this,” Ned thought grimly. “No man. No army.”

His eyes drifted toward the hulking shadow on the horizon, Vhagar, wings folded like mountains of scale. The great green dragon lay coiled, her breath still smoking, watching the world with ancient indifference. She did not move. She didn’t need to.

She had already done the work of a hundred thousand men.

And her rider, his sister’s son, stood tall amidst the cinders.

“Rhaegar’s legacy,” Ned thought. “And Lyanna’s wrath.”

He thought he had lost her, all those years ago, but now, apart of her stood before him, and the truth was it frightened him, and angered him that he never knew her blood, his blood.

But the truth had grown teeth and wings.

And now it stood before the world, cloaked in black and crowned in fire.

Ned’s gaze shifted to the prisoners.

Tywin, on his knees but unbowed.
Kevan, weary, resigned.

Two young Lannister boys, in over their heads.
Tyrion, quiet, eyes already calculating.
Jaime, armor discarded, face carved from guilt and memory.

They were the last of the lion’s pride, surrounded by flames and defeat.

Ghost stepped forward and bared his fangs at Tywin Lannister.

Tywin did not flinch. But his eyes narrowed.

Robb gave the signal. Grey Wind let out a low snarl as the soldiers moved in, clinking chains in hand.

“The North remembers,” Ned thought. “And now, so will the realm.”

One by one, the lions were shackled beneath the watch of wolves and dragons.

And Ned Stark stood among the ruins, Ghost beside him, Grey Wind pacing like a shadow beside Robb, both beasts uneasy in a world where fire had outstripped even winter’s bite.

He looked once more toward Rhaenar.

“Gods help us,” he thought, “the dragons have returned. But can even the gods stop them now?”

The war wasn’t over yet.

But the Reign of the Lions had ended.

Chapter Text

The bells had stopped.

Only the wind remained now, blowing ash from the east. It carried the scent of charred flesh and burned oakwood up through the towers of King’s Landing, creeping in through every open window like a silent herald of doom.

Cersei Lannister stood alone in the Tower of the Hand, her fingers clinched on the balcony, golden hair twisted by the wind. She had not moved in hours.

Across the horizon, the sky was bruised with smoke.

Black columns still rose where the Lannister host had once stood proud beneath golden banners. Now there was only ruin, a smoldering scar upon the realm. Plains glowing red from the assault.

Her father’s army.

Gone.

She watched the last wisps of dragonfire drift into the sky like dying embers and felt something cold claw up her spine.

“This is what defeat looks like,” she thought. “Not in a battle lost. But in a legacy destroyed.”

Her hands trembled. She didn’t know if it was rage or terror.

Behind her, the heavy doors creaked open.

Grand Maester Pycelle shuffled in, breathing heavily. His face was ashen, even more than usual, and in his liver-spotted hands he held a sealed letter, the wax stamped with a lion.

“A raven, Your Grace… from the west…”

Cersei didn’t turn. She didn’t have to.

“Say it,” she said, voice hollow.

Pycelle hesitated. “Lannisport has been sacked. The Ironborn came in the night. The Greyjoys… their fleet made landfall with no warning. The harbor is gone. The city is… burning.”

“And what of the Rock?” she asked flatly.

“I… do not know,” Pycelle murmured. “The raven was brief. Chaos.”

Cersei let the silence stretch.

Then she laughed.

A sharp, humorless sound that cracked like glass.

“What does it matter now?” she whispered.

She turned from the window at last. Her eyes were red-rimmed but dry.

“My father is lost. Jaime is gone. Our army is ash. And now the Rock bleeds. House Lannister… may very well be finished.”

She walked past Pycelle without another word. The old man began to speak again, something about courtiers and ravens, but she was already gone.

She walked the halls like a ghost, barefoot, her gown dragging across the marble like a funeral shroud.

Guards turned away. Servants vanished into alcoves. Even the gold cloaks, what few remained loyal, lowered their eyes as she passed.

She did not seek the throne.

She did not go to the council chamber.

She went to her children.

Myrcella. Tommen. The last good things in the world.

They were in the nursery, playing in silence. They looked up as she entered. Myrcella’s eyes wide, Tommen clutching a carved lion.

Cersei said nothing.

She fell to her knees and gathered them into her arms.

Held them tightly.

As if the dragons might come for them next.

“I was the daughter of Tywin Lannister,” she thought. “I was a queen. But now I am only a mother. And a lioness fights to her last breath for her cubs. They will never have us, I will not submit to the Usurpers.”

She pressed her lips to Myrcella’s temple. Tommen buried his face in her gown.

“I won’t lose you,” she whispered. “Not like this. Not to fire. Not to ghosts.”

Outside, the wind howled over the Blackwater.

And somewhere above, dragons circled.

The Mockingbird

The Small Council chamber had never felt so quiet.

No laughter. No whisper of silk. No scent of Arbor gold poured into waiting cups.

Only silence.

Petyr Baelish leaned in the shadows near the great window, one hand on the carved lion-foot of a chair, the other smoothing the lapel of his dove-gray doublet. He did not sit. Not yet.

His eyes wandered across the Red Keep, down toward the city sprawled like a wounded beast beyond the walls. He could see the plumes of smoke in the west. Distant. Faint.

But unmistakably there.

Lannisport burns. Tywin is broken.

The lions were finished.

And now the board had been flipped.

He tilted his head thoughtfully.

“The dragons returned. I had always believed in legends, but never quite believed in them.”

A soft chuckle escaped his lips. Dry. Almost amused.

“But I believe now.”

He turned away from the window, walking slowly through the chamber. His boots echoed faintly. No council to hear them. No queen prancing the halls.

Cersei had locked herself away with her children. Pycelle muttered nonsense. Varys was gone, gods knew where.

And he… he was still here.

“That must count for something,” he thought to himself.

Still alive. Still in the game.

But survival would require… adjustments.

He paused before the council table and placed one finger lightly atop a wine stain from a week past. Old blood or red wine, who could say?

“The lions failed in the field,” he murmured to no one. “And now the dragons are circling above the city.”

He smiled thinly.

“Pycelle once opened these gates to let ruin in. Now I must do the same, if I wish to keep my head.”

His thoughts turned to the City Watch, the gold cloaks. His creatures, many of them. Not loyal, exactly, but… attentive to coin and careful suggestions.

“They let Lannister men sack the city once. They’ll do it again. Only this time, it won’t be lions at the gate. It’ll be fire.”

He stepped to his desk and pulled open a hidden drawer.

A folded parchment. A sealed ring.

His fingers paused just above them.

He would need to move quickly. Find out which commanders in the Watch still bent to his coin. Which merchants and lesser lords in the city would back him or at least stay silent. If he played it right, he could be the hand that opened the gates.

“Feast, dragon,” he thought. “Feast on the lion and leave a place at the table for the mockingbird.”

The Spider

The walls had begun to whisper again.

Old stone had long memories, and the Red Keep had seen kings fall, queens weep, and traitors rise. Varys stood in the dark, listening to nothing… and everything.

Footsteps echoed in distant halls, guards scrambling with no command, maids crying in corners, Pycelle moaning over lost parchments. The court had become a fractured shell, cracked from within. Soon, it would shatter entirely.

“The lions are bleeding,” Varys thought. “And the dragons are coming.”

He could not be here when they arrived.

Not when too many remembered his silences. His secrets. His whispers into the Mad Kings ear.

He moved with practiced ease, his silken slippers already replaced by worn boots. His robes had been stripped away, layer by layer, until only rags remained, a beggar’s garb, dusty and drab. He wrapped his head in cloth and smeared ash along his brow.

The Spider was vanishing.

In a chamber hidden behind a false hearth, one of the many secrets only he remembered, he gathered a satchel. Inside, a few coins, a ring from Magister Illyrio, and a sealed parchment bearing a hidden name. The rest he left. He would not return.

“Too many questions,” he murmured to himself, “and too many eyes looking for someone to blame.”

Cersei would look for traitors.
Baelish would whisper them into existence.
And the dragon boy would want blood.

Varys had long ago decided that he would not die in this city.

The tunnels welcomed him like old friends. Dust swirled. The torches he had once lit for spies and shadows remained dark. He passed beneath the throne room, beneath the Tower of the Hand, past the dragon skulls, that would rise once more.

No one knew these paths like he did. No one ever would.

When he emerged, it was not as the Master of Whisperers, but as a nobody. A hunched man with cloudy eyes, hobbling through the rot-slick alleys of Flea Bottom.

He did not flinch at the stench. He knew worse.

Children ran past him with loaves under their arms. A drunkard sang the Rains of Castamere from a stairwell, slurring the final verse.

Varys simply walked on.

The wind off Blackwater Bay was sharp, stinging his face as he reached the outskirts of the city. King’s Landing lay behind him, soon to be bleeding, burning, broken.

He did not look back.

Wrapped in rags, Varys kept to the shadows, walking like a beggar but thinking like a kingmaker.

“The dragons have returned,” he thought, “but not the right one.”

Rhaenar was fire and fury. A sword unsheathed for vengeance, not peace. He would burn a city to win a war. And when his flame guttered out, another would rise from his ashes, madder, crueler. Just like Aerys.

No, the realm needed something else. Someone else.

Aegon.

His thoughts turned across the sea, to a boy raised in secret. Taught to rule. Groomed to inspire. Aegon was no dragon in name only, he was a Blackfyre by blood.

“My nephew,” Varys whispered, not without pride. “And the last true hope for Westeros.”

They had all but forgotten the Blackfyres, those exiled shadows of Targaryen pride. But he had not. The blood of Daemon Blackfyre still ran strong in Aegon, through the mother Varys had hidden, his sister, the child he had smuggled, the lies he had layered over truth like mortar over stone.

Illyrio had played his part. The Golden Company had waited long enough. And now that the Red Dragon had returned, blazing bright across the skies…

…it was time to raise the Black Dragon in the dark.

“Let them crown Rhaenar with fire,” he thought. “I will crown Aegon in shadow.”

One born in vengeance. The other shaped by design.

One would burn the world to punish it.

The other would rule it.

The Cornered Lioness

The next morning dawned beneath a pale, red sky. The smoke had not yet cleared from the west. The sun rose behind it, casting a sickly glow over the scorched fields beyond the city.

Cersei Lannister stood tall atop the battlements of the Red Keep, golden hair pinned back, her gown a deep crimson trimmed with gold. Ser Meryn Trant, Ser Boros Blount, and Ser Mandon Moore flanked her, silent and still, their white cloaks stirring in the breeze. She had left Ser Arys Oakheart and Ser Preston Greenfield to guard Tommen and Myrcella, her last treasures.

She would not bring them here.

Not to see this.

Below, beyond the gate, the Targaryens waited.

Three dragons circled lazily overhead,  death on wings. Even now, they made her skin crawl.

And before the walls, like pieces arranged on a cruel board, knelt her family on a raised platform; Tywin, head unbowed, Jaime, quiet and chained, Tyrion, frowning as if the weight of the world was on his small shoulders, Kevan and his two sons, looking solemn.

And Joffrey.

Alive.

Bloodied, but alive.

Cersei gripped the stone so tightly her fingernails cracked.

Then he approached.

Rhaenar.

Clad in black and red, blade at his hip, no crown upon his head, yet every inch a king, and worse, a dragon.

He paced in front of her family on the platform, his boots tapping softly against the wooden planks, deliberate, controlled, echoing like a judge circling a gallows. He did not rush. He did not shout.

Rhaenar Targaryen did not need to.

Each step he took was a sentence passed, each glance a blade drawn.

Rhaenar stopped before Tywin.

The old lion stared straight ahead, unblinking, jaw clenched. Blood from a cut above his eye had dried in a dark rivulet down his cheek.

Rhaenar tilted his head slightly, studying him; not with rage, but with something colder.

Curiosity.

“As proud in chains as you were in power,” Rhaenar said softly. “I wonder… was Aery's blood worth all this? Did you ever dream it would end like this?"

To Kevan, whose eyes flicked up for only a moment. Rhaenar saw fear there, and shame.

He looked to the two boys beside him.

Willem and Martyn. Barely grown, barely men.

Willem’s blond hair hung across his face as he trembled silently, chained hand to hand with his younger brother. Martyn was wide-eyed, his lips parted in a half-whispered prayer to the Seven that no one answered. Their shoulders pressed together, as if the closeness might protect them from the weight of justice that now loomed.

Next was Tyrion.

He met Rhaenar’s gaze, bound wrists resting on his lap, chin lifted.

“I suppose you expect me to beg,” Tyrion said, dryly. “Or curse. I can do both, if it’ll amuse you.”

Rhaenar didn’t smile. “I expect you to survive.”

That earned the smallest flicker of surprise. But Rhaenar moved on.

Finally, he came to Jaime.

The Kingslayer. The Oathbreaker.

But now… a man caught in the storm of a house undone.

Rhaenar said nothing to him.

His steps slowed when he reached the boy.

Joffrey.

“Do you know why you’re here?” Rhaenar asked at last.

Joffrey’s voice cracked despite himself. “I’m the king.”

Rhaenar gave a slight tilt of his head. “Were.”

That one word, quiet, precise, cut deeper than any blade.

Joffrey’s chest rose and fell rapidly now, but still he held his ground.

“You can’t...” he started, his voice trembling, “...you can’t do this. I’m of royal blood. My mother is—”

"Your mother's actions will determine your family's fate," Rhaenar said, his words now ice.

He then lifted his gaze to her, calm, cold, and wholly unafraid.

“Lady Cersei,” he called up, his voice carrying across the walls with unnatural clarity, “your city is surrounded. Your crown is lost. Come down. Bend the knee. Spare your children.”

Cersei sneered.

“The lion does not bow to the dragon,” she spat. “The lion defeated the dragon once, and it will again.”

Rhaenar chuckled. Soft, and sharp as a blade.

“Did you not see?” he asked. “The ashes of your army? The burnt bones of your banners? These lions before you are all that remain of your vaunted West. You have no teeth left to bare, my lady.”

He took a slow step forward.

“This is your choice. Surrender the city, and your children will live. Surrender the city, and House Lannister will continue. Refuse… and I remove one of them every hour until none remain. Then I take the city by force and show no mercy to those who dwell within.”

“Think carefully,” he finished, quiet now. “Your hour has begun.”

Cersei laughed, shrill and wild.

“Mercy?” she hissed. “You speak to me of mercy? I will have Daenerys flogged and raped in the gutters. I will see her strung up in the stockades to be used by every rat and cutpurse in Flea Bottom. I will erase you, bastard. Wipe your name from history. Just a footnote in a fool’s rebellion. A bastard of a northern whore.”

Her voice rose to a roar.

“This is my city! My legacy! If you dare lay a finger on my family, I will wipe House Targaryen from the world!”

She spat down from the battlement, a wet splatter of contempt.

“Beg me for mercy, boy. While you still have a tongue.”

Rhaenar said nothing.

Not to the guards.
Not to his kin.
Not even to Cersei.

The silence was deafening.

He moved.

One smooth motion.

His hand fell to the hilt at his hip and drew his sword, the steel catching the light like starlight drawn into mortal shape. The blade made no sound, no shriek of steel, no clamor of threat. Only a whisper of death through air.

He turned. Appraising the prisoners.

His gaze settled on Joffery.

The boy knelt there in ornate armor too heavy for him, golden curls damp with sweat, lips curled in that sneer he always wore, too proud, too spoiled to understand the moment. Dried blood in the corner of his mouth. He turned to speak, to beg, shout or insult.

It didn’t matter.

Rhaenar stepped behind him.

And in a single, perfect stroke.

The sword came down.

Clean. Merciless. Absolute.

Joffrey’s body remained upright for a heartbeat, his mouth gaping like a fish.
Eyes wide, empty, still not comprehending. A strangled breath caught in his throat, though his throat was no longer whole.

Then the head toppled free.

It fell with an almost gentle motion, landing on the platform with a dull, wet knock, then bounced once, as if reluctant to stop. Blood fanned outward in a widening halo.

It rolled to a halt at Rhaenar’s foot.

The king did not flinch.

He looked down at the boy's lifeless face, frozen mid-sneer, lips parted in silent outrage, and for one breath, said nothing. Just that piercing stare.

Then he lifted his boot and gave it a swift, unceremonious kick.

The head skittered across the stone, trailing blood, spinning once, then twice, until it struck the base of the wall, his dead eyes staring up at his mother.

Rhaenar looked up, towards Cersei, his eyes unflinching.

“The next one dies in an hour.”

His voice was flat. Final.
Not rage nor cruelty.
Judgment.

Then, without another word, he turned and walked away,
past the pool of blood,
past the headless corpse still twitching,
Just silence.

Then Cersei screamed.

Incoherent.
Not a word, not even a curse, just a sound.
A raw, animal cry wrenched from the depths of a soul that had lost everything.

Her hands flew to her face, clawing at her cheeks, then to her belly, then her hair. She collapsed to her knees, trembling fingers scrabbling at the edges of her gown.

She tore it.

She didn’t care.

She tried to speak, to spit venom, to demand vengeance, to call for the gods or the dead or even her father, but no words came. Only dry, choking sobs. Her golden hair spilled over her shoulders in tangled waves, her eyes wide and vacant, staring at the headless body of her firstborn.

“Joffrey… my lion, my son… gods…”

The words never left her mouth. Just gasps. Just broken breaths.

Ser Meryn Trant rushed forward, not out of love, but duty or perhaps fear. He reached for her arms, trying to lift her, muttering hurriedly.

“Your Grace, we must go, come, get her up...GET HER UP!”

He turned back to the remaining guards, shouting, “MOVE! HELP THE QUEEN!”

Ser Mandon Moore stepped in,  face pale and impassive as ever. He grabbed Cersei under the other arm, and together, he and Trant dragged her upright.

She did not resist.
She did not help.
She had nothing left.

Her legs buckled beneath her, her head lolled forward, and a thin wail escaped her throat, neither word nor sound, but the soft keening of a woman walking through the ashes of her own reign.

The Red Keep

She moved like a shadow now. A whisper. A ghost.

She walked barefoot into Grand Maester Pycelle’s solar, where the old man blinked in surprise.

“Your Grace,” he stammered, “how may I help you?”

“I need something to help me sleep,” she said softly, her voice almost sweet. “Something strong. I fear… I will not rest until I do.”

Pycelle nodded, eager to prove useful.

He began listing potions and tonics like a merchant unloading goods.

“Essence of nightshade, milk of the poppy, dreamwine… I even keep a precious vial of the Tears of Lys, quite rare, I might add, though I wouldn’t recommend...”

He turned to his shelves, still rambling. Cersei watched. Listened.

And when he bent to retrieve a scroll, she moved.

One hand.

One motion.

She palmed the vial of Tears of Lys, slipping it into the folds of her sleeve.

He straightened and turned with a small cup.

“A drop of nightshade should suffice, Your Grace,” he said proudly.

Cersei smiled faintly. “Thank you, Maester. You’ve always been so… helpful.”

She took the cup.

Left the solar.

And walked, slow and silent, back toward her children.

“He will never have them,” she thought. “Not alive.”

The Mockingbird

Cersei was going to get them all killed.

Petyr Baelish stood in the antechamber of Maegors Keep, fingers steepled beneath his chin, listening to the echo of her screams. The whole court had heard them, high and animal, shattering in a way no queen should break.

She had lost control. Her grief had become madness.

And madness, Petyr knew, was contagious.

“She’ll let the city burn before she yields,” he thought grimly. “We’ll all be ash if she has her way.”

He could not allow that.

Not when he had worked too long, climbed too far, positioned too carefully.

He moved quickly through the halls, robes rustling as he descended toward the barracks of the City Watch. No guards stopped him. Those loyal to Tywin were either dead or pretending to be.

It didn’t matter.

Only one man mattered now.

Ser Janos Slynt.

He found him in the watchtower barracks, pale, sweating, armor hastily buckled. The man stank of fear.

“Lord Baelish,” Janos said, standing awkwardly. “We’ve… we’ve received word. The King...Joffrey...he’s…”

“Yes,” Petyr said coolly. “He’s dead.”

Janos swallowed hard.

“And the queen, she won’t yield. She says we’ll fight. That we’ll make them pay—”

“She’ll make corpses of us all,” Baelish snapped, voice still soft but sharp as a razor. “The dragons are here, Janos. The city is surrounded. Your men can’t fight fire. Do you want to burn? Would you prefer to die screaming in your armor while a dragon feeds on your bones?”

Slynt blinked, jaw trembling.

“I… I don’t…”

Baelish stepped close, lowering his voice.

“This is not a defeat. This is an opportunity. We raise the white flags. We open the gates. The dragon does not sack those who kneel. That is the difference between a conqueror and a butcher.”

He placed a hand on Janos’s trembling shoulder.

“Hang the banners. Open the gates. Let the Targaryen’s in, and live to see tomorrow.”

Slynt hesitated… and then nodded.

By the hour’s end, white banners hung from every gatehouse.

The great gates of the Lion Gate, the King’s Gate, and the Gate of the Gods creaked open. The gold cloaks manned the walls, weapons sheathed, the Crowned Stag standard of House Baratheon removed from its posts and lowered into the dust.

Baelish watched from the ramparts, heart pounding, not from fear now, but anticipation.

The dragons had not come to burn today.

They had come to claim.

From the west came the sound of marching, the rhythm of an army entering a city not as raiders, but as rulers.

Banners of red and black rippled in the breeze.

The three-headed dragon of Targaryen flew high above the gatehouse.

Behind it came knights in glimmering armor, soldiers bearing the flowers of the Reach, the spears of Dorne, the waves of the Narrow Sea. Dornish sand steeds. Reachmen destriers. Thousands of them, marching in perfect step.

And at the head, Rhaenar Targaryen, in full armor, his white-cloaked Kingsguard beside him.

A hush fell across King’s Landing as the dragon entered the gates.

There would be no sack.

No riot.

Only the slow, deliberate march of a new order.

The Queen’s Chambers

She gazed at the white banners flying from her window.

Cersei stared at them, motionless.

For a long, frozen heartbeat, she couldn’t breathe.

“No,” she whispered. “No, no, no...”

She whirled, skirts rustling like storm-tossed waves. Her heels pounded against the stone as she stormed through the royal solar, throwing open the doors with enough force to startle the guards outside.

Her Kingsguard were waiting.

Ser Meryn Trant, dour as ever.
Ser Boros Blount, puffing, face pale.
Ser Mandon Moore, watchful and unreadable.
Ser Preston Greenfield, straight-backed and tense.
And Ser Arys Oakheart, young, anxious, already reaching for the hilt at his side.

They had all seen it, the white banners raised from every gatehouse. The gates thrown open. The Gold Cloaks betraying the crown.

Letting the dragon in.

Cersei’s voice rang like a blade unsheathed.

“Find the captain of the gate. Hang him if he still breathes.”

She turned to the Kingsguard, jaw clenched.

“Arys, Preston, bring my children into The Throne Room. Then defend the entrance to Maegor's Holdfast.  Seal the gate. Hold the bridge. If the dragons come, avenge Joffery. Ser Boros, Ser Mandon, help them defend the keep.”

They nodded at their orders, and strode off without a word, white cloaks flaring behind them.

Cersei turned to the last remaining White Cloak.

“You remain with me. There is a duty greater than battle.”

The Conqueror

The gates of the Red Keep stood open.

Smoke curled through the courtyards, trailing behind crimson and black banners. The city had not been sacked. No bells had rung. But the rhythm of marching boots and the thunder of hooves echoed through the capital like a funeral march.

Rhaenar Targaryen dismounted in the courtyard, obsidian armor glinting under the morning sun, Daenerys beside him in red and black, Viserys just behind. Around them gathered their lords, captains, and banners, Dorne, the Reach, and the Narrow Sea, assembled beneath the shadow of dragons.

And now… the North arrived.

A second gate had opened.

Through the red haze and broken columns came Eddard Stark, cold-eyed and hard-jawed, riding beneath the banner of the direwolf. At his side rode Robb, youth behind him, his wolf cloak rippling behind him like a banner of snow and blood.

Flanking them, padding silently through the soot-choked street, came Ghost, pale as winter, eyes glowing red with the quiet fire of the old gods. Beside Robb trotted Grey Wind, broad-shouldered and alert, his growl low as thunder as he scented the blood-soaked air.

They were flanked by the Greatjon Umber, Maege Mormont, Harrion Karstark, and the full host of Northern lords, faces grim, banners high, vengeance in every step.

Ten thousand strong, wrought iron from the snows.

From the King’s Gate came another host, silver and sky-blue banners flying high.

Jon Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, his face lined with age but sharp as a falcon’s, rode at the head of the Knights of the Vale, their armor gleaming like cold morning frost. They formed a wall of order beside the chaos of the Red Keep’s outer yards.

The Dragons had returned to the capital.

And Rhaenar stood at its center.

They advanced together through the ruined halls. Room by room. Hall by hall.

The Gold Cloaks offered no resistance.

The Lannister loyalists were disarmed. Many dropped to their knees. A few begged.

But it was Maegor’s Holdfast where the last blood was spilled.

The final four traitor Kingsguard, Ser Arys Oakheart, Boros Blount, Mandon Moore, and Preston Greenfield, stood beneath the banner of a dying queen.

They were white-cloaked, but they were not true.

Against them strode Arthur Dayne, Ser Barristan Selmy, Ser Oswell Whent, and Gerold Hightower, men whose names were carved into legend.

And legend answered.

The clash was swift. Beautiful. Tragic.

The bridge to Maegor’s Holdfast groaned beneath steel and fury.

It was narrow ground, no room for cavalry, no banners, no armies. Just eight men in white, sworn to protect the same throne, but for different Kings, now drawn against each other under a broken crown and a bleeding sky.

Wind tugged at their cloaks. Smoke drifted from the city, and the cries of surrender still echoed beyond the walls. But here, there was no surrender.

Arthur Dayne was the first to move.

Ser Preston Greenfield raised his blade too slowly. Dawn flashed once, like morning breaking through the night, and Ser Preston was undone. The blow split him from collar to hip, armor hissing as it parted. He died still trying to understand what had happened.

Ser Barristan turned with the elegance of a man half his age. His blade flashed once, quick, precise, and Ser Boros Blount, lumbering and red-faced, bellowed in confusion as the cut tore through his side. He stumbled back, armor clanging, clutching at the wound as if sheer will might close it.

He staggered, clutching his side where the Bold’s blade had found an opening in his armor. Blood poured freely down his hauberk, his face slick with sweat and panic. He took a step back, then another, his heel catching on the edge of the wooden planks.

There was no parapet. No stone rail to halt his fall.

Just open air.

For a heartbeat, he teetered there, arms flailing, mouth agape in shock. His eyes found Barristan’s across the short distance, confusion writ large on his bloated face.

Then gravity took him.

He toppled over with a strangled grunt.

There was a sickening crunch as his armored frame crashed down onto the iron spikes below, the defensive palisade built to keep invaders from scaling the walls of Maegor’s Holdfast. His weight drove one clean through his chest. Another pierced his thigh. A third skewered his helm.

His scream died in his throat.

Below, his body twitched once. Then stilled.

Blood streamed down the iron like melting wax, pooling at the base where the stone met the sea. From above, the bridge’s rough wood was stained crimson, the spray flecking across the walkway in wild arcs, as if a mad painter had dashed a goblet of wine across a pristine canvas.

Barristan just gazed down at the fallen.

He stood motionless, sword lowered, watching the blood run.

To the left, Ser Oswell Whent dueled Ser Arys Oakheart, white cloaks twirling, blades kissing in a flurry of strikes. Arys was fast, young, eager, terrified, but Oswell was patient. A step, a pivot, and he swept his sword up under the younger knight’s guard. The blade kissed Arys’s throat, and the cut was so clean he took three steps before falling to his knees. Blood painted his chest. Then silence.

Three of Cersei’s knights had fallen.

Then came the betrayal.

Ser Mandon Moore did not charge, stood back as if to surrender. He lurked, creeping like mildew on stone. And when the White Bull, Gerold Hightower, turned to aid Arthur, Mandon struck. No honor, no challenge. Just a quiet thrust beneath the arm, angled with cruel precision.

Gerold grunted. A sound like disappointment more than pain. His massive frame staggered, blood blooming from his ribs like a dying flower.

“Gerold!” Arthur’s voice was a blade itself.

He moved like light.

Mandon barely turned before Dawn found him. The greatsword cleaved through helm and skull, severing half of Mandon’s head from his body in a single elegant stroke. The coward’s corpse folded where it stood,  the top half of his head bouncing off the bridge  and rolling into the bloody mist below.

Rhaenar was at Gerold’s side in an instant. He knelt beside the dying knight, one hand pressing down on the wound, though they both knew it was far too late.

The White Bull looked up at his king, not with fear, but with peace.

“I die as I swore,” he murmured. “With my brothers… for my king.”

His hand went still. His gaze turned to the sky.

Arthur knelt beside them, his blade across his knees, eyes heavy. Oswell came next, lowering his sword, cloak torn and bloodied. Barristan stood last, the light catching the silver in his hair, his white cloak soaked red at the hem.

Eight Kingsguard had fought.

Only three still stood.

Smoke curled behind them, rising over the walls. Screams echoed in the distance. The gates to Maegor’s Holdfast loomed ahead, still barred. Cersei waited beyond, with her remaining children and whatever madness gripped her still.

The way was clear now.

Storming the Keep

Gerold Hightower’s blood was still warm on Rhaenar’s hands, but already the sound of war resumed, steel clashing, boots thundering across stone. The bridge behind them teemed with soldiers in grey and white, green and silver, black and scarlet, all pressing forward to finish the assault.

There was no time to mourn.

The castle was not yet theirs.

“Bring the ram!” Arthur shouted.

Men rushed past, armored and sweating, dragging forward a siege ram fashioned from a felled oak and bound in iron. Its head was carved into the shape of a snarling dragon.

THOOM.

The first strike shook the very air, a deep and violent boom that echoed off the stone like the beat of a war drum. Dust rained down from the high archway. Bits of mortar cracked from the gate’s edges.

THOOM.

On the second strike, the heavy iron-banded doors shuddered. A scream rose from inside. Crossbow bolts hissed down from the battlements, one glancing off Ser Oswell’s shoulder plate. He didn’t flinch. He raised his shield and pressed forward.

Rhaenar stood just behind the ram.

Behind him, Daenerys and Viserys arrived at a run, the dragons wheeling in the skies above, shrieking in tandem as if urging the men to strike harder, faster. Flames shimmered in the reflection of Rhaenar’s blade. His jaw clenched.

“Again!” Rhaenar roared.

THOOM.

The wood cracked. The iron moaned.

THOOM.

The hinges buckled inward, one groaning like a wounded beast.

THOOM.

The gate split down its center with a thunderous crack and burst open, one half collapsing in and the other dangling on shattered bolts. A wave of ash and silence met them from within.

Rhaenar drew his sword.

Then he stepped into the heart of Maegors hold fast, into the darkness where the last lioness waited.

They searched every chamber.

Room by room, hallway by hallway, Rhaenar’s soldiers swept through the shadowed heart of the holdfast, their boots echoing across cold stone, swords drawn, breath tight. Tapestries were torn down, closets flung open, secret passages pried at and probed. Each empty room was a fresh insult, a quiet whisper of her escape.

But Cersei Lannister was nowhere to be found.
Nor were her children.

Viserys kicked down a nursery door, eyes wild, only to find it abandoned. A half-played cyvasse board still sat in the corner. Dolls were scattered on the rug like broken dreams.

Daenerys checked the queen’s solar. The mirror still bore a smear of rouge. A goblet of wine had been knocked over on the table, still wet. She touched it, then looked to Rhaenar.

“She was just here,” she said. “Hours ago. Maybe less.”

Rhaenar said nothing. His face was stone, but the grip on his sword tightened with each passing moment. Every empty room echoed with dread. He could feel her watching. She was here. Somewhere. Waiting. Planning.

Then, through the rising smoke and confusion, Ser Garlan Tyrell came at a run, his fine armor scratched and soot-streaked, helm under one arm, sweat clinging to his brow.

He bowed briefly before speaking, his voice rough with urgency.

“Your Grace. The Throne Room, it’s sealed. Barred from the inside.”

A stillness fell over the corridor. Even the soldiers behind them paused.

Rhaenar turned slowly. “You’re sure?”

“Aye,” Garlan nodded. “We tried the main doors. Bolted. Reinforced. Not even our axes could break through. She’s in there.”

They made their way back into the Red Keep, boots echoing through blackened corridors still thick with smoke and death.

The halls of the Red Keep had grown quiet, too quiet. They made their way through the halls, Tapestries hung half-burned. The scent of smoke clung to the air like a memory of vengeance. Bodies, some armored, some not, were sprawled where they’d tried to flee.

Rhaenar stood at the great doors to the throne room, now barred from within.

The Iron Throne was mere steps away.

He could feel it.

Could almost hear it.

Screaming.

Whispering.

Waiting.

“Bring forth the prisoners,” Rhaenar said.

The chains clinked. The six lions, bloodied and bound, were dragged before the door.

“Perhaps,” Rhaenar said, his voice steady as winter, “one of them can get through to her, because her hour is up.”

The Golden Lion

The great doors burst open with a crack like thunder.

Jaime Lannister stumbled forward, still shackled, his lungs drawing in dust and iron. He didn’t hear the orders behind him, didn’t see the white cloaks moving or men surrounding the room.

He only saw what lay ahead.

Cersei.

Seated on the Iron Throne, her golden hair tangled, her gown torn at the hem, her shoulders bare and shaking. Her eyes were wide and unblinking, her face streaked with tears that had long since stopped falling.

At the foot of the Iron Throne, lay Tommen and Myrcella.

Still.
Pale.
Lifeless.

Their skin-tinged blue. Their lips faintly dark.

Poison.

Poison had taken them.

A strangled sound escaped Tywin, half curse, half sob. Jaime couldn’t tell which. The Lord of Casterly Rock lunged forward, fury etched into every line of his face, but the guards seized him before he could take another step.
Tyrion stood frozen, his face drained of all color, lips parted in silent horror.
Ser Kevan dropped to his knees as if the strength had been ripped from his legs, his hands trembling.
Young Willem and Martyn just stared, their eyes fixed on the lifeless bodies of their cousins. Their mouths hung open, unable to form words, barely able to comprehend what they saw. Jaime’s voice was the only one that mattered.

“Cersei!” he shouted. “What have you done?”

She did not answer.

Rhaenar raised a hand. His Kingsguard fanned out. The room swelled with lords and soldiers, but no one dared approach the throne.

Then, from the shadows behind the pillars, Ser Meryn Trant emerged.

A dagger gleamed in his hand, short, curved, coated in something darker than steel. His eyes were locked not on Rhaenar, but on Daenerys.

She stood a few paces from the throne platform, flanked by only two Reach knights, her focus fixed on the crumbling lioness at its height.

She never saw him coming.

Trant moved like a snake, swift, low, silent.

The dagger rose, inches from Daenerys’s exposed back.

Jaime saw it first.

He opened his mouth to shout—

But Brienne of Tarth was already moving.

“Your Grace!” she bellowed, voice like a warhorn.

Daenerys turned, startled.

And Trant lunged.

The dagger slashed for her throat.

Steel met steel.

Brienne’s sword intercepted the blow in a blur, driving Trant back a step. Her body slammed into his with a growl, no grace or elegance, just vicious force. The two collided like battering rams.

Trant snarled and slashed wildly, trying to gut her with his free hand.

She drove the blade up between his legs with brutal force.

Steel punched through cloth, flesh, and cartilage in a wet, splitting burst. The sound was hideous, meat tearing, bone cracking, a gush of blood erupting as his manhood was sheared from his body in a single, merciless thrust. Trant shrieked, a high, animal wail that turned into a choking gargle as he collapsed, clutching the ruin of his crotch, blood gushing between his fingers.

He dropped to his knees, eyes bulging, mouth opening and closing in silent horror. The agony was total. His legs kicked uselessly. Piss and blood mingled beneath him in a steaming pool on the marble floor.

But she gave him no time to scream.

Her sword arced up, high above her head.

Once.

Swift.

Unflinching.

Final.

The blade came down in a clean, merciless stroke, cleaving through flesh, sinew, and vertebrae. His neck split open with a wet crack, spine severed, head tumbling from his shoulders in a spray of blood.

It struck the marble with a dull thunk, rolling once, eyes still wide, mouth frozen in an O of disbelief.

His body jerked violently, spasming in place as if refusing to die.

Then it slumped forward in a heap of twitching limbs and gore, blood pumping in slow, shuddering pulses from the stump of his neck.

Brienne stood over him, chest heaving, her blade dripping red. Her armor was torn at the shoulder, hair loose around her face, and her eyes locked on Daenerys, not for glory, but for reassurance.

“Are you harmed, Your Grace?”

Daenerys, stunned, shook her head.

Brienne bowed slightly, then turned her gaze to the others. Ready to strike again.

Jaime stared.

He had seen men kill. Had done it a hundred times.

But this, this was different.

“Brutal,” he thought. “Efficient.”

Brienne had moved for something higher than herself. It was what the Kingsguard were meant to be.

Jaime didn’t blink.

“Let me go to her,” he pleaded to Rhaenar. “I can end this without more blood.”

Rhaenar met his eyes, long and hard.

Then nodded.

The throne room seemed to stretch endlessly as Jaime climbed the steps.

He could hear the breathing of the guards behind him. The scrape of his boots against the stone. The whisper of silk.

Cersei looked at him with unblinking green eyes, a mirror of his own

“Jaime,” she said softly. “I knew you would come back to me.”

Her voice was eerily calm. Childlike. Detached.

“Our children are gone. I held them. I kissed them. They felt no pain. Just sleep. It was merciful.”

He felt his heart pound against his ribs.

“You didn’t have to...” he started.

But she stood suddenly.

“We came into this world together,” she whispered. “We will leave it together.”

“Cersei,” he said, more gently. “Don’t do this. Don’t make this the end. You can live...”

She stepped toward him.

He stepped forward as well, one hand outstretched.

Her hands gripped his arms.

Then her body surged forward.

She shoved him.

Jaime staggered, his hand flailing, catching her throat, not to choke her,  just to stop his fall.

She twisted in his grip.

He stumbled down the steps.

She slipped.

The heel of her boot caught on blood-slick stone, and her body twisted as she fell backward, arms flailing, mouth opening in a soundless gasp.

Her back struck the Iron Throne with a sickening crunch of bone and steel.

One of the twisted blades, blackened, rust-edged, and cruelly jagged, punched straight through her back and out her chest. It tore through muscle, cracked her sternum, and erupted in a spray of blood just below her collarbone.

The scream tore from her throat, a shrill, broken thing, more pain than voice.

Her hands clawed at the blade impaling her, fingers slipping on her own blood as her legs kicked weakly, boots scraping against the steps.

Her mouth moved once more. A breath. A word that never came.

Then her body slackened.

Her eyes glazed.

Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth, thick and dark.

And she was still.

Silence.

No one moved.

Jaime lay halfway down the steps, eyes wide, chest heaving.

Above him, Cersei’s body lay slumped across the throne, impaled by the very legacy she had clung to.

A final, cruel justice.

He crawled toward her. Not caring who watched. Not caring what judgment would come.

He reached her body and placed a hand against her cheek.

Still warm.

Still hers.

“I was never enough,” he whispered. “Not for you. Not for them.”

Rhaenar said nothing.

No one did.

Not Ser Barristan, though his knuckles were white on the hilt of his sword.
Not Ser Arthur, who stood at his king’s side like a marble statue carved for war.
Not Viserys, whose smirk had long since faded.
Not even Daenerys, whose face, bathed in the glow of torchlight, held only the faintest trace of pity.

They simply watched.

Watched as the last queen of House Lannister, 
the proud lioness, bled out on the Iron Throne.

Her gown, once crimson and gold, was now soaked through, a deep, unnatural red, spreading from the jagged wound just beneath her ribs, where the throne had done the work no enemy ever could.

Her golden hair clung to her face, streaked with sweat and blood.
Her crown had fallen askew, one half slipping down her brow, tangled in the strands of her hair.

She had chosen the throne over her children. Over life. Over surrender.

Now she was impaled upon it, alone, proud, and broken.

The throne did not care.
It had seen kings and queens come and go, flesh torn and spilled upon its edges.
Its blades drank her blood like it had all the others.

And so ended Cersei of House Lannister.

A mother. A queen. A warning.

Chapter Text

The Iron Throne sat drenched in silence and blood.

Rhaenar had not moved. Not yet. Not with Cersei’s body still slumped across its jagged steel. The hall was full of breathing souls, yet none dared speak.

Jaime remained on the steps, unmoving. His arm hung limp at his side, the other stained red with his sister’s final breath.

“See to her,” Rhaenar said quietly at last.

Ser Arthur moved first. With Barristan beside him, they lifted the Queen’s corpse from the throne with solemn care. Not as a prisoner. Not as a villain. But as a woman who had ruled and lost.

She was borne away in silence.

Rhaenar’s eyes lifted to the throne. His voice came low.

“Have it cleaned.”

Rhaenar turned his gaze to Jon Arryn, his voice cold and deliberate. “Take the Lannisters to the dungeons. Second level. Tywin goes to the Black Cells.”

Lord Arryn inclined his head without question. “As you command, Your Grace.” He raised a hand, and a squad of knights stepped forward, grim-faced, ready to escort the broken lions below.

Rhaenar’s eyes shifted then found his uncle.

“Lord Stark,” he said, the title edged with familial weight, “find what remains of the old Small Council. Varys, Pycelle, Baelish, any who still draw breath in this den. I want them questioned.”

Ned met his gaze with a silent nod, then turned to his bannermen, Karstark, Umber, Mormont, his voice already barking orders as he moved.

The Targaryen king watched them go, his jaw clenched.

The city was his now.

But the cleansing had only just begun.

Later

The great hall had been stripped of Baratheon banners. In their place hung crimson and black. The dragon had returned, not only in fire and fury, but in rule.

The lords of the realm gathered: Eddard Stark, grim and stoic; Jon Arryn, dignified; Oberyn Martell, fierce-eyed and sharp-tongued; Mace Tyrell, pleased as ever.

Daenerys stood at the base of the dais, flame in her bearing and silver hair cascading over her shoulders, clad in red and black trimmed with silver thread. To her right stood Viserys, tall, pale, and proud in the close-fitting garb of a prince of the realm. His tunic was black as night, fastened with ruby-studded clasps, a three-headed dragon embroidered in silver across his chest.

Behind them stood the Kingsguard; Arthur Dayne, Barristan Selmy, and Oswell Whent, silent and unshakable, cloaked in white, the last blades of a vanished age now reborn.

Rhaenar entered in silence.

He wore no crown. No armor. Only black leather, high boots, a red sash bound at the waist. At his hip hung a sword in a scabbard of dragon scales.

He climbed the steps slowly, each footfall a claim, each breath a memory of all they had lost. He turned to face them all.

“I did not return to claim a chair,” he said, his voice cutting through the hush like a blade. “I returned to reclaim a birthright stolen. To avenge a house betrayed. And to offer a realm the strength it lost when dragons were driven into shadow.”

He raised his eyes.

“If any among you believe I am not fit to rule,” he said, voice level, “speak now.”

No one did.

Then Ser Arthur Dayne stepped forward, a circlet of dark Valyrian steel, worked into the shape of three dragon heads entwined, their eyes set with blood-red rubies that glinted in the torchlight. He did not place it upon the king’s brow himself.

He turned, and offered it to Daenerys.

She took it in steady hands. Her fingers lingered on the metal—cool, coiled, full of ancient weight. Then she stepped up to her husband.

Their eyes met, his, valyrian steel and solemn; hers, violet and bright with fire. He knelt to his his Queen on the steps of the Iron Throne. 

“Dracarys,” she whispered.

And she placed the crown upon his head.

“Now rise… my king.”

Then Ser Arthur Dayne stepped forward, his white cloak catching the torchlight like a banner of old.

He drew his sword, not to threaten, but to honor, and raised it high before the assembled lords.

His voice rang out like a bell through the hall, clear and proud:

“Rhaenar Targaryen, the First of His Name. King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.”

The titles echoed off the stone walls.

And then, like a tide drawn by ancient instinct, the entire throne room knelt as one.

Ned Stark, grim and silent. Jon Arryn, head bowed. Oberyn Martell, fierce even in fealty. Mace Tyrell, pleased and reverent. The banners of North and South, Riverlands and Vale, Dornish spears and Reachman roses, all bent before the dragon.

Above them all, Rhaenar stood crowned, the weight of a broken world now resting on his brow.

He then sat, and took his place on the seat of his ancestors. 

  Later that Night, Small Council Chambers

The chamber smelled of old stone and new fire.

The banners had been changed and replaced by Targaryen black and red. The lion had roared its last. Now the dragon watched.

Rhaenar stood at the head of the table, clad in the regal finery of a king. His black velvet tunic was trimmed in red and silver thread, the fabric falling in rich, smooth folds. A long mantle of black and crimson silk draped from his shoulders, clasped at the collarbone with dragon-shaped brooches, made of fine silver. Atop his brow rested his crown. He looked every inch a dragonlord reborn, calm, cold, and utterly in command.

At his left sat Daenerys, wrapped in layered silks of black and silver. Her hair was braided in Valyrian fashion, her violet eyes sharp. On his right, Viserys leaned back in his chair, gloved fingers drumming against the polished wood. He wore a half-smile, but his eyes flicked constantly toward the door, as if the ghosts of Lannisters still stalked these halls.

Before them sat their guardians, the men who raised them from birth; Ser Arthur Dayne, calm and vigilant, leaning slightly on Dawn which stood at his side; Ser Barristan Selmy, ever composed; Ser Oswell Whent, silent as shadow.

And then, under close guard and less ornate chairs, sat what remained of the old regime.

Petyr Baelish, lips thin, eyes watchful, dressed in greys and greens too modest for the treachery beneath them.
Grand Maester Pycelle, disheveled and pale, his chain of office hanging askew. He smelled of fear and urine.

A long pause hung over the room like a sword.

Rhaenar broke it.

“We’ve taken the city. The stag is broken. The lion lies bleeding. And now we decide what’s to be done with what remains.”

He looked first to Baelish.

“Lord Baelish. You were Master of Coin, yes?”

Petyr gave a slow nod, measured. “I still hold the accounts of the realm, Your Grace… though I suspect you have new treasurers in mind.”

“You were Tywin’s creature,” Viserys said with a sneer. “Bought and paid for.”

Petyr smiled faintly. “I serve coin, not lions. And coin is loyal to power. You have power now.”

Rhaenar tilted his head slightly. “And what would you offer me, if I let you live?”

Baelish gave a shallow bow of the head, hands open in a gesture of humility. “Only what I know, Your Grace. The city’s ledgers, its coin, the flow of food and arms. I know which guilds fund the Watch, which merchant houses are ready to shift their allegiance. I’ve spent years weaving networks through this city—.”

Daenerys’s voice was cold. “You sound like a parasite trying to justify its place.”

Petyr didn’t argue. His voice dropped slightly, more deferentially. “Perhaps. But even parasites know when to cling… and when to serve something stronger. I’m not here to challenge you, Your Grace. I only want to be of use. Nothing more.”

He bowed his head a little lower this time.

Rhaenar said nothing for a long moment. Only watched him, like one might study a knife to determine which direction the blade points.

Rhaenar let the silence linger, then turned to Pycelle.

“And you. What use are you?”

The Grand Maester struggled to rise, but Ser Oswell’s hand on his shoulder kept him seated.

“I—I served the realm,” Pycelle stammered, sweat beading on his brow. “I advised kings! I tended wounds, I—”

“You whispered poison into my father’s ear,” Daenerys cut in, her voice like a blade unsheathed. “You swore loyalty to House Targaryen, then helped open the gates for Tywin Lannister.”

Her eyes burned. “You let them butcher Elia. You stood by while my niece and nephew were murdered.”

Pycelle’s jowls quivered. “I… I am an old man,” he wheezed. “I only followed the crown…”

“You followed fear,” Daenerys spat. “And it led to my families slaughter.”

Rhaenar watched Pycelle in silence, expression unreadable.

Then he said, quietly, “And now you will follow justice.”

He looked to Arthur.

“Your counsel, Ser?”

Arthur’s face was stone. “Pycelle is of no use to you. His time has passed. And Baelish… if left unguarded, he will betray you.”

“And yet both may still serve a purpose,” Rhaenar murmured. “The realm must believe we are not just fire and death.”

He stood straight. “Pycelle will be sent to the Citadel. Let the archmaesters decide if his cowardice was treason. He’s no longer welcome at court.”

Pycelle sagged but said nothing. The guards moved to take him.

“And Baelish?” Daenerys asked, her eyes never leaving the man squirming in his seat.

“We keep him close,” Rhaenar said. “A coin-counting snake is still useful, so long as it stays in a gilded cage.”

He turned to Arthur, his tone suddenly flat. “But the moment he coils too tightly, cut off the head.”

Arthur inclined his head in silent understanding.

Rhaenar turned his gaze back to Baelish.

“I want the full accounting of the realm’s debts,” he said. “Every loan. Every bribe. Every copper that’s left this throne room since Robert seized it. How do the coffers look?”

Baelish swallowed, his voice thinner now. “Drained, Your Grace. The crown owes nearly six million gold dragons. The Lannisters were the largest creditors… but with the Rock in ruins, I suspect those debts have died with them. The Iron Bank of Braavos holds the largest  share of what remains, and they do not forgive.” He gave a nervous glance toward Daenerys before continuing.

“There are a few grain reserves from Oldtown. Ships bound for King’s Landing from Lys and Volantis. But… without new coin, we will struggle to feed the city through the next moon’s turn, let alone pay the Watch or hold the harbor.”

Viserys scoffed. “Six million? How could Robert spend so much and have so little to show for it?”

Baelish offered a weak smile. “Tournaments, hunts, debts to bannermen. The King lived lavishly, as did his wife. Gold flows faster through a fool’s court than wine at a feast.”

Rhaenar exhaled slowly. “Then it’s time we end the feast.”

He turned to Jon Arryn, who stood by in silence.

“Summon the guildmasters. The harbor lords. Every man who’s taken coin or contract from the crown. We will not rule a broken city built on borrowed coin.”

He looked to Baelish once more.

“And you’ll account for every dragon spent under Robert’s reign. You have one week.”

Baelish bowed his head. “Yes, Your Grace. I will see it done.”

Rhaenar ignored him and looked back to the map on the table, still marked with the scars of conquest.

“The West,” he said. “What remains?”

Ser Barristan spoke now. “The battle outside of Kings Landing was a rout. The lions were crushed between our host and their own fear. Nearly every great house of the Westerlands lost men. Some… were ended entirely.”

Lord Tarly, who had entered during the debate, stepped forward.

“The field of fire destroyed the bulk of their strength. Their knights burned. Their levies fled. The Rock may still stand, but its pride is buried with Tywin’s host. The West won’t rise again for a generation.”

Viserys exhaled with satisfaction. “Then let us raze Casterly Rock. Make a new Harrenhal as a warning to the Realm.”

“No,” Rhaenar said flatly. “We don’t rule by vengeance. We rule by fear and justice.”

Rhaenar stood, the flickering firelight catching on the dark Valyrian steel crown upon his brow.

“That will be all, my lords,” he said, voice cool but final. “I would speak with my Kingsguard, and my family.”

The gathered nobles bowed and withdrew in silence, cloaks whispering behind them. Only the white cloaks, the Targaryens, and the storm outside remained.

Once the chamber had emptied, Rhaenar turned to Barristan Selmy.

“With the death of Ser Gerold,” he said solemnly, “the Kingsguard stands without a Lord Commander. Ser Barristan Selmy, I would name you to that post. If you will have it.”

Barristan lowered to one knee at once, his white cloak brushing the floor.

“I will not fail you, Your Grace,” he said, voice steady.

Rhaenar nodded. “You never have.”

He turned to Arthur Dayne. “Ser Gerold is to be laid in state, in the throne room. A vigil will be held for seven days, one knight at each hour. Choose who will stand the watch.”

Arthur gave a solemn nod. “It will be done.”

“Afterward,” Rhaenar continued, “his remains will be returned to Oldtown. Let House Hightower bury him with the honor he is due.”

The king’s gaze moved back to the long table, where the three remaining white cloaks stood against the enormity of what had been.

“Now we must consider the rest. With Gerold fallen, and Ser Aurane at sea escorting my grandmother and the prisoners from Dragonstone, we are still three short. I would see the Kingsguard restored in full.”

He looked to Arthur. “Ideally, one knight from each of the Seven Kingdoms. The West is shattered, so likely out of the question. Speak with Lord Arryn, see if the Vale has someone worthy.”

Arthur nodded again.

“I will speak to my uncle Eddard,” Rhaenar added, “and ask whether the North has a man of honor they would see in white.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Arthur spoke again.

“Your Grace,” he said quietly, “if I may… I would also put forth the name of Lady Brienne of Tarth.”

Rhaenar raised a brow.

Arthur continued, unflinching. “Her blade was sharp and true at Storm’s End. She showed no fear. More than that, she has a knight’s soul; full of honor, duty, and loyalty. The men of the Stormlands speak highly of her.”

“She’s not a knight,” Rhaenar said flatly.

“Then have her kneel,” Arthur replied, “and I’ll make her one.”

The room fell silent.

Rhaenar glanced to Barristan. “What do you think, Lord Commander?”

Barristan was thoughtful, folding his hands behind his back. “I have no quarrel with knighting her, Your Grace. She has courage, and strength. And I do not doubt her sense of honor.”

He paused, then added, “But the Kingsguard is more than strength and service. It is sacrifice. It is legacy. A knight of the Kingsguard does not only wield a blade. They are the embodiment of the Crown’s will. And in that regard… I do not believe she is ready. Not yet.”

Arthur said nothing, but his gaze was respectful.

Rhaenar inclined his head slowly.

“Then let us watch her,” Rhaenar said. “For saving Daenerys in the throne room, she will be rewarded…with knighthood. The first woman in the realm to be granted that honor.”

He looked to Arthur, then to Barristan.

“If she proves herself worthy beyond the blade, if she embodies what the cloak demands, then she will take the white.”

He looked to Viserys and Daenerys beside him, then back to the men who stood at the heart of his reign.

Viserys shifted in his seat, his fingers drumming lightly on the armrest.

“What of Loras Tyrell?” he asked. “It would be a boon to the Reach, and bring them deeper into our circle.”

Rhaenar smiled at him. “He tried to kill me not even a moon ago. I defeated him at Storm’s End, blade to blade. He is not worthy of the white cloak.”

Ser Oswell Whent spoke next, calm and firm. “I agree with His Grace. Loras Tyrell could never be trusted at the king’s side. Not with what passed between you.”

Viserys looked as if he might argue, but Rhaenar cut in, not unkindly.

“It’s a good thought, Viserys. “You’re thinking like the Hand. But the Reach will have to be content with your marriage, and with Lord Willas seated as Master of Coin.”

Viserys gave a quiet nod, accepting the decision.

He turned back to the table, eyes scanning the empty slots in the Kingsguard.

“The white cloak is not a gift. It is a burden. And it will not be worn lightly under my reign.”

“Seven swords must stand for the dragon. We will find them.”’

He turned back to the table. “As for Baelish, we’ll use his knowledge to begin righting the crown’s finances. When Lord Willas arrives, he’ll prove useful in bringing him up to speed.”

Then Rhaenar looked to Viserys.

“Speaking of the Tyrells, they ride for King’s Landing with your betrothed. After the coronation, your wedding will be held in the Great Sept of Baelor. You’ll be a married man soon, Uncle.”

Viserys smiled, a touch of satisfaction curling at the edge of his lips. “I’ll do my duty to our House,” he said. “I don’t imagine it will be such a hard duty to uphold.”

That drew soft chuckles around the table, even from Ser Oswell.

Rhaenar allowed it, for a moment. Then his tone turned once more.

“Now… what do we do with the rebel lords?”

Barristan Selmy, ever the voice of honor, answered first.

“House Stark and House Baratheon had cause, Your Grace. After your grandfather burned Lord Rickard alive and strangled Brandon, he called for Lord Eddard’s head, and for Robert’s. Demanded Jon Arryn give up his wards. Their rebellion was not without reason.”

He paused, then added, with less sympathy, “But House Tully… they joined for gain. Lord Hoster moved when he saw which way the wind blew. He advanced his house through war, not conviction.”

Rhaenar nodded slowly, considering. “Yet all three now kneel. Lord Arryn sits on my council. I doubt Lord Stark wishes to remain long in the South. And what of Hoster Tully, does he ride for my coronation?”

Viserys spoke. “Reports say he is on his deathbed. His son Edmure rules in his name.”

Rhaenar drummed his fingers on the edge of the table. “Then there’s no need to press a dying man. Edmure Tully will be raised as Lord of Riverrun, and Lord Paramount of the Riverlands.”

Viserys frowned. “I don’t think that’s enough. The Tully’s rose as  traitors. At the very least, we should strip them of the title and elevate a house that stood true, like the Darry's.”

Rhaenar was silent for a moment, weighing.

“I understand your anger,” he said at last. “I feel it too. But if we mean to heal the realm, we cannot punish sons for their fathers’ choices; not when they kneel, not when they serve. If we show mercy where it matters, we show the realm rebellion gains nothing. And besides—”

He gave a faint, crooked smile.

“—it will be harder to rebel when dragons guard the sky.”

That brought another round of laughter, rough and genuine.

Then Rhaenar’s voice turned cold.

“Now. What of the West?”

A hush fell.

“Tywin’s fate is sealed. But what of the rest? Lord Tarly says their fighting strength is broken. Many lords dead or taken. Do we strip them all of lands and titles? Do we reduce House Lannister to ash?”

It was Daenerys who answered.

“If we are not to punish children for their fathers, then perhaps we grant Lord Tyrion his father’s seat. If he agrees to reparations and swears loyalty, we can use Lannister gold to pay off the crown’s debts, and more. Tax the Rock. Use their wealth to rebuild the realm they helped burn.”

Rhaenar studied her.

“And you trust him?”

“I don’t trust anyone not named Targaryen,” Daenerys admitted. “But I understand the value of a clever man who wants to survive. And Tyrion Lannister knows that a dragon’s mercy is better than its wrath.”

Viserys frowned but said nothing.

Arthur spoke next. “Let him bend the knee in the throne room. Let the realm see a lion humbled.”

“It may serve,” Rhaenar said, his voice measured. “But sending Kevan, Lancel, and what remains of the Lannister host to the Wall weakens Tyrion further. He'll have titles and a castle but little strength to hold them.”

Rhaenar’s gaze drifted across the table, then settled on Arthur Dayne.

“And what of the Kingslayer?” he asked quietly.

Arthur’s face turned to stone.

“He dishonored his cloak,” he said, voice clipped, “and profaned his blade with his king’s blood. He broke his oath and stood idle while your siblings were slaughtered. There is only one sentence for such treachery.”

Ser Barristan gave a slow nod. “I agree, Your Grace. A Kingsguard who turns his blade against his sworn charge, no matter the justification, must face justice. Oaths mean nothing if they are bent to convenience.”

The room held still, expectant.

Rhaenar sat back in his chair, fingers steepled, eyes distant in thought.

“He seemed… contrite, when we captured him,” he said finally. “Whether that was fear or remorse, I do not yet know.”

He looked to both knights, Arthur, grim and still, Barristan, stern but respectful.

“I would speak with him. I want to hear his reasons before I pass sentence. If there is any truth behind the man he once was… I want to see it with my own eyes.”

Arthur said nothing for a long moment, then gave a small, solemn nod.

“As you wish, Your Grace. But know this, he forfeited his honor the day he sheathed his blade in Aerys’s back.”

“And I intend to make sure it was not sheathed in vain,” Rhaenar replied.

He turned to the map spread across the table, the lion markers scattered and broken.

“What of the Iron Islands?” Rhaenar asked, his tone cooling. “They invaded the West. Have we heard anything since?”

Ser Oswell Whent shook his head. “No new word, Your Grace. Only that Lannisport was pillaged, burnt nearly to the ground. The Ironborn left little behind but smoke and bones.”

Rhaenar’s jaw tensed.

“Until the kraken bends the knee,” he said, voice steady but dark, “the realm is not united.”

He looked to Viserys. “Send a raven to Pyke. Lord Balon Greyjoy is to recall his fleet at once. They are to disarm, disband, and return to their ports. Any continued aggression will be answered in kind.”

He straightened, and the firelight caught the black steel of his crown.

“Lord Balon is to sail to King’s Landing, kneel before the Iron Throne, and swear oaths of loyalty and peace. If he refuses… it will be taken as an act of  war.”

His next words rang like a cold warning.

“And the dragons will erase the reavers from the history books.”

A heavy silence followed.

Then Daenerys spoke, voice soft but iron-hard. “Let the kraken learn what it means to make war against the dragon.”

  The Queen Mother

She sailed into Blackwater Bay with tears in her eyes, the sea breeze tangling silver through her hair. The Red Keep loomed on the horizon, its towers rising from the cliffs like the spires of a forgotten dream. Only in her most desperate prayers had Rhaella Targaryen truly believed she would see it again.

Beside her, Ser Aurane Velaryon stood silent, his armor dulled by salt and sea wind, his eyes fixed on the city that had once belonged to dragons.

As the ship maneuvered into docking position, he glanced at her. “Welcome home, my Queen,” he said quietly.

She offered him a faint smile and patted his arm. “I believe my title is Queen Mother now, Ser Aurane.”

His expression softened, but he said nothing more.

On the docks below, a host awaited her.

At their head stood her son, Prince Viserys Targaryen, clad in black and crimson, the badge of the Hand of the King pinned proudly over his heart. His silver-gold hair caught the wind like a banner, his face schooled into noble calm, though his eyes searched the ship with restless urgency.

Flanking him stood Ser Oswell Whent, impassive and regal in his white cloak, and Lord Mace Tyrell, resplendent in green and gold, his bannered retinue forming a lush backdrop. Men of the Reach lined the docks with goldcloaks interspersed between them, forming a stately honor guard.

Targaryen banners rippled above the harbor, black silk and red dragon.

The Queen Mother had returned to her capital.

  The Black Cells

The iron door creaked open.

King Rhaenar Targaryen stepped into the gloom, a shadow of crimson and black, the flickering torchlight catching faintly on the Valyrian steel circlet that crowned his brow. Behind him moved Ser Arthur Dayne, silent and watchful, his white cloak ghosting across the stone floor.

Tyrion Lannister looked up from his cot, unshaven, pale, but alert. “Your Grace,” he said with a weary smile. “I’d offer you wine, but I’m afraid the guards forgot to bring any.”

Rhaenar didn’t answer. He simply stared, cold steel eyes meeting mismatched green and black.

“I am told you are a clever man, Lord Tyrion,” Rhaenar said at last. “So tell me, what would you do if you stood in my place?”

Tyrion let out a breath, the humor fading from his expression. “I would never presume to tell you what you should do, Your Grace,” he replied soberly. “I hold no illusions. Whatever fate awaits my family… I suspect it won’t be kind.”

Rhaenar’s voice remained level, but there was something sharp beneath it.

“Your father’s fate is already written,” he said. “But House Lannister’s doesn’t have to be. Bend the knee. Swear fealty to House Targaryen, in perpetuity, and I will allow you to live. More than that, I will grant you Casterly Rock. You will be Lord of the Westerlands and Warden of the West.”

Tyrion blinked. Stunned into silence. He stared into the dragon king’s grey eyes, reading the fire behind them.

Then, slowly, he slid from his cot and fell to one knee.

“Your mercy shows your wisdom, my king,” he said. “I will swear whatever oaths you require.”

“There will be conditions,” Rhaenar said. “First, the crown’s debt to House Lannister is forgiven. Entirely and without negotiation.”

Tyrion didn’t hesitate. “Of course, Your Grace.”

“Second,” Rhaenar continued, “you will pay reparations. Ten million gold dragons, taken from the Rock, not from the realm. Blood gold, to mend what your family helped break.”

Tyrion’s mouth opened—then closed. He swallowed hard.

“That is… quite the sum, Your Grace. It will put a rather significant dent in my coffers.”

Rhaenar’s expression didn’t change. “Then I suggest you open more gold mines, my lord.”

Tyrion coughed, then managed a dry smile. “Yes, I believe we will have to.”

He paused. “If I may ask… what of the lords who fought under my banner? My uncle Kevan? My brother?”

“Those who survived will do their duty to the Realm, by serving in the Nights Watch, though some lords may retain their titles, if they bend the knee, but their fighting force will serve the realm,” Rhaenar said. “Ser Kevan, however, will go to the Wall, alongside your cousin Lancel. I will allow your younger cousins, Willem and Martyn to return to Casterly Rock, with you.”

He stepped closer to the bars.

“Jaime… is another matter. His fate remains undecided. He and I have much to discuss before judgment is passed.”

Tyrion bowed his head. “Of course, Your Grace. I can only pray… that mercy finds him too.”

Rhaenar turned to Ser Arthur.

“See that Lord Tyrion is released. He is to be given quarters befitting of his station.”

Arthur inclined his head. “As you command, Your Grace.”

Without another word, Rhaenar turned and strode from the cell. In the corridor, Ser Barristan Selmy waited in silence and fell in beside him as the king passed.

Behind them, Ser Arthur remained for a heartbeat longer, watching Tyrion with an unreadable expression, then turned and followed his king.

The cell door was left open, Tyrion escorted out by guards.

The Broken Oath

When they entered the cell, they found a broken man.

Ser Jaime Lannister sat on the floor, back turned to the door. He stirred at the sound of iron hinges, slowly rolling over. His face was drawn, streaked with dried tears. Grief clung to him like a shroud, grief for a sister lost, or a family shattered. Perhaps both.

He blinked rapidly as his vision cleared. Two white cloaks stood behind the king. Ser Arthur Dayne, the man who had once knighted him, the sword he had idolized above all others. And Ser Barristan Selmy, ever-rigid, ever-watchful, whose expression held no forgiveness.

But it was the king who held Jaime’s gaze.

Young. Solemn. The Valyrian steel circlet rested on his brow, but there was no triumph in his face. Just steel-grey eyes staring into emerald, searching for something beyond guilt.

“Your Grace,” Jaime rasped, attempting to rise. His knees buckled, and he sank down instead.

Rhaenar said nothing at first. Then, with quiet force, “Ser Jaime Lannister. Kingslayer. If you hold any desire to keep your head, I believe you have some explaining to do.”

Jaime nodded once, slowly. “What would Your Grace like to know?”

Rhaenar stepped forward, voice low, but heavy with feeling. “Why did you kill my grandfather? The king you swore to protect. Were you acting under orders from your father? Helping him steal the throne my family died defending?”

Jaime’s eyes hardened, not in defiance, but in memory.

“No, Your Grace,” he said quietly. “Not for my father. I counseled Aerys to keep the gates closed. I knew what my father wanted. He was never one to back the losing side. He came to the gates not to fight, but to claim the spoils.”

His voice chilled. “It was Pycelle who convinced Aerys to open the gates. To trust the lion.”

Rhaenar’s brow furrowed. He said nothing, and Jaime went on.

“By then, Aerys was lost. He saw traitors in every shadow. Burned men alive for imagined slights. He named Rossart—yes, Rossart—as Hand of the King. Grandmaster of the Alchemists’ Guild.”

He looked up. “You’ve heard of wildfire?”

Rhaenar nodded grimly.

Jaime continued, his voice hollow.

“He was obsessed with it. Obsessed. He burned your grandfather alive with it. He burned lords, servants… anyone who crossed him. He ordered caches placed beneath the city. Under the Sept of Baelor. Under Flea Bottom. Even under the Red Keep.”

The king’s face paled.

“When my father’s men began sacking the city, I ran to the throne room. I begged Aerys to surrender. To spare the people.”

Jaime’s jaw clenched. “He ordered me to prove my loyalty by bringing him my father’s head. And then… he told Rossart to ‘burn them all.’”

The room was deathly still.

“I killed Rossart first,” Jaime said. “When Aerys tried to flee, I drove my sword through his back. He didn’t scream. He just kept repeating the same thing, over and over—burn them all. So, I slit his throat to make him stop.”

Rhaenar didn’t speak. His expression was unreadable. Even Ser Barristan had gone still.

When Rhaenar finally spoke, it was quieter.

“I’ve heard the stories of what Aerys became. My grandmother, my Kingsguard, they never lied to me about him. But this... he would have destroyed the entire city.”

He knelt slowly, bringing himself eye-to-eye with the man who had been his father’s sworn sword.

“I understand why you broke your oath to Aerys,” Rhaenar said. “But what I do not understand is why you did nothing for my siblings. Rhaenys and Aegon were children. Aegon was still in the cradle. Why didn’t you help them?”

Jaime’s face broke.

Tears spilled again, silently this time.

“I didn’t know what my father planned,” he whispered. “I thought they’d be safe. Aerys was dead. The war was over. I never dreamed… never believed my father would go that far.”

He looked down, as if afraid to meet the king’s gaze.

“I would have died for them. Rhaenys, Aegon… your father. The last thing he ever said to me; he told me he meant to call a Great Council after the war. He wanted to change things. To fix what Aerys had broken. He told me to protect his children. And I failed him.”

His voice cracked. “It’s their faces that haunt me. Not the king’s. Theirs.”

Rhaenar stared at him. Long. Hard.

Then, without a word, he reached for the waterskin at his belt and handed it to him.

Jaime blinked in disbelief but accepted it.

Rhaenar rose, turned to the door.

“Come,” he said to his Kingsguard. His voice was low.

Ser Arthur and Ser Barristan followed.

The heavy cell door groaned shut behind them, sealing Ser Jaime Lannister once more in the dark, with his ghosts for company.

Outside, silence lingered.

“Do you believe him?” Rhaenar asked, his voice low, uncertain.

Barristan Selmy was quiet for a moment before answering. “King Aerys had fallen far, Your Grace. I served him too. And if what Jaime says is true, if he stopped the city from being burned in wildfire, then yes. I believe we’ve misjudged him.”

Arthur nodded, his tone solemn. “A knight’s highest vow is not to a crown, but to the innocent. If Ser Jaime spared thousands, he did not break his oath. He honored it.”

Rhaenar began to pace the corridor, the stone echoing beneath his boots.

“We need to search the tunnels. If any of that wildfire remains… under the Sept, the streets, the Keep itself…”

He couldn’t finish the thought.

“I’ll lead the search myself, Your Grace,” said Barristan. “But before we start pulling stones and lifting cellars, we must decide what is to be done with Ser Jaime.”

Arthur stepped forward. “I do not believe he should die. Not for this. By the gods… if I were faced with such a choice, I cannot say I would have done differently.”

He placed a hand briefly on Rhaenar’s shoulder. “I will follow your lead, Rhaenar. You have a good heart and a mind sharpened by steel.”

Rhaenar said nothing. He simply turned back toward the cell and opened the door again.

The Decision

Jaime looked up from the cold floor. His eyes were red, and his face still streaked with tears.

“What is to become of me, Your Grace?” he asked hoarsely, voice stripped of all pride. “Will it be the sword or the gallows?”

Rhaenar stepped inside, slow and deliberate.

He didn’t answer the question—not at first. He looked down at the man kneeling in chains, the man who had once been called the lion of the Kingsguard. The golden boy who killed a king.

Finally, he asked, softly, “What do you want, Ser Jaime? If you were free, what would you do with your life?”

Jaime swallowed.

“I’ve worn the white cloak since I was fifteen,” he said quietly. “The first king I swore to was Aerys… a madman. Then Robert… a drunk and a brute. Neither were worthy of the throne they held.”

He paused.

“Your father… he was. I only knew him briefly, but I believe he would have been one of the greatest kings in living memory. If you would give me the chance, I would serve you, Your Grace. Truly. This time with honor.”

He bowed his head. “Not to atone. But because I believe in what you might become.”

Rhaenar turned slowly to look at his Kingsguard.

Barristan met his gaze and gave a faint, thoughtful nod.

Arthur hesitated, but then dipped his head once, silent assent.

Rhaenar stepped forward. He placed a firm hand on Jaime’s shoulder.

“Then rise,” he said, voice steady. “Rise, Ser Jaime… a knight of the Kingsguard.”

Jaime looked up, stunned. His breath caught. And then, slowly, reverently, he stood.

Rhaenar met his eyes.

“But hear me well. The white cloak you wear now does not forgive what has come before. It only binds you to something greater going forward.”

Jaime nodded, voice steady for the first time.

“I understand, Your Grace.”

Rhaenar turned to Arthur.

“Remove his chains. And see that he is bathed and rearmed.”

Arthur stepped forward at once.

As they walked from the cell, Jaime beside them, the torchlight danced along the narrow hallways of the Red Keep—casting the shadow of the kingslayer behind him.

But ahead of him, for the first time in many years… was something like redemption.

Chapter Text

The private solar above Maegor’s Holdfast was lit only by golden lanterns and a fire crackling low in the hearth. The smells of roast quail, Dornish wine, and spiced pears lingered in the air, but no one at the table had yet touched their food.

Rhaenar sat at the head, his crown set beside his plate. He looked tired, though his posture remained straight, his fingers steepled as he spoke.

“Jaime told me everything. About the wildfire caches, about Aerys… about why he broke his oath.”

Viserys shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I hope you didn’t believe him outright.”

“I did not,” Rhaenar replied. “But Ser Arthur and Ser Barristan both did. They served the Mad King. They saw what he became. And they believe Jaime acted to save the city, not betray it.”

Rhaella was silent, her face still and grave, a goblet of wine resting untouched in her hand.

Daenerys spoke softly. “And what of Rhaenys and Aegon? What did he say of them?”

Rhaenar’s eyes darkened. “He said he didn’t know. That he thought they would be safe once Aerys was dead. That he would have died to protect them.”

Viserys scoffed. “Convenient.”

Rhaella raised a hand. “Enough.”

All eyes turned to her.

“We have all lost something to this war,” she said quietly. “But if what he says is true, if he saved the city from wildfire, then perhaps… perhaps mercy is not weakness. Perhaps it is justice.”

Rhaenar exhaled slowly, nodding once in gratitude. “That’s why I allowed him to remain in the Kingsguard. Not for what he was… but for what he might still become.”

A long pause.

Then Daenerys gave a small nod. “If he proves himself loyal, then let him wear the white. The old world is dead, Rhaenar. We are building something new. Let it begin with choice.”

Viserys still looked doubtful, but said nothing further.

The tension faded slowly, like smoke dispersing from a candle flame. The wine was poured. The food tasted. And soon, laughter, soft and hesitant, returned to the chamber.

They spoke of the past, of Dragons Lair, of the long years in exile, of the nights spent huddled in cold halls with only firelight and each other.

“You always cried when I was sent away to train,” Rhaenar teased Daenerys, smiling. “You’d cling to my cloak like it would anchor you to the floor.”

Daenerys rolled her eyes. “And you always came back smelling of sweat  and bruises.”

Viserys raised his goblet. “Yet here we are. Dragons, in our rightful home.”

Rhaella looked around the table, her children, her grandson, and her smile was faint, but full of warmth.

“It has been a long road,” she said. “But the wheel has turned.”

Then, she looked to Rhaenar.

“Your coronation will be held in three days’ time. The Great Sept of Baelor has been cleared. The banners are hung. The realm will watch you rise.”

Rhaenar nodded, the weight of it all settling again on his shoulders.

“And after that,” he said, voice quieter, “I pass judgment on those who would have seen us destroyed.”

Daenerys’s eyes met his. “Then pass it well. The sooner we move on, the sooner the Realm can heal itself.”

The Kings Chambers

The Red Keep slept under moonlight, its towers silent save for the rustle of banners in the breeze. But behind the doors of the royal apartments, light still burned, soft, golden, and warm.

Rhaenar stood at the window, his crown set aside, his armor exchanged for a robe of black silk. The firelight danced across the stone walls, and behind him, Daenerys moved with quiet grace, unbinding her hair, the silver strands falling down her back like moonlight on water.

“You haven’t spoken since supper,” she said gently.

Rhaenar turned, and for a moment he only looked at her, his aunt, his queen, the woman who had been at his side through fire, through exile, through war. His voice, when it came, was low and thick with feeling.

“Only because words feel small tonight.”

She stepped toward him, barefoot across the stone. “Then don’t speak,” she whispered.

And he didn’t.

Their lips met in silence, tender at first, then deeper, fuller, years of closeness blooming in a moment of release. There was no urgency, no fear. Only the slow, steady unraveling of tension forged in war. His hands traced her waist, hers curled behind his neck. The kiss deepened, pulling them both into the gravity of something larger than desire.

Their love was not born of lust or convenience. It was woven through their bones, shared blood, shared dragons, shared destiny.

When they reached the bed, it was as if the world fell away.

They made love not as conqueror and consort, not as king and queen, but as soulmates, united in body and flame. Her fingers tangled in his hair, his lips pressed to the hollow of her throat. They moved in rhythm, in reverence. It was slow, patient, and devoted. The act of two halves becoming whole.

Afterward, they lay tangled in silk and sweat, her head on his chest, his hand gently stroking her silver hair. The fire crackled. The city outside slumbered.

Only then did Daenerys speak.

“My moonblood is late,” she whispered. “By nearly a moon.”

Rhaenar stilled.

Then he looked down at her, eyes wide, breath catching in his throat. “Truly?”

She nodded once, her gaze open and vulnerable. “I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure.”

He pulled her close, his arms tightening around her. “The gods have blessed us,” he murmured against her hair. “Fire and blood, yes, but life, too.”

After a long moment, he added, “I’ve summoned Marwyn from Dragon’s Lair. He’ll arrive within the week. Until the Citadel sends a replacement, he’ll serve as Grandmaester..”

She smiled softly. “You always think ahead.”

“For you,” he whispered, “always.”

They lay together in silence after that, their breathing slowing in unison. Beneath the weight of war, a seed of peace had been planted. And in the heart of the Red Keep, for the first time in many years, love ruled the dragon’s nest.

The Arrival

The sun shone bright over King’s Landing as the Reach banners streamed behind her. Roses bloomed on every standard, red, gold, and green, as if the fields of Highgarden had followed her all the way to the capital.

Margaery Tyrell sat straight in the saddle, chin high, heart steady. Her brothers rode ahead and behind, Garlan regal and proud, Willas calm and calculating. Ser Loras, as ever, was the blade at her side. But this time, the eyes of the realm were on her.

They entered the city under the cheers of thousands, Targaryen banners now hung from every gatehouse and tower. The war was over. The dragon had returned.

And she was to wed one of its heads.

Viserys Targaryen stood at the steps of the Red Keep, flanked by goldcloaks and garbed in black and crimson. A silver clasp in the shape of a hand adorned his chest, the badge of the king’s Hand. His pale hair shone like sunlit silk, and his posture, for all its stiffness, was regal.

But his eyes...

They were not cold like she had feared. Nor wild, like the rumors whispered. They were uncertain. Appraising. Almost shy.

He stepped forward as her horse drew to a stop. A stableboy took the reins.

Margaery dismounted with grace, gown flowing, and approached him.

“Prince Viserys,” she said with a warm smile and practiced courtesy, offering her hand.

He hesitated for half a breath, then took it lightly in his own, bowing over it.

“Lady Margaery,” he said, and she heard the stiffness in his voice, but also the care. “You… look like the Reach in bloom.”

Her smile brightened just a touch. “And you look like someone who has learned diplomacy since last we exchanged letters.”

That brought a flicker of a grin to his lips. “I had good scribes,” he said.

They stood there for a moment, alone amid a sea of banners, family, and watching lords. The moment stretched, but it was not unpleasant.

“I know this marriage was not of our choosing,” Viserys said, softer now. “But I would like it to be… more than tolerable.”

Margaery tilted her head, studying him. He looked nervous, but not afraid. A man trying to make something good from a life that had often offered him little.

“I would like that too,” she replied.

They walked up the steps together.

“I’ve had rooms made ready for you in the Maidenvault,” he said. “My sister said you’d prefer sunlight and gardens.”

“She was right.”

“Perhaps tomorrow, I could show you the city?” he asked, and then, awkwardly, “If you’d like.”

Margaery smiled again, more gently this time. “I’d like that very much.”

The Dragon Ascends
The dawn filtered through silk-draped windows in soft ribbons of gold. The Red Keep stirred with quiet purpose beyond the walls, but in this chamber, hers now, and his, it was still and warm.

Daenerys lay beneath the sheets, her body curved along the familiar line of Rhaenar’s. His arm was draped over her hip, their legs tangled, skin pressed to skin. The scent of fire and leather lingered faintly on him, but softer now, mellowed by sleep and her embrace.

She watched him sleep, his brow relaxed, lips slightly parted, the faintest shadow of a smile there, as if even in dreams, he found peace at her side. Her hand drifted across his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart.

My king, she thought. My flame. My home.

Today, the world would finally name him so.

Today, the crown would be his. And hers.

She pressed a kiss to his shoulder, then to his jaw.

"Rhaenar," she whispered, lips brushing his skin. "Wake. The realm awaits."

He groaned softly, eyes still shut. "Let it wait."

She laughed, low and warm. “It has waited fifteen years. I doubt another hour will break it.”

His eyes fluttered open then, storm-grey and sharp, softened only for her. He reached for her without words, pulling her close once more, mouth finding hers.

They made love again, unhurried, reverent. A quiet celebration before the weight of crowns and ceremony. No titles between them. No dragons. Just Daenerys and Rhaenar, bound in warmth and devotion.

When they rose, she left him to his Kingsuard and stepped into her own day.

  The Queen and the Mother

The solar was already bright with morning sun when Daenerys arrived, wrapped in a flowing robe of soft red and silver. Her silver-gold hair was loosely braided down her back, and her cheeks held a glow that had little to do with the light.

Queen Rhaella sat by the window, dressed in black trimmed with crimson thread. But her eyes were clear, and her expression softened when she looked up to see her daughter.

“Good morning, mother,” Daenerys said warmly, leaning in to kiss her cheek.

“Good morning, my sweet girl,” Rhaella replied, clasping her hand. “Though you hardly look like a girl today. There’s a light in you.”

Daenerys hesitated only a moment, then sat close beside her, fingers curling around her mother’s with quiet resolve.

“I haven’t bled in nearly a moon,” she said, voice just above a whisper. “I think… I think I might be with child.”

Rhaella’s breath caught.

She turned fully, both hands now cradling Daenerys’s.

“Dany…” she whispered. “Truly?”

Daenerys nodded, eyes shining.

“It’s early, I know, but I feel different. Warmer. Whole.”

Rhaella drew her into a sudden, fierce embrace, as if trying to hold both daughter and grandchild in the same breath.

“Oh, my love… this is a blessing,” she murmured. “A gift from the gods. You and Rhaenar have suffered through fire and shadow to get here. And now…”

“Now, life blooms again. And I will live to see my grandchild born—”

Then she paused, chuckled, and added with a playful sparkle in her voice, “Or will it be my great-grandchild?”

Daenerys laughed, leaning into her mother’s warmth. “We’ll let the maester’s debate that.”

Daenerys rested her head on her mother’s shoulder, and for a moment they said nothing. The past, the exile, the fear, the silence, seemed far away.

“Does he know?” Rhaella asked quietly.

“I told him last night.”

“And?”

“He held me as if I were made of glass. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so happy.”

Rhaella laughed softly, a sound like wind through leaves. “He’s always worn his armor so tightly. But a child… it will make him shine brighter. You both.”

A knock at the door stirred them.

Viserys entered, composed in fine black and red, the silver hand pin gleaming at his chest. He approached with careful elegance, the princely image of Targaryen pride.

“Well,” Daenerys said lightly, smoothing her hair as she rose. “If it isn’t the Hand of the King, gracing us with his presence. And wearing flowers, no less.”

Viserys smirked. “It was a gift.”

“Margaery?” she teased, eyes sparkling.

“She is… gracious,” he said carefully, though the faint flush in his cheeks betrayed him.

“Gracious? You’re smitten.” She leaned in, mock whispering to Rhaella. “He probably dreams of rose gardens now, instead of thrones and dragons.”

Rhaella chuckled into her cup.

“I still dream of dragons,” Viserys muttered.

“Good. You’ll need them.”

The Family Gathers

Not long after, Rhaenar entered, cloaked in black and red, a sword at his hip, his presence filling the chamber like fire catching on silk. His smile was for them alone.

“Has the Queen broken her fast?” he asked, brushing Daenerys’s fingers with his own.

“She was waiting for you.”

“I knew there was a reason I woke up smiling.”

Rhaella rose to greet him, and even she could not hide her pride. “You look the part.”

Rhaenar smiled faintly. “Let’s hope I play it well.”

From the doorway, a new shadow appeared.

Ser Jaime Lannister, armored and silent, took his place a respectful distance behind.

Rhaenar caught his eye and nodded. “Time to go.”

He kissed Daenerys’s hand, clasped Viserys’s forearm, and exchanged a quiet look with his grandmother, one of trust, of love.

Then he turned and walked from the chamber, his white-cloaked shadow at his heels.

The king was on his way to be crowned.

 The Great Sept of Baelor
The light of the morning sun streamed through the great crystal dome, refracted in brilliant shafts of red and gold. The air smelled of incense and polished stone, thick with the weight of history. Seven hundred candles burned, and a thousand voices whispered behind them, but Eddard Stark heard none of it.

He stood among lords and royalty, but his heart was far from marble and stained glass.

Robb stood tall at his side, cloaked in grey and white, the direwolf of House Stark stitched across his chest. The North had come south for war, but this morning, they stood as witnesses to peace.

The pews behind them were packed shoulder to shoulder: the lords of the North at Ned’s flanks, Karstark, Mormont, Umber, Bolton, all in formal wear, and none of them looking entirely comfortable beneath the vaulted splendor of the Faith’s hall.

To his right, the Reach lords stood in full flourish, velvets and brocades, green and gold, roses everywhere. Mace Tyrell whispered something to his son Garlan, while Willas sat still and composed, and Margaery was to wed Prince Viserys. Their wedding would follow within the fortnight. The Realm moved quickly to bind wounds with silk.

Behind them, the Lords of the Vale filled a long row, Jon Arryn, silent and sharp-eyed, sat with the stillness of stone. Beside him, Lord Yohn Royce bore the ancient bronze of his house, his shoulders straight beneath the weight of his ancestors. Other Vale lords, Corbray, Redfort, Waynwood, sat in solemn formation, their expressions unreadable beneath the high domes and soft candlelight.

Just beyond them came the lords of the Riverlands.

Though House Tully had once turned its cloak to the crown, they sat now beneath the dragon banner, heads bowed, voices silent. Edmure Tully, now Lord of Riverrun in truth, wore his new title like ill-fitted armor. The weight of his father’s sins, and his own survival, hung across his shoulders. Yet beside him stood bannermen loyal still,  Lord Blackwood, grave as winter; Ser Karyl Vance, watchful and silent; Lord Jason Mallister, clad in sea-blue and silver.

Not a one among them spoke.

And for once, even the river ran quiet.

Further down, the sun-and-spear banners of Dorne hung alongside the stag of House Baratheon, though it bore no pride today.

Renly Baratheon sat quiet in black and gold, his posture stiff, his eyes shadowed. Lady Shireen was beside him, small and solemn, her hands folded in her lap. She wore a cloak stitched with the Baratheon sigil, the stag, no longer crowned, embroidered in silver thread, but it looked more like a memory than a banner.

Robert was dead. Stannis, slain.

Edric Storm had been taken to the Wall.

And now, this was all that remained of the stag’s legacy,  a brother who had survived the storm, and a girl too young to understand the burden she carried.

No triumph. No boasting.

Only legacy and quiet acceptance.

The royal family occupied the frontmost row.

Rhaella, dignified in crimson, her silver hair braided in majesty. Viserys to her side, both dressed in matching black and red, their faces composed.

Eddard’s eyes flicked to the edge of the sept.

Guards stood in every alcove, Targaryen red cloaks among the gold. And at the foot of the altar stood the Kingsguard in full regalia. Five of them again, now that the cloaks had been reforged and reforgiven.

Arthur Dayne, a pillar of quiet power.

Barristan Selmy, white hair gleaming beneath his helm.

Oswell Whent, resolute as ever.

Ser Aurane Velaryon, youthful, but dangerous.

And beside them, Ser Jaime Lannister, his golden hair brushed back, armor polished until it shone like a mirror. He stood at quiet ease, speaking softly to his brother Tyrion, who stood with the lords of the West.

It was true, then.

Rhaenar meant to grant him Casterly Rock.

A bold move. A dangerous one. But perhaps… the right one.

The whole realm had descended upon the capital to witness the crowning of their new king and queen. Lords great and small, from the Last Hearth to the Arbor, packed the sept in silks and steel. Cloaks of every color rustled like a living tapestry, direwolves and falcons, flowers and lions, moons and spears, all gathered beneath the dome of the Seven.

All save one.

The Iron Islands had sent no ships, no ravens, no oaths. They had made their choice when they burned Lannisport and raised their black sails for no king but their own.

And in time, they would face the consequences of that defiance.

The great crystal dome glowed with refracted sunlight as the crowd held its breath.

Then the High Septon stepped forward from behind the altar, cloaked in robes of ivory and gold, the seven-pointed star glinting upon his chest. His voice, when it rang out, was solemn and clear, ancient, as if echoing every coronation that had come before.

“Let it be known throughout the Seven Kingdoms, and in the sight of gods and men, that this day marks the return of the blood of the dragon to its rightful place. A line broken, now made whole. A realm divided, now made one.”

He lifted his hands to the sky.

“Rhaenar of House Targaryen. Daenerys of House Targaryen. Step forward.”

And the great doors of the Sept swung wide.

As the great doors groaned open, a hush fell over the sept.

Rhaenar and Daenerys Targaryen stepped into the light.

They walked side by side, cloaked in black and red, the flame of House Targaryen reborn in flesh and dignity. Rhaenar’s posture was unshakable, every inch a king, his steps measured, his gaze forward. Beside him, Daenerys glided like a vision from legend, her silver-gold hair cascading down her back, her hands steady even as a thousand lords stared in silence.

So like Rhaegar, Eddard thought, a pang tightening in his chest. And yet not. There is Stark in him too.

They reached the altar and turned to face the Seven.

The High Septon began the rites, brushing sacred oils across Rhaenar’s brow and hands. The air grew thick with incense, with ritual, with breathless expectation.

“May the Warrior grant him courage,” the Septon intoned, voice echoing through the vast dome, “and protect him in these perilous times.”

“May the Smith grant him strength,” he continued, “that he might bear this heavy burden.”

“And may the Crone, she that knows the fate of all men, show him the path he must walk… and guide him through the dark places that lie ahead.”

A pause.

Then, his voice rose with power.

“In the light of the Seven, I now proclaim Rhaenar of House Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.”

He lifted his hands high.

“Long may he reign.”

The words were thunder in the hall.

“Long may he reign!” the lords of the realm echoed, a thousand voices unified beneath dragon banners and stone gods.

Then Viserys stepped forward, elegant, composed, the badge of the Hand gleaming on his chest. In his hands, he bore the king’s crown: a circlet of dark Valyrian steel, worked into the form of three dragon heads, their bodies coiled and entwined, their eyes set with deep rubies that caught the torchlight and glowed like embers.

He placed it upon Rhaenar’s brow with quiet reverence.

Behind him, Queen Rhaella rose beside Daenerys, who turned now to receive her own coronation.

The queen’s circlet was a marvel, Valyrian steel, yes, but finer, lighter, more graceful in shape. Dragons interwove along the band, three necks coming together at the front to form a crown more tiara than helm. Red rubies, smaller but no less vibrant, glimmered in the eyes of the beasts.

Rhaella herself placed it upon her daughter’s head.

And in that moment, the Sept of Baelor did not hold conquerors or exiles or rebels.

It held a king and queen, flame and blood, future and legacy, standing beneath gods they had never bowed to, but now claimed their blessing.

The Red Keep

The throne room had been transformed into a hall of light and splendor. Black and crimson banners draped the walls, tables overflowed with spiced meats and sweet wines, and laughter echoed beneath vaulted ceilings. Nobles mingled beneath the eyes of the new Targaryen guards, and musicians played soft tunes on lute and harp while dancers whirled across the polished marble floor.

Viserys Targaryen stood near one of the great columns, goblet in hand, dressed in a deep black tunic embroidered with silver dragons curling up his sleeves. His silver hair shimmered in the candlelight.

Across from him, Margaery Tyrell approached, a glass of Arbor gold cradled in her slender fingers. Her gown of green silk was stitched with golden roses, low at the collar and flowing like riverwater with every step.

“You’ve watched me from that pillar for nearly ten minutes, Lord Hand,” she said with a smile that was half daring, half amused. “Is it awe, or paralysis?”

Viserys grinned. “Paralysis, perhaps. The Reach is known for beauty, but I was unprepared for its deadliest weapon.”

She laughed, the sound soft and rich. “Careful, my prince. Flattery is best served after a wedding, not before.”

He stepped closer, tilting his goblet slightly toward hers. “Then let me be patient… but not too patient. Will you dance with me, Lady Margaery?”

Her eyes twinkled. “Only if you promise not to step on my toes.”

“I’ll try,” he said. “Though I hear rose petals bruise easily.”

Margaery gave a delighted scoff, placing her goblet aside and taking his offered hand. “You’re worse than I imagined.”

“I shall take that as praise.”

They made their way onto the dance floor, slipping easily into the motion of a slow waltz, turning among the nobles under the glittering chandeliers. The chemistry between them was impossible to ignore.

But as they passed a cluster of Tyrell bannermen, a sharp voice cut the air like a pruning knife.

“Well,” said Lady Olenna Tyrell, seated in her high-backed chair with a goblet of lemonwater in hand, “if he fawns any harder, he’ll wilt her before the bedding.”

Margaery stifled a laugh; Viserys coughed, nearly tripping.

Olenna narrowed her eyes, a smile tugging at her lips.

“Save the sweetness until you’ve properly spoiled her, boy,” she said with mock severity. “You’ll have her for years. Don’t make it tedious by being too eager.”

Viserys, ever the courtier now, offered a bow. “I shall defer to your wisdom, Lady Olenna. But I must warn you, I was born eager.”

Olenna sipped her drink. “So was a dog I once owned. He was gelded by spring.”

Margaery laughed outright, pulling Viserys gently away before her grandmother could add another jab.

As the two twirled again into the flow of dancers, Viserys leaned in and whispered, “If I live through a Tyrell courtship, I may be fit to help rule the realm after all.”

“Survive my grandmother,” Margaery said, smiling up at him, “and I might just let you kiss me before the wedding.”

Later that night

The music and laughter of the feast were a distant hum by the time Rhaenar, Robb, and Eddard slipped away. The godswood was quiet, shadowed beneath the stars, its southern trees tall and ancient but foreign. No white bark. No red leaves. No carved faces to watch from the dark.

Still, there was peace here.

Ghost prowled silently along the path ahead, his pale coat gleaming silver beneath the moon. He moved without a sound, eyes glowing red in the dark. At his brother’s side, Grey Wind walked with his usual restless grace, larger than any hound, his broad shoulders brushing the branches as he passed, ears flicking to every sound.

The direwolves had grown into beasts of legend, small horses cloaked in fur and fang, living symbols of the North, and of something older still.

A small pool reflected the moonlight, and the wind stirred gently through cypress and myrtle. The soft rustle of leaves and the faint scent of cedar gave the place an old serenity, untouched by the weight of crowns or court.

Rhaenar stood at the water’s edge, his arms folded, no crown on his head, just a man who had worn one for the first time and felt its weight still lingering.

“I always wondered what it would feel like,” he murmured.

Eddard stood beside him, his grey cloak draped over broad shoulders, a quiet pillar of the North.

“And now that it’s yours?” he asked.

“Heavy,” Rhaenar said softly. “But not hollow. It feels… right.”

Robb leaned against a low-branched tree nearby, his wolf-cloak thrown back, his hands resting atop the pommel of his sword. “I think you wore it well.”

Rhaenar smiled faintly. “You say that now. Wait until I start issuing commands.”

Robb chuckled. “As long as you don’t command me to stay out of trouble, I might actually listen.”

Eddard looked at the two young men, the son of his sister, and the son he’d raised and saw the future not at odds, but united.

“You remind me of her,” he said to Rhaenar. “Not just in your face. In the way you listen. In the way you lead.”

Rhaenar turned, something in his expression faltering for just a moment. “I think of her every day.”

“She would’ve stood beside you today,” Eddard said. “Proud. Fierce. And with that same defiant fire in her eyes.”

Rhaenar swallowed. “I hope she’d be proud of what I’m becoming.”

“She would,” Ned said. “I am.”

There was a silence between them, brief, but full.

Then Rhaenar looked to Robb.

“You fought beside me. You rode south for your family and your honor. I am glad it turned out the way it did, glad we didn’t have to face each other across the field. I hope we fight together again… but more than that, I hope we live in the same peace.”

Robb stepped forward, the torchlight catching in his hair and the folds of his grey cloak. He extended his hand without hesitation.

“We’ve already begun it.”

Their hands met, firm and sure, and in that moment, there was no North, no dragon, no war.

Only kin.

The Hall of Judgment

The throne room had been emptied of feasting tables and finery. Banners still hung, but the air was cooler now, sober. Before the Iron Throne, Rhaenar Targaryen sat crowned and cloaked in black and red. Flanking him were Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Barristan Selmy, Ser Oswell Whent, Ser Aurane Velaryon, and Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingsguard soon to be at full strength once more.

Before him stood the lords who had once warred against his House.

“Let the judgments be read,” Rhaenar said.

The herald stepped forward.

“Edmure Tully,” he announced.

Edmure knelt.

“You rode against my House,” Rhaenar said, “but you have bent the knee, and your father lies dying. I will not punish sons for the sins of their fathers. Rise, Lord Edmure, Lord of Riverrun, and Lord Paramount of the Trident.”

Edmure stood, flushed and grateful, and bowed low before withdrawing.

“Renly Baratheon,” the herald called next.

Renly approached, stiff but proud, Shireen seated behind him.

“You held Storm’s End with valor,” Rhaenar said, “and have shown wisdom in defeat. Rise, Lord Renly, Lord of Storm’s End, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands.”

Renly bowed his head and stepped back, jaw tight with emotion.

“Tyrion of House Lannister.”

The court hushed. Every eye turned to the Imp.

Tyrion stepped forward slowly, shorter than the knights before him, yet no less resolute. He wore a doublet of deep crimson, trimmed in gold, the lion of Lannister stitched across the chest in fine golden thread. He walked alone, but behind him followed the West.

The surviving lords of the Westerlands knelt as one, forming a crescent behind him:
Banefort, Brax, Broom, Crakehall,  Lefford,  Marbrand, Greenfield, Payne, Prester, Westerling… and Sandor Clegane, the Hound himself, captured at the Gods Eye, no longer a white cloak, but free from chains, head bowed, sword across his knees.

These were the men who had survived the Field of Fire, who had bent the knee not under threat of flame, but in the shadow of it. Now, they pledged fealty anew.

Rhaenar regarded Tyrion a long moment.

“The West has bled. Its pride shattered. Its legions burned. Yet some strength endures, and you, Lord Tyrion, are its last lion.”

He stood from the throne.

“I name you Lord of Casterly Rock, and Warden of the West. May you rule not as your father did, with fear, but with reason, and with honor.”

Tyrion dropped to one knee.

“I will not fail the realm, Your Grace. And gods help me, I will not fail you.”

Rhaenar gave a faint nod.

“Then rise, Lord Tyrion… and stand tall.”

Tyrion stood, and the gathered lords bowed lower still.

The lion was not dead.

It had simply been reborn.

The next names rang clear.

“Ser Waymar Royce, Ser Daemon Sand”

The young knights strode forward, cloaked in bronze and grey. There was no hesitation in their  steps, only purpose, oath-burning in their  eyes.

Rhaenar rose.
“You have served House Arryn and House Martell with honor. Now serve the realm.”

Ser Barristan stepped forward, drawing his sword in solemn ritual.
“You are called to white.”

Waymar  Daemon knelt.

Ser Arthur Dayne stepped to him and placed the white cloak over his Waymer’s shoulders with reverence.

Ser Oswell Whent stepped forward, securing the cloak upon Daemon’s  shoulders.

Waymer and Daemon looked to Rhaenar, then spoke, their voices in unison:

“I promise to serve with all my strength, and give my blood for you.
I vow to take no wife, hold no lands, and father no children.
I pledge to guard your secrets, obey your commands, and defend your honor.
I will ride by your side, and protect your name from this day… until my dying day.”

“Rise, Ser Waymar, Ser Daemon, as knights of the Kingsguard.”

A moment of stillness followed, holy and final.

Then they stood.

And took their place beside the others, Seven at last, cloaked in white, steel at their sides, the shield of the crown reborn.

Rhaenar rose from his throne.

“There is one more.”

He turned toward the side of the hall.

“Lady Brienne of Tarth,” he called.

She stepped forward, tall and uncertain, her armor freshly polished, her hands clenched into fists.

“You saved the life of my queen,” Rhaenar said. “When others stood frozen, you acted. With honor. With courage.”

He looked to Arthur.

“She is not a knight,” Rhaenar said. “Let her be made one.”

Arthur stepped forward, Dawn gleaming in his hand. Brienne knelt before him, her eyes wide, her lips parted in disbelief.

“In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave,” Arthur said. Moving his sword to her next shoulder. And continued on until the oath was complete

The hall was silent but for his voice.

“Arise, Brienne of Tarth, a knight of the Seven Kingdoms.”

She rose slowly, blinking away tears she refused to shed.

The room held still.

And then, all at once, it stood and applauded.

There was just one final task for the day.

They brought Tywin Lannister before the Iron Throne in chains.

A moon in the Black Cells had reduced the once-mighty lion to a shadow of himself. His clothes hung loose and filthy, stained from stone and sweat. His bushy side whiskers, once neatly trimmed, had grown into a tangled mess of grey and gold. His eyes, though dulled by darkness and deprivation, still burned with pride.

He scanned the dais.

When he saw Ser Jaime standing in white among the Kingsguard, he scowled.

King Rhaenar Targaryen watched from atop the Iron Throne, the crown of Valyrian steel glinting beneath the high windows.

“Tywin Lannister,” he began, voice echoing through the hall, “your crimes are known to all. During the sack of King’s Landing, your men butchered the innocent, raped and pillaged under your banner. When you took the Red Keep, Princess Elia Martell was murdered in her bed. Her children, Princess Rhaenys, and King Aegon Targaryen, the Sixth of His Name, were slaughtered by your dogs.”

He paused a moment, giving weight to the name.
Rhaenar had always believed that Aegon, though a babe, had outlived Aerys by mere hours. And if only for those hours, he had been king.

Now history would remember him as such.

“Your sentence is clear.”

Tywin’s voice rasped as he straightened, shoulders drawn despite the weight of his chains.

“I don’t recognize you as King,” he sneered. “This is no trial, it’s a mummer’s farce. I gave no orders to Gregor Clegane or Amory Lorch. In a sack, men act on blood and impulse. Some go too far. That is not mine to answer for. You have no right to judge the Lion of the Rock.”

Rhaenar stood.

And slowly descended the iron steps.

He came to stand before Tywin, close enough to smell the grime and defiance still clinging to him.

“You may not recognize me,” Rhaenar said evenly, “but the Seven Kingdoms do. I have been crowned by the Faith. These lords you see”—he gestured to the gathered nobility lining the throne room—“have bent the knee. Your sons. Even your bannermen. The realm has chosen me. And I will judge you.”

His voice dropped to a snarl.

“I have weighed you, and found you wanting. Your sentence is death. It will be carried out immediately.”

Tywin drew himself up. “Then I demand trial by combat,” he barked. “Let the gods decide if I am guilty of these so-called crimes.”

Rhaenar tilted his head. “You would fight for yourself?”

Tywin straightened as much as the chains would allow. “I will name a champion. That is my right.”

“And who would you name?” Rhaenar asked, though he already knew the answer.

Tywin’s gaze shifted to the dais. “My son. Ser Jaime Lannister.”

Rhaenar gave a soft, knowing laugh. “I’m afraid you’ve forgotten yourself. Jaime Lannister is a knight of the Kingsguard, sworn to the Crown. He cannot take up arms against it. Do you have another champion?”

Tywin’s eyes locked onto Jaime’s.

“You would allow your father to die?” he growled. “You won’t defend me?”

Jaime’s voice was steady. “I am a knight of the Kingsguard. I serve my King.”

Tywin’s mouth curled into a sneer. “A disappointment to the end.”

He turned, scanning the room. “Is there no one here who will stand for me? A debt that would see you showered in gold. Speak now!”

Silence.

Then he spotted the hulking figure of Sandor Clegane, and desperation flared.

“Clegane,” he called. “You are sworn to House Lannister. Fight for your liege. Defend your lion.”

The Hound spat on the marble floor. “I serve your son now. He’s Lord of Casterly Rock. You? You’re just another old man in chains.”

Tywin drew in a long, ragged breath.

“Then I’ll fight for myself,” he said. “I will stand as my own champion.”

Rhaenar was about to respond when a voice cut across the hall.

“Your Grace.”

Prince Oberyn Martell stepped forward, crimson and orange swirling around him like fire. His eyes never left Tywin.

“I would ask the honor of championing the Crown.”

Rhaenar studied him. The desire was plain in Oberyn’s face, not only for justice, but for vengeance long denied. A brother’s vengeance. A prince’s promise.

He nodded. “Very well. Tomorrow, at midday, you shall have your say before the gods.”

He looked back to Tywin. “Take him to chambers. Let him eat. Let him bathe. Let him pray.”

The guards seized Tywin’s chains.

As he was dragged from the hall, his head held high but his steps faltering, Rhaenar turned back to the throne.

“Court is dismissed.”

Chapter Text

The Dragonpit

Sunlight poured through the fractured ribs of the ruined dome. Once, dragons had roared in this place. Now, only silence waited, tense and watchful.

Tywin Lannister stood in the center of the Dragonpit, armor dull and weathered. It was not the gleaming gold of his prime, but mismatched, functional, and old. Like the man inside it.

He glanced up, past the dirt, past the circle of onlookers and saw Aerys’s spawn watching him from above. Rhaenar Targaryen, crowned in black Valyrian steel, his face carved from ice and fire, sat on a raised platform like a specter of House Targaryen's vengeance.

At his side stood Jaime, white-cloaked and unreadable. His son. His sword. No longer his.

Around them, the lords of the realm had gathered like vultures to witness the Lion’s fall. Eddard Stark, grim as winter; Jon Arryn, silent and sharp-eyed; Mace Tyrell, bloated with satisfaction; Hoster’s son, the boy-pretender Edmure; Renly Baratheon, smug beneath a stag banner he hadn’t earned.

Tyrion, the twisted little son he had once dismissed, watched from the high dais beside the King, clad in red and gold, heir to all that Tywin had built.

The world had come to watch Tywin Lannister die.

The roar of the crowd dimmed as his opponent emerged.

Prince Oberyn Martell entered the arena with a dancer’s ease, dressed in light armor, gleaming like blood under a summer sun. The sun-and-spear burned bright upon his breastplate, and his helm, wrought into the shape of a roaring lion, glared mockingly with ruby-set eyes.

Oberyn pulled the helm free, revealing a face coiled with restrained fury and dark amusement. He tossed Tywins lion helm to the side.

“I’ve waited five and ten years for this, Lion,” he called, voice ringing through the Dragonpit. “I am going to enjoy ending you, for Elia, and her children.”

Tywin lifted his sword without a word. He would not give Martell the satisfaction.

The fight began.

Tywin moved with surprising strength. For a man aged and battered by the dungeons, his blade struck true, twice he forced Oberyn back, once drawing a shallow line across his vambrace. For a moment, just a moment, the crowd tensed.

But then came the truth.

Oberyn was toying with him.

A spin. A slash. A feint. Tywin blocked high, and Oberyn struck low. The spear flicked across his thigh—quick, shallow, enough to remind him; this was a game, and he was losing.

“Confess!” Oberyn roared. “Confess, and I end you quickly. Refuse and I will draw your death out, one cut at a time.”

Tywin snarled and pressed forward, teeth bared.

“You had her raped,” Oberyn hissed. “You had her murdered. You killed her children!”

Tywin swung. Missed.

“You had her raped. You had her murdered. You killed her children.”

A mantra. A death song.

Tywin lunged, too slow. The spear slammed into his thigh, deep this time. He staggered. His helm was wrenched off by a blow from the butt of the spear, and before he could rise—

A boot struck his face.

He crashed to the ground. On his back. The sun burned his eyes. The spear still in his leg.

Oberyn stood over him, triumphant. Ripping out the spear.

“Say it,” the Red Viper said. “Say it before all these lords who once bowed to you. Say what you did.”

And Tywin, for the first time in decades, felt fear.

His mouth opened. Dry. Bitter.

“Yes,” he rasped. “Yes, I did it. I gave the order. Elia… her children. I ordered it all.”

He looked up, broken, hollow. “End it. End me mercifully. Send me to Joanna.”

Oberyn’s eyes gleamed.

“Mercy?” he whispered. “Where was the mercy for Elia?”

And with a snarl, Oberyn Martell drove the spear forward, not through Tywin’s chest,  but straight into his mouth. The golden lion barely had time to flinch. Steel punched through teeth and tongue, shattering bone. With a savage roar, Oberyn ripped the spear downward.

Tywin's jaw tore free with a sickening crack, skin and sinew parting like wet parchment. Blood fountained from the ruin of his face as he crumpled forward, twitching, his final breath a gurgling choke lost in the crimson spray.

The silence that followed was deafening.

The Lion of the Rock was still.

Silence swept the Dragonpit.

Then King Rhaenar stood, his voice cold and clear.

“Let it be known, Lord Tywin Lannister has been found guilty in the sight of gods and men. Let it be known the cost of treachery against the Seven Kingdoms.”

The crowd stood in stunned stillness.

The Lion was dead.

The Red Keep – A Quiet Corridor

The Dragonpit had emptied, but the weight of what had passed still lingered in the stone.

Rhaenar stood at the window of a torchlit corridor overlooking the city. Ser Jaime Lannister was beside him, still in the white of the Kingsguard, his face unreadable beneath the dim gold of evening light.

Neither spoke for a long moment.

Then Rhaenar broke the silence.

“How do you feel?”

Jaime didn’t answer right away. His jaw worked, as if chewing through something too bitter to swallow.

“I will always love my father,” he said at last, his voice low and hoarse. “But… his choices led him here. I would have preferred a clean death for him. A soldier’s end. But he knew. He knew he was dead the moment no one stood for him.”

He exhaled hard through his nose. “He was never a man who begged.”

Rhaenar nodded slowly, then stepped forward.

He reached out and placed a firm hand on Jaime’s shoulder.

“The pain will fade in time,” he said. “But what you chose today, the oath you kept, it matters. You’re here. With me. And I’m glad for that.”

Jaime looked to him then, really looked. There was something behind his eyes, not just grief, but relief. The weight of decades shifting, just slightly.

He gave a quiet nod. “Thank you… Your Grace.”

Rhaenar let the title hang for a breath before replying with a faint smile.

“Call me Rhaenar. At least in private, and I’d have you at my side, always.”

A flicker of something close to emotion passed over Jaime’s face. He straightened.

“Then I’ll serve you, Rhaenar. Until my last breath.”

The two men stood there in silence, looking out over King’s Landing.

Then Rhaenar glanced down the hall and gave a small jerk of his head.

“Come,” he said. “I have a meeting with your brother.”

Jaime hesitated for only a heartbeat before falling into step beside his king.

No more words were needed.

The lion walked with the dragon.

And the future, at last, began to take shape.

The King’s Solar

The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting amber light across the dragon-carved table where Tyrion Lannister sat, cup in hand, legs comfortably crossed. His doublet bore the lion of Lannister, but beneath it sat the sharp glint of responsibility.

Rhaenar stood across from him, his crown set aside, sleeves rolled up, a map of the western coast unfurled between them.

Outside the chamber, Ser Jaime and Ser Arthur Dayne stood at silent watch, white cloaks catching the flicker of torchlight.

Inside, the conversation was warm, at first.

“I’ll have Sandor Clegane escort the gold,” Tyrion said, swirling his wine. “Ten million dragons make a tempting prize, and the Hound is less prone to thievery than most. Less talkative too.”

Rhaenar chuckled. “Even so, I’ll not send it unguarded. A thousand men from the Reach will ride with you, under Lord Randyll Tarly’s command.”

Tyrion arched a brow. “The bluntest sword in your arsenal.”

“The sharpest,” Rhaenar corrected. “And the loudest.”

They both laughed.

But then the humor faded. The tone shifted.

Rhaenar leaned forward, palms flat on the table.

“If there are problems in Lannisport… if the Ironborn linger… you let me know.”

Tyrion nodded slowly.

“I’ll fly out myself if I must,” Rhaenar said.

Tyrion’s face grew still for a beat, the gravity settling in his eyes.

“I know you will,” he said, quieter. “Thank you.”

He finished his wine, set the cup down with a soft clink.

“Well,” he sighed, rising from his chair, “before I become the most miserable lord in Westeros, I intend to spend one last evening on the Street of Silk. Wine, wit, and whoever the gods send my way.”

Rhaenar smirked. “Enjoy it. Lord Tarly will be waiting at dawn. Don’t keep him.”

Tyrion grinned, bowing with mock grace. “Your Grace.”

As he turned to go, Rhaenar called after him.

“And Tyrion.”

The Imp paused.

“Good fortune.”

Tyrion didn’t reply. He only nodded once, sharp, genuine and stepped through the door, past his brother and the Sword of the Morning, into the night.

The Royal Chambers

The doors were shut. The candles burned low. And still the sounds of Daenerys Targaryen's pleasure echoed softly through the high corridors of the Red Keep.

She didn’t care who heard her.

Let them hear the moans of the dragon queen. Let them know their king had taken his queen in fire and love. Let them know the realm had been reclaimed and tonight, so had she.

They lay tangled in silk sheets, slick with sweat and wrapped in moonlight. Rhaenar’s arm was draped over her waist, his head nestled in the crook of her neck, his breath warm on her skin.

“It’s finished,” Daenerys whispered, a satisfied smile on her lips, her fingers drawing idle patterns across his chest. “After all these years… it’s finally done.”

Rhaenar exhaled. “Almost,” he murmured. “We still have the Ironborn to deal with.”

She groaned. “Let them rot on their rocks.”

He smiled against her skin. “I thought I might leave you and Viserys here to rule for a time. Let the crown shine while I sail with the royal fleet and remind the krakens whose kingdom they live in.”

Daenerys shifted, concern clouding her eyes. “You mean to go yourself?”

“I won’t be in danger,” he said softly, brushing silver-gold hair from her face. “And Arthur would sooner leap into the sea than let me out of his sight.”

She stilled. Then reached for his hand and brought it to rest against her belly.

“You better not die,” she said, voice quiet but fierce. “You have to be there. Not just for me… but for our child.”

Rhaenar froze. His eyes met hers.

Then slowly, reverently, he lowered himself and pressed a kiss to the soft curve of her stomach.

“I know what it’s like,” he said, voice low. “To grow up without a father. To wonder, every day, who he was. What he’d say. What he’d teach. I won’t let our child feel that same ache.”

Daenerys smiled, eyes misting.

They lay in silence for a moment, hands entwined.

Then she asked, more brightly, “Do you think Viserys will cry when he sees Margaery tomorrow?”

Rhaenar laughed. “No, but he may get lost in her beauty.”

“She’s too clever for him to deserve,” Daenerys teased.

“But he’ll make her laugh,” Rhaenar said. “And that’s half the battle.”

They shared a quiet chuckle, the weight of war and rule lifted for a breath.

Daenerys leaned in, pressing a playful kiss to his jaw. “We’ll give them something to envy, won’t we?”

Rhaenar rolled over, his lips brushing her neck. “Let them envy the dragon’s fire.”

She gasped as he pulled her close again, their laughter dissolving into sighs and then moans once more as passion took them.

In the heart of the Red Keep, the dragon and his queen soared again, in love, in heat, in victory.

And beyond the walls, the city dreamed of peace.

The Next Morning

The sun poured through the high windows of the royal solar, casting a golden sheen across the table laden with bread, fruit, honeyed ham, and steaming tea. The city outside buzzed with anticipation, the wedding of a prince always stirred hearts and coin purses alike.

At the head of the table sat King Rhaenar, crownless for the morning, dressed simply in black and red. To his right, Viserys, bleary-eyed but grinning. Across from them, Lord Eddard Stark, composed as ever, and his son Robb, who eyed the wine with amusement rather than temptation.

“I haven’t seen you this nervous since you tried to flirt with a Dornish envoy and called her ‘Your Heat,’” Rhaenar said, smirking over his goblet.

Viserys groaned and dropped his head to the table. “Must you remind me of my diplomatic crimes the morning of my wedding?”

“It’s a brother’s duty,” Rhaenar said cheerfully.

“What happened,” Robb added, grinning. “Did she kiss you after?”

“She slapped me first,” Viserys muttered into his hands.

Eddard sipped his tea, lips twitching. “Slap or kiss, at least you’ll get one or the other today.”

That earned a round of laughter.

Rhaenar leaned back, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Don’t worry, brother. Just speak slowly. Smile. Try not to mention dragons unless she brings it up first.”

“I am a prince of the realm,” Viserys said with mock pride. “And soon to be a husband. I demand respect.”

“Respect is earned,” Robb said, reaching for a plum. “You’ll get it after you survive a night in Tyrell company.”

Just then the doors opened, and Queen Rhaella entered, regal in lilac and gold. Daenerys followed beside her, radiant in a pale rose gown, her silver hair braided in valyrian fashion.

All four men instinctively began to rise.

Rhaella waved them down with a fond smile. “Sit. We’ve only come to borrow the groom.”

“Or rather, to rescue him,” Daenerys added, grinning as she kissed her brother’s cheek. “He’ll be no good if you tease him into a stupor.”

“We only just started,” Rhaenar said, feigning innocence.

“We’ll need him groomed, dressed, and reminded not to compare Margaery to dragons,” Daenerys teased, flicking Viserys’s ear.

“Why is everyone obsessed with what I say about dragons?” he grumbled.

“Because you never stop,” all three Targaryens said at once.

Even Eddard chuckled at that.

Rhaella placed a gentle hand on Viserys’s shoulder. “We’re proud of you, sweetling. It’s a good match. And a new beginning.”

He softened, nodding. “Thank you, Mother.”

Daenerys kissed his cheek again. “We’ll see you at the sept. Don’t be late.”

She leaned over to Rhaenar, kissing him goodbye as well, “See you soon my love.”

As the women departed with a swirl of silk and laughter, the room settled into a quieter kind of peace.

Robb leaned forward. “High Valyrian is your love language?”

Rhaenar grinned. “Shut it.”

The king, the prince, the wolf, and the lord shared a quiet hour in each other’s company, no crowns, no swords, no politics.

Just men. Just brothers.

Queen’s Solar

The morning sun filtered through gauzy curtains, casting a golden haze across the chamber where Margaery Tyrell stood surrounded by women; mothers, queens, and matrons, all with sharp tongues and soft hands.

Her wedding gown shimmered in the light, emerald green, cut in the Tyrell tradition with flowing sleeves and a high collar of gold thread. Across the bodice, delicate dragons and roses intertwined, their petals and wings embroidered in rich detail. A perfect union of Highgarden’s beauty and Valyria’s fire.

Lady Alerie, Margaery’s mother, stood beside her with misted eyes, one hand at her chest. “You look like a dream, my sweet girl. The Queen of the Realm will envy you.”

“I already do,” Daenerys said warmly from the settee, her silver hair pinned with ruby combs, a goblet of honeyed wine in hand. She sat beside Queen Rhaella, the older woman regal in black and crimson silk, her eyes bright as she took in the moment.

“You are kind,” Margaery replied modestly. “And far too beautiful for envy.”

Rhaella leaned forward, smiling at Margaery. “Marriage is a union of duty and affection. You already have the grace for both.”

“And if he’s half as sweet in your bed as he is to you,” Daenerys added with a playful tilt of her head, “you’ll be well-matched.”

Margaery blushed, but her eyes sparkled with mischief.

“Speaking of beds,” Olenna cut in, “it doesn’t matter how many roses you stitch into a marriage cloak. If the man’s a dud between the sheets, better you take up the harp instead.”

“Grandmother!” Margaery gasped, laughing despite herself.

“Oh, hush. You’re marrying a Targaryen. They’re all fire and appetite,” Olenna said with a sniff. “I just hope he doesn’t start with poetry first. Gods save us from romantic men.”

Daenerys blushed at that, her gaze dropping to the rim of her goblet.

Rhaella caught it and leaned in, voice quiet but warm. “It suits you, doesn’t it? Love?”

Daenerys’s cheeks deepened in color. “Yes,” she said softly. “It does.”

Alerie moved to adjust the fall of Margaery’s gown, fingers trembling slightly. “You were born for this, my darling. Not just for beauty, but for peace.”

There were tears in her eyes now, and she pulled her daughter into a gentle hug.

Then—a knock at the door.

“It’s time,” came the deep voice of Willas Tyrell from the other side. “The sept awaits its rose.”

Margaery took a breath.

Daenerys stepped forward, took her hand. “Come, my lady. Let the realm see the bride you were always meant to be.”

And with that, the women gathered around her, adjusting sleeves, fluffing skirts, ensuring every pin and curl sat just so.

The bride was ready.

And the Seven Kingdoms would soon welcome their new Princess of the Realm.

The Great Sept of Baelor

The bells rang slow and solemn, echoing across the hilltop. Sunlight poured through the great crystal dome above, casting fractured rainbows over marble pillars and golden chandeliers. A hush had fallen over the assembled lords and ladies of Westeros , for this was not merely a wedding, but a symbol. A sealing of alliance. A celebration of unity after war.

At the altar stood Prince Viserys Targaryen, his silver hair brushed and bound, his tunic of rich black and red fitted close over his frame. In his hands, he held the Targaryen wedding cloak;  a piece of history reborn, black velvet lined with deep crimson silk, embroidered with a three-headed dragon whose eyes were tiny rubies.

Beside him stood King Rhaenar, proud and calm, his hand resting briefly on his uncle’s shoulder.

“You’re certain you’re ready?” Rhaenar asked, voice low.

Viserys smirked, a flicker of nerves in his eyes. “As I’ll ever be.”

“You won’t be walking alone anymore,” Rhaenar said softly. “Don’t forget to enjoy it.”

“I’ll try not to faint,” Viserys muttered, and they both shared a quiet laugh.

As the High Septon took his place beneath the towering crystal of the Seven-Pointed Star, Rhaenar stepped away, moving to the front pew where Daenerys waited. She rose, radiant in silver and garnet silk. He took her hand and kissed it before they sat together, their fingers entwined.

The Great Sept was filled to its capacity. Eddard Stark and Robb sat together on the northern side, flanked by bannermen of Winterfell. Jon Arryn stood tall in solemn reverence, with Lysa beside him, newly arrived from the Vale in fine Arryn blue. Edmure Tully and Renly Baratheon occupied seats nearby, each nodding politely to the other, both men preparing to return to their homelands after the ceremony. Their roles in this war were finished, their lords now restored.

The Lords of the Westerlands had departed that morning, riding west beneath the banner of Casterly Rock, with Randyll Tarly and a thousand Reachmen escorting them. Their task; to rebuild, to restore, to reckon with the cost of their old loyalty.

But here, now, all eyes turned forward.

The music began, a soft swell of harp and flute, and then the doors of the Sept opened.

Margaery Tyrell entered, the very image of grace.

She walked upon the arm of her father, Lord Mace Tyrell, her gown of emerald green shimmering in the colored light streaming through the Sept’s great crystal windows. Dragons and roses coiled in delicate golden thread across the bodice and sleeves, House Tyrell twining with House Targaryen in every stitch. A tiara of golden leaves crowned her brow, and her hair tumbled in carefully pinned curls that caught the light with every step.

Over her shoulders was draped her maiden's cloak, the rich green and gold of House Tyrell, its heavy velvet lined with pale silk, embroidered with golden vines, blooming roses, and sunbursts. It hung like a garden in full bloom, a symbol of the house that had raised her, that now entrusted her to another. As she walked, the cloak flowed behind her like a living thing, regal and radiant.

Proud and flushed, Mace led his daughter slowly down the aisle. As they passed, lords bowed their heads, ladies whispered, and some smiled. Even Olenna, from her seat near the front, dabbed at the corner of her eye before snapping at her handmaid to stop fussing with her skirts.

At the altar, Viserys stood taller.

When Mace reached the steps, he looked briefly at the High Septon, then to Viserys  and gently placed Margaery’s hand into the prince’s.

“She’s yours now,” he said, voice thick with pride. “Treat her kindly… or else you'll answer to all of us.”

Viserys smiled, steadying her hand in his. “You have my word, Lord Tyrell.”

Margaery’s eyes met his, soft and shining.

The High Septon raised his voice, solemn and clear.

“We gather in the light of the Seven to witness the joining of Prince Viserys Targaryen and Lady Margaery Tyrell, two noble houses bound now in love and duty. May the Father judge them justly. May the Mother bless them with children. May the Warrior protect them in times of strife…”

Rhaenar watched from his seat, Daenerys’s hand still in his.

For the first time in many years, the realm did not feel broken.

And for a moment, as the voices echoed beneath the great dome, the Seven Kingdoms held their breath… and dreamed again of peace.

The Wedding Feast

If the ceremony had been solemn and sacred, the feast that followed was anything but.

The Great Hall of the Red Keep blazed with firelight and laughter, its rafters echoing with song and clinking goblets. Banners of red, black, and green hung from every pillar, dragons and roses entwined, while servants moved in a constant stream, bearing roasted boar glazed with honey, golden trout from the Blackwater, lemon cakes and sugared dates, barrels of Arbor gold and Dornish red flowing as freely as the music.

Rhaenar sat at the high table beside Daenerys, his crown gleaming, his hand resting lightly over hers. He rose to dance early in the evening, leading her across the floor in smooth, practiced steps. She laughed softly as he spun her, the court watching with warm eyes and more than a few sighs.

Later, he danced with Queen Rhaella, who scolded him lightly for taking so long to ask. “I may be old, but I still have two feet, Your Grace,” she teased as he bowed.

He grinned. “And better rhythm than half my court.”

When he took Margaery Tyrell for a turn, she curtseyed with the grace of a practiced lady and leaned close as they circled.

“Thank you for the feast, Your Grace,” she said, her eyes gleaming. “I believe I shall quite enjoy being a part of your family.”

Rhaenar smirked. “I suspect my uncle  will enjoy it even more.”

At the high table, Viserys and Margaery were inseparable. They whispered, they fed each other bites of lemon cake and duck, they toasted half a dozen times, their faces flushed with wine and affection. Viserys, still in his princely blacks, looked dazed with happiness; Margaery, ever poised, looked simply triumphant.

The music swelled. The hall spun with color and song.

When the noise lulled enough for his voice to be heard, Rhaenar rose, lifting a goblet in salute. “This night belongs to love and to the Dragons and Roses united.”

A cheer went up.

He leaned to Margaery and said, in a lower tone, “We can forego the bedding, if you wish. You’ve given the realm a show already.”

Margaery laughed, bold and bright. “I’ve been preparing for this moment my whole life, Your Grace. I mean to enjoy it.”

Viserys nearly choked on his wine, and Daenerys smothered a grin behind her goblet.

Rhaenar straightened and turned to the court.

“Then let us honor the tradition!” he declared. “Let us bed them, to bed with them!

The musicians didn’t miss a beat, launching into a familiar, scandalous tune.

“The Queen took off her sandals, the King took off his crown…”

Laughter erupted as the guests rose with glee.

The women of the court surged forward toward the groom, led by Daenerys, Lady Olenna, and several giggling Reach ladies. Viserys barely had time to sputter before he was swept off his feet, lifted by many hands, his cloak flapping as they began to sing and tug at buttons.

Margaery was snatched up by the men, her brothers Willas and Garlan among them, and half the Dornish contingent grinning ear to ear. Her emerald skirts fluttered as boots were pulled and pins unfastened, one of her shoes went flying across the hall.

“Gently!” Lord Mace barked, beaming with pride and wiping tears from his eyes as his daughter was carried off.

“A leg for a leg!” Oberyn Martell called, offering one of Margaery’s stockings to no one in particular.

Viserys was still protesting through helpless laughter as Daenerys, tipsy on lemon wine, swung his sash like a rope.

“And the King laid down his sword!” the crowd sang as the doors swung wide.

“…and the Queen laid down her gown!”

Clothing trailed behind them, laughter echoing down the corridor as bride and groom vanished into their chambers in a whirlwind of tradition, wine, and mischief.

And so, amidst laughter and song, House Targaryen and House Tyrell were joined, not only in marriage, but in spirit.

The Prince’s Chambers

The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting golden light over silk-draped walls and the tall bed crowned with rose petals and red velvet. Candles flickered in golden sconces, their glow dancing over two figures; newlywed, newly bound, standing at the edge of their wedding bed.

Viserys stood before her, bare and trembling, stripped of both cloak and his finery. The women had left him flushed and wide-eyed, his breath shallow as he looked upon her.

Margaery stood across from him, unflinching, her brown eyes steady, her body a vision in firelight. Her thick brown hair cascaded in waves over her shoulders, her cheeks glowing with anticipation, not fear. She had waited for this, prepared for it in mind and heart, not just as duty, but as desire.

They stepped toward one another.

Viserys lifted a hand to her cheek, brushing a curl behind her ear. She leaned into his touch, her lips parting just slightly.

Their first kiss was gentle, soft, reverent, like a vow.

Then another. Deeper. Warmer.

They kissed as if learning a new language, hands trailing over bare skin, exploring slowly, carefully, like cartographers charting unknown lands. Viserys took his time, every motion thoughtful, every caress tender. When they reached the bed, he paused, watching her for any hesitation.

There was none.

She pulled him with her, lips on his neck, fingers in his hair. “I want this,” she whispered, voice husky. “I want you.”

He kissed her once more, then lowered her carefully. When the moment came, he moved slowly, tenderly, his hand in hers, eyes locked with hers.

When her maidenhead broke, he stilled, waiting, letting her breathe through it, letting her guide him.

Her fingers tightened in his, and after a moment, she nodded.

What followed was not frantic or hurried, but devoted. They moved together in slow rhythm, discovering one another not with urgency, but with wonder. They whispered. They laughed softly. They kissed until the candlelight blurred into stars.

And when it was over… they began again.

They coupled rougher this time, tangled in sweat and sheets, until they collapsed at last in each other’s arms, exhausted and content.

Viserys pressed his lips to her brow. Margaery’s hand rested over his heart.

In the stillness that followed, the world seemed far away.

And in that bed, surrounded by roses and warmth, their Houses were joined as one.

The Solar of the King

The chamber was quiet, lit by the soft orange glow of evening. The windows stood open, letting in the scent of the bay and the distant hum of the city below. Rhaenar stood at the map table, reviewing deployments along the western coast. Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Barristan Selmy flanked him, speaking in low voices about the Iron Fleet’s last reported movements.

A knock came at the door.

Ser Jaime stepped inside, his white cloak trailing behind him. His golden hair was tied back, his expression unreadable.

“Your Grace,” he said with a short bow. “Lord Eddard Stark requests an audience.”

Rhaenar exchanged a glance with Arthur. “Show him in.”

Moments later, Lord Stark entered, his boots heavy against the stone, his eyes grim beneath the weight of whatever news he carried. In his hand, he held a tightly wound raven scroll, the gray wax of House Stark still intact.

Rhaenar stepped forward. “Uncle?”

Ned's voice was quiet, rough. “A raven from Winterfell. From Catelyn.”

He handed it over.

Rhaenar read quickly, his brow tightening with each line. Then he looked up, jaw set.

“They’ve struck the North?”

Ned nodded. “The Ironborn. Victarion Greyjoy commands the assault. They’ve taken Deepwood Motte. Torren’s Square is under siege. The Rills are burning. Catelyn says my bannermen rally to defend what they can, but there are so few with most of us here… I must return. I must get my men home.”

Arthur swore under his breath. Barristan went still.

Rhaenar did not hesitate. He turned to Jaime. “Wake Viserys. Summon the small council. Now.”

Jaime gave a brisk nod and vanished.

Then Rhaenar faced Ned once more.

“You and Robb will attend. The council must hear this directly and then we’ll get you home with all speed. You will not ride alone.”

Ned nodded, his voice thick with urgency. “Thank you.”

Rhaenar placed a hand on his uncle’s shoulder. “They’ve stirred the dragon’s wrath, Lord Stark. Let us show them fire.”

And with that, the final embers of peace guttered into smoke, the war was not yet done.

The Small Council Chamber

The room was quiet, save for the soft crackle of torches. The hour was late, and tension hung in the air like storm clouds over the sea. The long table was full for the first time in Rhaenar’s reign, the first true meeting of his Small Council.

At the head sat King Rhaenar, still dressed in the black and red finery of court, his circlet glinting under the candlelight. To his right, Viserys, freshly summoned from his wedding bed, his silver hair tousled, his doublet misbuttoned, and a deep frown etched across his flushed face.

“I love you, nephew,” he muttered, voice hoarse, “but your timing is abysmal.”

“My apologies,” Rhaenar said dryly. “You may resume your celebrations once we adjourn.”

That earned a dry chuckle from Lord Willas Tyrell, seated beside his brother-by-law-to, quill in hand, ledgers already open.

Lord Jon Arryn, the new Master of Laws, sat opposite Willas, fingers steepled and face sharp as a blade. Next to him was Lord Monford Velaryon, Master of Ships, lean and weathered from sea air, his silver beard braided with silver rings. Ser Barristan Selmy, now Lord Commander, stood near the King’s right shoulder. Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Jaime Lannister took their place near the chamber doors, silent sentinels in white.

At the King’s signal, Eddard Stark stepped forward. His face was grave, and in his hand he held the scroll.

“The Ironborn have invaded the North,” Ned said plainly. “Victarion Greyjoy commands. Deepwood Motte has fallen. The Rills burn. Torrhen’s Square is besieged. My wife and sons are at Winterfell. I must return, swiftly.”

Silence gripped the room for a breath.

Then Rhaenar stood, both hands braced on the table. “We will not allow this insult to go unanswered.”

His voice was calm, but iron rang beneath it.

He looked to Lord Monford. “The Velaryon fleet and the Redwynes will ferry Lord Stark and his men to White Harbor. From there, the North rides to war. Theon Greyjoy will accompany them.”

Viserys raised an eyebrow. “To fight his own kin?”

Rhaenar didn’t flinch. He looked down at the map, his fingers resting on the jagged outline of the Iron Islands.

“I plan to install him as Lord of the Iron Islands when this is finished,” he said plainly. “He can rebuild what we tear down.”

There was a murmur from the council, but none interrupted.

“Lord Stark has raised him,” Rhaenar continued. “Taught him honor. Duty. Discipline. I trust his ward will be better than any Greyjoy who’s sat the Seastone Chair in a hundred years.”

He looked up, meeting the eyes of each man in turn.

“The old ways end with this war. No more reaving. No more raping. No more pillaging. The Ironborn will be brought into the realm like every other kingdom or they’ll drown in the sea they worship.”

A heavy silence followed, broken only by the scratching of Willas’s quill as he resumed his notes.

“Then may the Drowned God hold his breath,” Viserys muttered.

Rhaenar continued. “Once the North is secure, we do not stop. We take the fight to the Iron Islands.”

Jon Arryn leaned forward. “Then I will ready the Knights of the Vale. I assume we will rally at Seagard for the crossing?”

“Yes,” Rhaenar said. “Lord Tully and Renly Baratheon will be instructed to gather their banners and prepare to march. I want all forces at the ready.”

Willas looked up from his parchment, brow raised.
“And the crown’s gold?”

Rhaenar didn’t hesitate.
“We’ll pay for it,” he said flatly. “In Ironborn coin and in the debt they’ve accrued in blood.”

He leaned forward slightly, voice calm but iron-hard.

“Besides, Lord Tarly will return soon with the restitutions from the West. Once Lannisport is secured and the gold flows again, the crown will have more than enough.”

Willas gave a satisfied nod and returned to his figures.

Barristan cleared his throat.
“Your Grace, where will you be during this?”

Rhaenar looked up at him.
“I will fly.”

He turned his gaze to Ser Arthur, who gave a solemn nod.
“Arthur with me. Ser Aurane and Ser Jaime will sail with the fleet, alongside the Northern forces. When the North breaks the Ironborn lines and drives them back to their shores, I will descend from the sky. There will be no retreat for them.”

The lords murmured in agreement.

Then Rhaenar turned to Barristan, his tone shifting, quieter but no less firm.
“You will remain in the capital, Lord Commander.”

Barristan blinked, slightly surprised. “Your Grace?”

“You’ve served with honor and wisdom,” Rhaenar said. “I’ll not risk the throne’s steadiness while I chase reavers. My wife, my queen, carries our child. My family is here and they must be protected.”

He swept his eyes to the rest of the room. “The Red Keep is to remain strong, unshaken. Ser Barristan, Ser Oswell, Ser Waymar, Ser Daemon, they are the shields of the crown. You will not leave its walls.”

The old knight bowed his head. “I will not fail them, Your Grace.”

Rhaenar gave a small nod, then turned to Viserys, still seated, still rumpled from the abrupt end to his wedding night.

“You will rule in my stead, as Hand of the King.”

Viserys straightened a little, the weight of the trust settling on his shoulders. “It will be done.”

“Daenerys and Grandmother will assist you in any way you need,” Rhaenar added. “The court will follow your voice, and the realm will not falter while I am gone. Keep the peace. See that it endures.”

Viserys met his nephew’s eyes and gave a rare, sober nod. “You have my word.”

Rhaenar looked once more around the chamber, each man understanding the roles now set before them, warriors to war, rulers to rule, guardians to guard.

“The krakens have woken the dragon. Let us see how well they swim in fire.”

And with that, the council was dismissed and the war for the North had begun.

Chapter Text

The Ironborn had struck like a storm from the sea. Torrhen’s Square had fallen with barely a cry, Deepwood Motte soon after. And now, after a brutal siege, the krakens had taken Moat Cailin, the key to the Neck. The gate to the North stood in foreign hands.

Winterfell had become a fortress of worry. Catelyn Stark sat in the solar overlooking the godswood, her thoughts as grey and restless as the skies beyond.

Ser Rodrik had rallied what men he could and ridden out to drive the reavers back into the sea, but days had passed, and still there was no raven.

Bran had done well, remarkably so. Still only twelve, yet he sat the high seat with poise when duty called. When word came that Torrhen’s Square was under siege, it was Bran who summoned Ser Rodrik, who gave the command.

Catelyn had hesitated. She feared he’d send away too many, leave Winterfell vulnerable. But her son had looked her in the eye with Eddard’s steadiness and said, “Father would not let our bannermen suffer beneath the kraken. And neither will I.”

He was growing. Too fast. Nearly a year had passed since Ned and Robb had ridden south with the banners of the North behind them. So much had changed.

Sansa was blooming into a proper lady, polished, composed, radiant as a sunrise in spring. Catelyn often wondered if she would find her place better in the South. Perhaps, when peace came, Ned could arrange a southern match. Sansa would shine in a court of silk and splendor.

Arya… was still Arya. Wild, stubborn, forever with a bruise on her elbow and a sword in her hand. But even she was changing. Her face was sharpening, her eyes darkening with purpose. A Northern beauty in her own right, Catelyn thought and pitied whichever poor lordling tried to tame her.

And Rickon, her baby…

He had grown into a little wolf himself. Fierce. Untamed. Always with Shaggydog at his side, the black beast as wild as his master. He missed his father, his brother, how often had she found him curled in Ned’s chair, asleep, waiting?

She closed her eyes and whispered to the gods, the Seven and Old both, for their safe return.

Ned’s last letter had been strange. Short, solemn, careful. He would return after the coronation, he’d written.

The coronation.

Catelyn still hadn’t fully grasped it. A Targaryen on the Iron Throne. Rhaegar’s son, Lyanna’s son. Her nephew, if she dared believe it.

Three dragons lived. Fire-breathing, creatures of the sky, real and terrible.

Ned had ridden south to slay the dragon. Now he marched beneath their wings.

She turned her gaze toward the snow-dusted yard, where Bran was overseeing the guards at their drills. The weight of Winterfell already rested on his narrow shoulders.

Come back to me, my love. The North needs you.

That was all she could think.

The She-Wolf

Arya Stark crept through the shadows of the yard, her feet light, her braid swinging behind her like a banner of mischief. The training sword in her hand was dulled wood, but she held it like it was steel.

Trailing behind her, silent as snowfall, came Nymeria.

The direwolf was nearly full-grown now, long-legged and lean, her coat a smoky grey that shimmered silver under the moonlight. She moved like a shadow on four legs, her golden eyes ever-watchful, tail swaying low and smooth. She was Arya’s mirror, wild, fast, untamed.

Arya darted behind a pillar, then rolled across the packed snow, springing to her feet with a grin only Nymeria saw. The straw dummy loomed nearby, its stuffed arms outstretched like a knight awaiting challenge.

Arya gave it none.

She slashed.

Missed.

Nymeria huffed behind her, the sound almost amused.

Scowling, Arya planted her feet again and tightened her grip. Left, then low. A stab. A twist. She moved as Robb had taught her. The sword cracked into the dummy’s chest with a satisfying thwack.

Better.

She glanced at Nymeria. “What do you think? Ser Strawface going to yield?”

Nymeria yawned, then padded closer and sank her teeth into the dummy’s leg. It tore loose with a dry pop, scattering straw into the wind. Arya laughed, a real laugh, bright and fierce.

“I win,” she declared.

But even with her wolf beside her, her heart tugged.

She missed Father. And Robb. Every day since they’d ridden out, Winterfell had felt emptier. Colder. Even when the fires roared, something was missing.

So much had changed.

Dragons. Real dragons. And her cousin, the new king, rode one.

Rhaenar Targaryen. Her cousin. Her blood.

Sometimes she snuck into Maester Luwin’s tower to stare at the tapestry of Aegon the Conqueror and his sisters. She’d trace their dragons with her fingers and wonder, what would it feel like to fly?

She hoped Rhaenar would take her up one day. Maybe Daenerys too.

They said she rode like Visenya of old. A warrior queen with silver hair and fire in her veins. Arya liked the sound of her. Liked her more than all the fancy southern ladies in Sansa’s stories.

“They’ll come north,” she whispered, her breath misting in the air. “They have to. He’s Aunt Lyanna’s son. He’ll want to see her home. To walk the godswood. To pray beneath the heart tree.”

Sansa had swooned when she heard. A cousin. A king. A dragonrider.

Arya rolled her eyes.

“She thought Father would marry her off,” she muttered, stabbing the dummy again. “Make her queen.”

But Rhaenar already had a queen and she rode a dragon too.

Arya smirked. That part had devastated Sansa.

Nymeria gave a soft growl, as if sharing her thoughts.

Arya struck the dummy again, harder this time. It buckled under her blow.

Mother had been… gentler, lately. Since Father left, things had changed between them. Arya still had to sit with the septa, still had to stab her fingers with embroidery needles and recite proper forms of address, but now, when her chores were done and her needlework passable, she was allowed here.

To the training yard.

To be herself.

It wasn’t everything. But it was something. A step. And Catelyn no longer looked at her with that tight-lipped disappointment. Sometimes, when Arya caught her watching from the balcony, there was even something like pride in her eyes.

The Ironborn had taken parts of the North, Torrhen’s Square, Deepwood Motte, even Moat Cailin. But Father would come back. He had to. He would ride with the North and rip the krakens from their holes.

Just like the old kings of winter.

She turned to Nymeria and pointed her sword at the broken dummy. “Let them come,” she whispered fiercely. “We’re not afraid.”

Nymeria bared her teeth.

Together, they stood in the falling snow, girl and wolf, steel and fang, ready to face the world.

  The Rose of the North

Sansa Stark sat in the solar with Jeyne Poole, the late afternoon light spilling through the windows in soft gold. A tray of embroidery hoops rested between them, threads of crimson and ivory coiled like silk serpents. Jeyne was humming a tune beneath her breath, a half-remembered song about knights and lilies, while Sansa stitched a curling vine onto her linen.

Arya had run off earlier, of course, probably in the training yard, hacking at straw dummies like she was some hedge knight. Sansa didn’t understand her sister. They were nothing alike. They didn’t even look like sisters.

Arya had the Stark look, dark hair, long face, grey eyes, wild as the Wolfswood. The same look Old Nan always said belonged to Lyanna Stark.

Their aunt Lyanna.

The one who had been called a great beauty. Beautiful enough, they said, that a war was fought over her. Prince Rhaegar. King Robert.

It sounded like a song. A sad one. But beautiful still.

And now… now there was more to the tale. A new truth, one that Sansa turned over in her thoughts like a stone polished by water.

Lyanna had not been stolen. She had wed Prince Rhaegar. Beneath a heart tree, in secret, on the Isle of Faces. And she had died bringing her son into the world, her cousin.

Rhaenar Targaryen.

The Dragon King.

The boy who had hatched dragons, returned from exile, and conquered Westeros. Her father rode by his side now, not against him, but as kin. As family. As a Stark should.

And when Sansa thought of the king, her cousin, her heart raced.

They said he looked like her father when he was young. Tall, noble, dark of hair and solemn of eye. Her father was a handsome man, just older, worn by war and snow. But the King… she imagined him cloaked in black and crimson, sword at his side, a dragon in the sky behind him.

And her heart had shattered when she heard he was already wed.

To his aunt. To Daenerys.

A Valyrian beauty. A dragonrider. A warrior queen.

How could Sansa ever hope to compare?

“I could never be her,” she had whispered to Jeyne through tears.

But Jeyne, ever loyal, had reminded her of Aegon the Conqueror. The first Targaryen king had taken two sisters to wife.

That thought had struck her like a spark in the cold. Strange, at first. The idea of sharing a husband was… unnatural. Improper.

But the more she imagined it, two queens ruling together, two wives bound not just to a king but to each other, the more it began to feel like a dream.

Perhaps, she thought, she and Daenerys could become like sisters. True sister-wives. Dragon Queens.

She had prayed that night. To the Seven above, and even to the old gods of her father’s grove.

Let him come North, she pleaded. Let him come to Winterfell. Let him see me, truly see me and fall in love. Let him beg Father for my hand. Let me be his queen.

She knew he would. Rhaegar had wed a Stark as his second wife. Why wouldn’t his son follow that same path?

But then the cold doubt crept in, silent as frost.

They said Arya looked just like Lyanna.

What if Rhaenar liked her better?

She was wild. She was strange. But she was brave. She fought with swords and rode horses like a boy. Just like Lyanna had.

And Rhaenar was a warrior too. His queen fought in battles. Rode dragons. What if that was the kind of woman he loved?

“Oh, why do the gods curse me so?” Sansa thought bitterly. “Why must Arya always ruin everything?”

She bit the inside of her cheek, swallowed her envy, and focused on her stitching.

The vine curled neatly under her needle, the thread gliding through like a whispered promise.

She would be ready. She would find the perfect words, the perfect dress, the perfect smile. She would be irresistible.

She would be Queen.

It was the only thing she had ever wanted.

The Stark in Winterfell

Bran Stark sat in his father’s solar, a fur-lined cloak draped over his narrow shoulders despite the warmth of the fire. Scrolls lay unrolled across the table, raven reports from Torrhen’s Square, White Harbor, even Bear Island, each one a reminder that being the Stark in Winterfell meant more than just holding a name.

It meant holding the North.

Maester Luwin stood beside him, adjusting the rim of his chain collar as he read aloud in his soft, steady voice, but Bran’s thoughts drifted.

He just wanted to make his father proud.

Summer lay at his feet, silent and watchful. The direwolf’s silver-smoke fur gleamed in the firelight, his golden eyes following every movement of the room. He was Bran’s shadow and shield, his protector when he slept, and sometimes, Bran thought, when he dreamed.

He looked toward the hearth, the flames crackling.

Ser Rodrik hadn’t returned.

Bran’s stomach twisted as he thought of the grizzled old knight riding out with Winterfell’s men, answering his call, following his command.

He had ordered it. Him.

And now Ser Rodrik was gone. Lost, maybe. Dead.

Bran had prayed in the godswood, knelt before the heart tree and whispered to the Old Gods. He’d lit seven candles in the sept as well, just in case. Please, he had begged them all. Don’t let it be my fault. Don’t let me have sent him to die.

Jory would never forgive me.

Father might not either.

His eyes stung, but he blinked hard. He was the Stark in Winterfell. He had to be strong.

And yet… the dreams kept coming.

They started small, snow, wind, shadows in the forest.

Then the dead came.

And with them, the Icemen, the White Walkers of Old Nan’s stories, no longer bound to fireside tales but marching through the edges of his dreams like a living nightmare.

Marching.

He saw them in the forests of his mind, just beyond the treeline, where the snow hung heavier and the wind stopped breathing. Pale figures, tall and silent, their flesh like moonlit ice stretched tight over bones that had never known warmth.

Their eyes burned, burned, with a cold so bright it seared through the dark. Not fire, no. Worse. The kind of blue that steals the breath from your lungs. Blue that could freeze thought itself.

They moved without sound. Without haste. Without mercy.

Like shadows pulled by strings of frost, they slid between the trees on limbs that bent wrong, wrong, wrong, as if the cold had forgotten what it meant to be a man.

And wherever they passed, the world froze behind them.

Leaves turned brittle. Rivers stilled. The very air cracked in protest.

Bran watched them from behind weirwood branches in his dreams, too afraid to breathe, too entranced to look away. He felt them reaching, always reaching, as if they knew he was there.

As if they were coming for him.

Sometimes he saw a man, a warrior who looked like Father, fighting them with a sword of flame, surrounded on all sides by death and cold. Always fighting. Always alone.

And then there was the crow.

The one with three eyes.

It perched in the highest branches of a tree that touched the clouds, its voice echoing like wind through a canyon. Sometimes it spoke to him. Bran could never remember the words, only how they felt, like riddles wrapped in warnings.

You must learn to fly, the crow would say.

Bran didn’t know what that meant. He wasn’t a bird. He was a boy. A boy trying to hold a castle together.

And now his cousin, Rhaenar, was King.

A Targaryen. A dragonrider.

Bran had never met him. But he knew they were kin. And if his cousin could ride a dragon, maybe he could fly too. Maybe he was supposed to teach him.

Maester Luwin still stood beside him, looking over the scrolls, but Bran’s thoughts drifted. Not to fear or duty, but to the yard, and to Arya.

They had trained together just three days past.

Not real training, not the kind Ser Rodrik allowed Robb or Theon. But the kind siblings invented on their own, wooden swords, crooked stances, giggles between blows. Arya had dragged him from the solar, eyes gleaming, sword already in hand.

“You spend too much time with ravens,” she’d said. “Come spar. You’ll rot in this chair like a maester’s scroll if you don’t move.”

Bran had rolled his eyes but followed. The air had been cold and crisp in the yard, the snow packed tight underfoot. Summer had prowled nearby while Nymeria watched from the shadows like a ghost in fur. They had faced two straw dummies, lopsided things that Arya named Ser Pompous and Lord Flappybeard, and they went at them like they were knights of the Kingsguard.

Bran had laughed, really laughed, when Arya slipped and fell on her backside after a dramatic lunge. She’d glared at him, then burst into laughter herself.

“You’d better not tell anyone,” she warned, cheeks red from the cold and the embarrassment. “Or I’ll make you eat snow for supper.”

“I’ll tell Rhaenar when he visits,” Bran teased, swinging his stick in a wide arc. “King Cousin, guess who fell like a sack of turnips in front of the whole yard?”

Arya’s eyes lit up at that. “He wouldn’t care. He’d probably say I fight better than half his court.”

“Do you think he really rides a dragon?” Bran had asked then, breath steaming in the air.

Arya nodded fiercely. “Of course. Daenerys too. I bet they soar over castles and burn enemy ships to ash. I’d give anything to ride one.”

Bran had smiled, imagining it, dragons with wings like sails of shadow, eyes like molten gold. Not monsters, but wonders. Living magic from the old songs. He could see Arya atop one, wind in her hair, laughing like a storm as she flew.

“Maybe when they come north,” Arya had said, quieter now, “they’ll take us flying.”

Bran had nodded, clutching his wooden sword. “I’d like that.”

Now, in the quiet of the solar, the memory tugged at him like warmth under a heavy cloak. So much had changed. Yet that moment lingered, pure, untarnished, full of joy. Arya could be wild and sharp, but with him, she softened. They both missed their father. Missed Robb. Missed the days before dragons and krakens and letters that carried death.

He was just beginning to drift into those thoughts when the doors burst open.

Rickon charged into the room like a storm, his cheeks flushed red with cold and excitement, a trail of snow behind him. And at his heels, black-furred and snarling, came Shaggydog, wild as ever.

“Bran!” Rickon shouted. “There are riders! Coming to the gates!”

Bran sat up straighter, heart skipping. “Who?”

“They fly the flayed man,” Rickon said, breathless. “House Bolton.”

Bran frowned. That was strange. The Boltons were not ones to make courtesy calls, especially with their lord riding in the south beside Father. For men to come all the way from the Dreadfort… it had to be urgent.

He looked to Maester Luwin, who gave a short, cautious nod.

“Best we receive them quickly, my lord,” Luwin said.

Bran swung down from the chair and adjusted his cloak. “To the Great Hall, then.”

He stepped forward, Summer rising beside him. The direwolf pressed close, a warm, silent presence.

Rickon bounded ahead, Shaggydog loping after him, claws tapping on the stone floor.

Two boys, two wolves, and a maester.

The Stark sons of Winterfell.

As they passed through the solar doors into the cold stone corridor, Bran felt it again, that distant pull. As if something watched him from the shadows of the weirwoods… or the sky.

The Lady of Winterfell

The great hall of Winterfell stood silent and cold, despite the fires burning in its hearths. The banners of House Stark hung heavy above the dais, stirring only faintly in the draft that crept beneath the ancient stone walls. Catelyn Stark stood beneath them, her hands clasped before her, every inch the Lady of Winterfell, even if her heart was a thousand miles south.

She heard them before she saw them. Hoofbeats in the courtyard. The stamping of five hundred riders. Heavy boots on the stone. Too many for a peaceful visit.

Then the doors groaned open, and the delegation from the Dreadfort entered.

At their head was a man who made her breath catch, and not in awe.

He looked like Roose Bolton, vaguely, and that was unsettling enough. The same pale, ice-blue eyes that seemed to see too much and feel too little. But where Roose was reserved and calculating, this one was something else entirely.

He was broad-shouldered and slouching, as though his bones didn’t quite fit inside his own skin. There was no grace to him. His skin was blotchy, flushed in places like raw meat. His mouth was small and tight, but his lips,wide, meaty things, pressed together like two worms squirming against each other.

And in his ear, glinting darkly in the firelight, was a single garnet. Red as blood. Shaped like a teardrop.

Catelyn’s stomach turned.

He bowed with a swagger that bordered on mockery and spoke in a voice that slithered rather than rang.

“Lady Stark,” he said with a wide, wet smile. “I am Ramsay Snow. Lord Bolton’s natural son.”

A bastard, she thought coldly. But she said nothing.

“By Ser Rodrik’s command,” he continued, “I’ve come to aid Winterfell in these troubled times. The North needs its strongholds secure. The Dreadfort stands ready to support House Stark.”

His words were smooth, his tone deferential, but none of it felt true. There was no honor in his eyes, no warmth. Just calculation. And something colder. Something darker. Like a vulture dressed in a knight’s colors.

Catelyn felt her spine stiffen.

She wanted to turn him away. She wanted to call the guards and lock him in the dungeons until Ned returned. She wanted to scream that she would not have this snake slithering through her home, near her children.

But she did none of those things.

She was the Lady of Winterfell. And the North watched.

So instead, she forced a courteous nod. “Winterfell welcomes those who come in peace,” she said, though the words burned like frost in her mouth.

Bran sat in the high seat beside her, small and solemn, his back straight with all the effort his boyish frame could manage. He said nothing, only watched.

He sees too much, she thought. Just like his father.

She turned her gaze back to Ramsay Snow, and though she smiled, her mind was already spinning.

He must be watched. Closely. Always. There’s something wrong with him. Something foul beneath the flesh.

She could feel it, like a rotting scent beneath perfume. Even the direwolves had gone still. Summer growled low, a sound more felt than heard. Shaggydog bared his teeth.

But Ramsay only kept smiling.

Catelyn’s fingers curled in her skirts.

Come home, Ned, she thought fiercely. Come home and set the North to rights. Before this… thing unravels it all.

Chapter Text

The Solar of the King

The war maps were already rolled and tied in crimson ribbon, ink drying on the latest missives to the Vale and White Harbor. The flickering candlelight caught the edge of Rhaenar’s glove as he pulled on his doublet. He moved with purpose, silent but resolute, the weight of a crown not yet worn pressing invisibly across his shoulders.

The door opened softly.

Daenerys stepped inside without a word. Her silver hair was braided in the old style, and her eyes, those deep, violet flames, were full of storm.

“You weren’t going to tell me.”

He stilled, back turned. “…I was.”

She scoffed gently. “After you were already in the sky?”

Rhaenar turned to face her, his jaw tight, the flickering light cutting harsh lines across his face. “I cannot risk you,” he said, each word slow, deliberate. “Not now. Not with—”

His voice faltered as his eyes dropped to her stomach, still flat beneath the folds of pale silk and dragon-stitched fabric.

“Not with our child growing within you.”

The silence that followed was thick as ash.

Daenerys didn’t move, but something shifted in her gaze, softness tempered by steel.

“I know,” she said quietly. “But you don’t get to decide this alone.”

He looked at her then, not just as his queen or the woman who carried his heir, but as Daenerys, the girl who had wept in his arms after her first flight, the woman who had stood beside him when they reclaimed their kingdoms on the dragonback.

Daenerys stepped closer, undeterred. “And what of the promises we made to each other? I told you I would see Winterfell with you. You said we would face it together. I will not be left behind while you fly into danger.”

“I would burn the world before I let it take you,” he said hoarsely.

“Then don’t try to send me from your side,” she replied, gentling. Her hand found his, warm and fierce. “We are stronger together. We always have been.”

Rhaenar studied her face. She did not waver.

He sighed, the fight in him bleeding into surrender, not of will, but of trust. He lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “Very well,” he murmured.

He crossed the room and opened the door.

“Ser Barristan,” he called.

The Lord Commander was just outside, ever vigilant. He stepped in with a respectful bow. “Your Grace?”

“There’s been a change of plan. Ser Oswell will fly beside Daenerys. She rides with me and Ser Arthur.”

Barristan’s face flickered, a moment of surprise passing quickly. “As you command, Your Grace.” He bowed to Daenerys with genuine warmth. “My queen.”

When the door closed behind him, silence returned. Daenerys moved to Rhaenar, resting her palms against his chest, feeling the beat of his heart beneath cloth and flesh.

“You didn’t have to change your mind,” she whispered.

“I didn’t,” he said softly. “You changed it for me.”

She smiled then, slow and radiant, and rose on her toes to kiss him, long, unhurried, and full of promise. When they parted, her forehead rested against his, and for a moment there was no war, no throne, no burden, only the steady breath they shared.

“We will go north together,” she whispered. “And when this child is born, we’ll make more. A house so full of dragons that no rebellion could ever rise again.”

Rhaenar held her close, fiercely, as if she might vanish with the dawn.

“No more ghosts,” he said. “Only the future we make.”

  The Small Council Chamber

The flames in the brazier burned low, casting long shadows across the ancient table where centuries of kings had plotted, ruled, and died. Above them, the great red-and-black banner of House Targaryen hung heavy in the still air, its three-headed dragon watching in silence.

Rhaenar stood at the head of the table, not yet armored for war, but no less commanding. He wore a high-collared doublet of deep charcoal, trimmed with silver thread in the pattern of scaled wings, and the cloak draped over his shoulders shimmered like smoke, black velvet stitched with threads of dragonbone and moonlight.

Around him sat the lords of his council.  Prince Viserys at his right, clad in royal crimson trimmed with black, his silver hair neatly tied back in a warrior’s knot. Upon his breast gleamed the Hand of the King pin, wrought in dark steel, sharp as the expectations now resting on his shoulders. Lord Jon Arryn, pale and composed, the Master of Laws; Maester Marwyn, sun-browned and sharp-eyed, his arrival from Dragon’s Lair still recent; Willas Tyrell, poised behind a ledger of gold and grain; and at the end, Ser Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, his white cloak pristine as snow, hands resting lightly on the hilt of his sword.

“My lords,” Rhaenar said, voice clear. “The North has sailed for White Harbor. The armies of the Vale and the Stormlands march west, bound for Seagard. Lord Edmure will meet them there, raising the Riverlords in full, to prepare for the assault on the Iron Islands.”

He paused, letting the weight of strategy settle among them.

“Tomorrow, I fly north.”

A murmur stirred among the council, low, respectful, tinged with the awareness of what his departure meant.

“While I am gone,” Rhaenar continued, his gaze sweeping across each face in turn, “the realm will look to this council for strength, for wisdom, for order. You are my voice in the capital.

He turned slightly, eyes sweeping across the chamber, his voice steady with command.

“Viserys will rule in my stead as Hand of the King. Daenerys will remain at my side.”

Viserys, seated tall in his crimson and black, blinked. He straightened, one finger tapping once against the edge of the table before falling still. “When did that change?”

Rhaenar allowed himself a rare smile. “Your sister can be very persuasive when she wants to be.”

That drew a round of chuckles from the council. Even Jon Arryn cracked a faint smile, and Willas Tyrell laughed openly, quill forgotten for the moment.

Viserys smirked, though a hint of nervousness remained in his eyes. “She always did have a way of getting what she wants from you.”

Barristan gave a small nod of approval, saying nothing. But the approval in his gaze lingered on Viserys.

Viserys exhaled slowly, drawing his shoulders back. “Then let them see us, Targaryen and Tyrell, King’s blood and rose, ruling together while you bring the North to heel.”

“Not rule,” Rhaenar said. “Stewardship. Until I return.”

“But let it be a taste of the days to come,” murmured Willas, “when dragons truly soar over a whole and peaceful realm.”

For a moment, none contradicted him. Rhaenar turned to the Bold.

“You are to continue strengthening our position here. Ser Barristan, the Red Keep’s defense is yours. Lord Arryn, review the Riverlands’ petitions. There are still holdfasts wavering between loyalty and fear. I want a full accounting of lords who’ve not bent the knee.”

Jon nodded silently, already scribbling with a quill.

“Willas,” Rhaenar continued, “begin preparations for food relief. We may have won the capital, but war leaves hungry mouths. I want food in the bellies of smallfolk, our blockade and siege hurt them, lets try to ease that pain.”

Willas glanced up, smiling faintly. “Done, Your Grace. And the crown’s coin will soon be flowing… thanks in part to Tarly’s efforts in the West.”

That drew a smirk from Rhaenar. “I hope the Lannisters enjoyed the taste of their own wine before we took their vaults.”

Rhaenar turned to Lord Willas Tyrell, whose ink-stained fingers hovered just above a scroll of numbers and ledgers.

“As soon as Lord Tarly arrives with the gold from the West,” Rhaenar began, “I want the Iron Bank paid off. Every copper. I will not begin my reign in chains.”

Willas inclined his head. “Of course, Your Grace.”

“I’ve ran the mumbers,” Rhaenar continued. “Once the loans from Robert’s reign are cleared, we should still have what, six million gold dragons left in the royal coffers?”

Willas flipped a page, ran his fingers quickly down the columns. “Closer to six and a half, assuming the tolls from the Narrow Sea remain steady.”

“Good,” Rhaenar said. Then, after a pause, “I want a portion of that to go where it’s never gone before, Flea Bottom.”

That drew a glance or two across the table. Rhaenar pressed on.

“We talk of peace and rebirth, but we sit in towers of gold while the poor sleep in rivers of their own filth. I want something done about it.”

He pointed to the map laid across the center of the table.

“Commission builders. Begin with sewers, drains, cisterns, gutters. Anything that will clean the stink from the city and give the smallfolk a taste of dignity.”

He looked around, half-smiling. “If they aren’t sleeping in their own shit, it’ll go a long way toward making them love their king.”

That earned another burst of laughter from the room, dry from Jon Arryn, a deep chuckle from Barristan, and even a surprised grin from Viserys.

Willas smiled and dipped his quill. “Then the city will breathe easier, Your Grace. I’ll see to it.”

A brief ripple of amusement passed through the room.

Then Rhaenar’s tone darkened. “Still no word of Varys?”

Ser Barristan shook his head. “None, Your Grace. No sightings. No whispers.”

“Then he’s still in the shadows,” Rhaenar said. “Or worse, being shielded.”

He paced slowly, thoughtful. “And that’s why I’ll say this plainly. We need eyes in every hall, ears in every court. If we are to build a lasting peace, we must see the threat before it strikes.”

Viserys tilted his head. “So… you're naming a Master of Whisperers?”

Rhaenar’s expression didn’t change. “Yes.”

A beat of silence.

“Do you have someone in mind?” Viserys asked.

“I do,” Rhaenar replied.

He said nothing more.

The room waited, but no one pressed. A hush settled, heavy as snow.

The last of the matters settled, the scrolls sealed and signatures given, Rhaenar stepped back from the table.

“That will be all for now,” he said, his voice gentling. “You have your duties. See them done.”

Chairs scraped lightly against stone as the council began to rise. Lords bowed, parchments were gathered, and the sound of cloaks brushing marble filled the chamber as one by one they made their exit.

“Viserys,” Rhaenar said quietly, before his uncle could stand. “Stay a moment.”

Viserys paused, glancing curiously at the others, then nodded and remained seated as the rest filed out. When the chamber had emptied and the heavy doors shut behind them, Rhaenar stepped around the table, voice lowering.

“Grandmother wants us to share supper this evening,” he said. “Just the five of us. You, me, Daenerys, Rhaella… and Margaery. Bring her.”

Viserys blinked, then smiled, the stiffness in his shoulders easing. “I will,” he said. “She’ll be pleased. She’s wanted a moment like this for some time.”

Rhaenar gave a faint nod. “So have I.”

Viserys rose from his seat. “I’ll see you this evening, brother.”

Their eyes met for a breath, two brothers in name, if not in blood.

“See that you do,” Rhaenar replied, and Viserys turned to go.

The Tower of the Hand

Margaery Tyrell stood by the balcony, the wind teasing the edge of her silk sleeve as she watered a small pot of golden roses that had been brought up from the garden below. The scent of lemon oil and parchment lingered in the solar, mingling with the sharper tang of salt from Blackwater Bay beyond.

Viserys entered quietly, his boots soft on the stone. She didn’t turn to greet him, but her lips curved into a smile.

“You look thoughtful,” she said, without looking back. “Did the council go poorly?”

“No,” he replied, coming up beside her. “Not poorly. But the King makes it very hard to feel ready for anything when he walks into a room and knows exactly what must be done.”

Margaery turned then, brows raised, amused. “That sounds like admiration.”

“It is,” he admitted. “And annoyance. In equal measure.”

She laughed lightly and took his hand. “And what orders did the dragon leave you with, my lord Hand?”

Viserys rolled his eyes at the title but didn’t let go of her fingers.

“He dismissed the council. Told me to stay behind.” He hesitated, then smiled slightly. “We’re to have supper with him tonight.”

“Oh?” Margaery’s brows lifted. “You, Rhaenar, Daenerys… and?”

“And Queen Rhaella,” Viserys said. “Just the five of us. He told me to bring you.”

Her smile softened into something more meaningful.

“A family supper,” she murmured. “It almost sounds… peaceful.”

“Don’t let that fool you,” Viserys said. “If Rhaenar’s flying north tomorrow, he means for tonight to matter. He wouldn’t waste a quiet evening if it didn’t have weight.”

Margaery touched the silver pin on his chest, the Hand of the King, fingers resting over his heart. “Then we’ll make it count.”

He leaned in and pressed a kiss to her brow. “You always do.”

He relaxed then, only slightly, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. For once, the weight of the court and crown seemed to lift, if only a little.

But Margaery’s expression shifted.

That glint returned to her eyes, mischievous, cunning, and undeniably Tyrell. Like sunlight catching the edge of a rose's thorn.

“Besides,” she said, her voice dropping into something low and silken, “Daenerys is with child. If she bears Rhaenar a son… we’ll need a daughter of our own, don’t you think?”

Viserys blinked. “A daughter?”

“To bind our houses even tighter,” she purred. “A Tyrell and a Targaryen,just like us. But raised in peace, not rebellion. That’s what Rhaenar promised my grandmother when he proposed our alliance.”

Viserys tilted his head, blinking in surprise. “He never told me that.”

“Perhaps he meant to surprise you. Not get your hopes up if we never had a daughter.”

There was no jealousy in her tone, only delight in his disarmed expression.

“It makes me happy,” Viserys murmured, his voice softer now. “To think our daughter might one day be queen.”

She stepped back then, slowly, her hands finding her hips. The wicked grin bloomed full.

“Then we should get to work on that.”

Viserys didn’t need to be told twice.

With a laugh, he reached for her, yanking her gently into his arms. She yelped,purely for effect and wrapped her arms around his neck as he lifted her off her feet, her laughter like bells at a festival.

“Then to the royal bed we go,” he said, voice mock-serious.

“Best hurry,” she whispered against his ear, warm breath and roses. “The crown waits for no man.”

And in a rustle of silk and laughter, the future began.

Their laughter echoed through the hall as he carried her down the corridor, sunlight trailing behind them like a blessing.

The Training Yard

Steel rang against steel in sharp, rhythmic clatter. Sunlight slanted through the high courtyard arches, painting gold across the sand-strewn yard as Rhaenar circled opposite Ser Arthur Dayne, both men moving with a grace born of years in each other's shadow.

They fought with blunted longswords, but there was nothing soft in the blows they traded. Rhaenar parried low, Arthur riposted high, their movements almost too fast for the watching squires to follow. Each swing, each step, was a conversation written in steel.

It was an even match, until the balcony doors above opened.

Rhaenar's eyes flicked upward for a breath, just a breath, as Daenerys stepped into view, arms folded atop the carved stone railing, her silver hair catching the breeze.

That breath was all Arthur needed.

The Sword of the Morning pivoted sharply and swept Rhaenar’s blade aside with a deft twist of the wrist, then tapped the flat against his breastplate.

“Dead,” Arthur said.

Rhaenar scowled, breathing hard, lowering his blade. “You’ve never been this smug.”

“I’ve never had such an easy win,” Arthur replied coolly, then added with a smirk, “Your focus was north of the yard, and west of your better judgment.”

That drew a huff of laughter from Rhaenar. He returned the training sword to the rack and clapped Arthur’s shoulder with mock irritation.

“I’ll have your smug tongue silenced by sunrise,” he muttered, but there was fondness beneath the words.

From across the yard, a flash of color caught Rhaenar’s eye; red, gold, and sun-kissed bronze. Prince Oberyn Martell danced through the sand, twin spears spinning as he trained alongside his three eldest daughters. Their laughter rang through the courtyard as they moved like wind through the grass.

Rhaenar walked over, wiping sweat from his brow with a towel offered by a page. Oberyn caught the motion and handed his spear off with a word to Elia Sand, then turned to greet him.

“Your Grace,” he said, bowing slightly but with the irreverent grin that rarely left his lips. “Come to challenge me as well?”

“Only with words,” Rhaenar replied. “May we speak?”

Oberyn nodded and gestured toward the shaded edge of the yard. They walked together in silence for a moment, the sounds of training fading behind them.

“What are your plans?” Rhaenar asked, hands clasped behind his back.

“I thought to return to Sunspear,” Oberyn said. “Spend time with Ellaria and my daughters. The war is nearly done, and I’ve spilled enough blood to silence a generation.”

Rhaenar nodded. “And you’ve earned your peace.”

He paused, then turned to face him fully.

“After the Ironborn are brought to heel, I want you to return to King’s Landing. Serve on my council, as Master of Whisperers. If you're willing.”

Oberyn arched a brow, surprised. “A seat on the council? My brother will be pleased. But… you do realize I don’t have any spies, don’t you?”

“I know,” Rhaenar said. “But your brother does. Ask him how to build a network. Dorne’s eyes and ears reach far, through wine sellers, merchants, scholars. They don’t need to be spiders to be useful.”

He hesitated, then his voice dropped slightly, darker.

“I don’t trust Varys just disappearing as he did. He was always ten steps ahead of everyone. I won’t be stuck in the dark while he plots in it. I very much wanted a word with him when we took the capital.”

Oberyn tilted his head, studying him.

“My father might have overthrown Aerys at Harrenhal if not for Varys,” Rhaenar continued. “There might never have been a rebellion. He also uncovered my mother’s identity as the Knight of the Laughing Tree… and reported it. That discovery set fire to everything.”

His jaw clenched. “I want him found. He has much to answer for.”

Oberyn was quiet for a long moment, the sun catching the gold trim of his tunic.

“Tywin Lannister. Ser Amory Lorch. Ser Gregor Clegane,” he said, naming them like curses. “All dead. My sister… and her children, your siblings, avenged. You fulfilled your oath to me and Dorn.”

He looked Rhaenar in the eyes. “So yes, Your Grace. I will return. I will take the black net into my hands and see what fish it hides. I humbly accept the position of Master of Whisperers.”

Rhaenar inclined his head. “Then let them whisper in fear.”

They shook hands, not as prince and king, but as men who had buried too many loved ones, and refused to let shadows win again.

The Royal Dining Room

The long shadows of twilight stretched through the chamber’s high arched windows, painting amber lines across the polished blackwood table. Candles flickered in golden sconces, casting a soft, familial glow that softened the edges of silver hair and violet eyes.

The room was quiet, save for the soft clink of silverware, the muted laughter of kin, and the gentle murmur of old stories. This was not a feast of state, nor a council of war; it was something rarer, peace.

Rhaenar sat at the head of the table, Daenerys to his right, her fingers laced in his beneath the tablecloth. Rhaella, regal even in her simple gown of deep blue, presided opposite, her gaze warm but watchful. Margaery Tyrell was radiant in rose gold silk, laughter dancing in her voice as she recounted a humorous tale of a garden duel between Loras and Garlan. Beside her, Viserys, shoulders square, posture proud, though now and then his hand brushed hers beneath the table when no one watched.

They had shared spiced duck, lemoned greens, and honeyed pears, but it was not the food that filled the room. It was the feeling of something rebuilt. A family, scarred, scattered, but whole again.

As the plates were cleared and wine poured anew, Daenerys dabbed her lips with a napkin and rested her hand gently on her stomach.

“Maester Marwyn examined me this morning,” she said, voice soft but clear. “He says I’m nearly three moons along.”

The room brightened at once.

Rhaella smiled wide, the kind of smile that softened the lines time had etched into her face. She pressed a hand to her heart, as if to steady the sudden swell of emotion rising within her.

“A child,” she whispered, the word catching in her throat. “Another grandchild.”

Her gaze lingered on Daenerys, radiant and fierce, then turned to Rhaenar, her son’s son, who fought to get his family here. She looked at them both as though the world had finally begun to right itself.

“You carry not just a babe,” she said softly, voice thick with emotion, “but a future I thought I would never see. The blood of the dragon, whole again. Together.”

She reached across the table and gently took Daenerys’s free hand, giving it a squeeze. Then she turned her hand palm-up and laid it over Rhaenar’s.

“My children,” she said. “And now, yours.”

Margaery clapped her hands together with delight. “That is wonderful news! The first dragon born in the Red Keep in a generation. Seven save us, it will have your eyes, Daenerys, those impossible, haunting eyes.”

Rhaenar looked at Daenerys, utterly still for a moment, and then kissed her hand gently. “You are my fire. You always have been.”

The table basked in the moment, until Rhaella, ever the realist, set her goblet down with the quiet authority of a queen long seasoned in grief.

“Then forgive me,” she said softly, “for wondering aloud… is it truly wise that Daenerys flies north with you? She is with child. She would be safer here. The capital is secure. The warfront is not.”

A silence settled. Rhaenar turned to Daenerys, expecting the flash of fire and he wasn’t disappointed.

“I am the blood of the dragon,” she said, her voice unwavering. “A dragonrider as well. I go where my husband goes, where my heart goes. Always.”

Her eyes, gleaming like polished amethysts, did not flinch.

Rhaella sighed, though there was pride beneath her concern. “You are your brother’s sister.”

“She has both of her brothers in her,” Rhaenar said, kissing her hand again.

Margaery placed her chin in her hand and watched them both with adoration. “You two are like something from a song. Fire and flame, bound by fate. It’s touching to see.

Rhaenar smiled faintly, then sat straighter, his tone shifting slightly.

“But I must speak plainly now,” he said, gaze moving between Rhaella, Viserys, and Margaery in turn. “When we go north, you will remain here. And while the city is strong, I am not blind. Enemies linger in shadows, and I will not risk the family I have fought to reclaim.”

He met each of their eyes, one by one, Rhaella, Viserys, Margaery, his voice calm, but unmistakably resolute. Steel wrapped in silk.

“With four members of the Kingsguard riding north with me, that leaves only three behind,” he said. “It’s not enough, not for what you all mean to me, and not for what you represent to the realm.”

He drew a breath, steady and full of purpose.

“That’s why I’ve instructed Ser Brienne of Tarth to remain behind and oversee your protection.”

Daenerys arched a brow, but Rhaenar continued before she could speak.

“I trust her,” he said. “As surely as I did the day she stepped between you and  Meryn Trant in the throne room. She is as loyal as she is unyielding and she has no love for traitors or Lannisters.”

He folded his hands atop the table.

“The three of you will be guarded at all times. This is not a suggestion. It is not a courtesy. It is a command. I will not see any more Targaryen blood spilled.”

There was no anger in his voice, only the deep, quiet fear of a man who had already buried too many dreams. And the unbending will of a king determined not to lose anything more.

Rhaella nodded slowly, understanding full in her gaze.

Rhaenar turned at last to Viserys.

“I have every faith in you to rule in my stead,” he said, his voice softer now, laced with the weight of both duty and affection. “And if you find yourself uncertain, trust your gut. Do what you think is right. We’ll deal with any consequences when I return.”

Viserys blinked, caught off guard by the quiet confidence in his nephew’s tone. He gave a small nod, pride and pressure mingling behind his violet eyes.

Rhaenar smiled faintly, then stood.

He leaned down first to Rhaella, brushing a kiss to her cheek. She touched his hand as he pulled away, holding it for just a heartbeat longer than needed.

“To the gods,” she whispered, “and your father's blessing.”

He turned to Margaery next, who rose to meet him, a smile as warm as summer on her face. He kissed her cheek gently.

“My lady,” he said. “Thank you, for what you’ve brought to our house.”

Then he stepped to Viserys and without hesitation pulled him into a firm embrace.

“I will see you soon, brother,” Rhaenar murmured, his hand clasped tightly to the back of Viserys’s neck. “Hold the crown. Keep it steady.”

“I will,” Viserys said quietly, his voice rough with sudden emotion.

Rhaenar stepped back, then reached for Daenerys’s hand. Their fingers met with instinctive familiarity, two flames, bound.

Without another word, they turned and walked from the chamber, hand in hand, shadows stretching behind them as they disappeared through the great oak doors, toward the final night before the dragons flew north.

Chapter Text

It could have ended in fire.

Casterly Rock, broken.
Lannisport, razed.
The gold mines flooded. His head on a pike.

Instead, he was alive.

And House Lannister, what was left of it, was still standing.

Tyrion shifted in his saddle as the wind came rolling over the hills, heavy with the scents of pine and wet earth. Ahead, the banners of House Tarly flapped in orderly formation, a thousand Reachmen marching with grim efficiency, not as conquerors, but as peacekeepers, sent by the king to help hold the western coast, drive out any lingering Ironborn in Lannisport, and escort the West’s restitution safely back to the Red Keep. Behind them rode the scattered remnants of the West.

Leo Lefford rode near the front, his crimson cloak sun-bleached and frayed, the proud lord  of the Golden Tooth dulled by ash and time.
Beside him rode Desmond Crakehall, grim-faced and silent, the boar sigil on his breastplate blackened by fire that no longer burned.
The Hetherspoons, lesser knights of modest renown, trailed behind, eyes low, banners tattered, the wind tugging at their shame.
Ser Raynald Westerling, now Lord of the Crag, held himself with stiff resolve, his house burdened by the death of Lord Gawen, who had fallen in the Field of Fire.

Sandor Clegane, half-hidden beneath a heavy black hood, wore no sigil at all, yet no one questioned his place. He was Lord of Clegane’s Keep now, though he looked no happier for the inheritance than he had for the wars that earned it.

Among them rode Lord Andros Brax, his purple cloak soiled with soot, the once-proud unicorn of his house burned away, riding in silence for a brother lost to dragonfire.
Lord Quenten Banefort bore no livery at all, his eyes hollowed from too many funerals and too few victories.
And at the rear came Lord Damon Marbrand, cloaked in black and red for mourning, his jaw clenched like a smith’s vice. His son, Ser Addam, had lost his head during the surrender at King’s Landing, fool enough to challenge the King, and not nearly enough to best him.

And with them, a dozen lesser retainers, Lannisters of minor line, Hill bastards made knights, men who had survived, bent the knee, and carried their shame like a second cloak.

It should have been worse. That was the thought Tyrion couldn’t shake.

It should have ended in blood.

He had expected it, Rhaenar Targaryen, mounted on his dragon, pronouncing doom in front of the whole realm. He’d expected dragonfire, or his family to be attainted, or worse.

Instead, there had been mercy.

Expensive, yes. Unforgiving. But mercy nonetheless.

Ten million gold dragons. That was the price of his life, and the life of his house.

He paid it with Casterly Rock’s vaults, with every last coin from the treasuries beneath the Lion’s Mouth. Over half their reserves were gone, funneled east to satisfy the Targaryen crown, and he knew he would have to dig even deeper to rebuild what had been lost in Lannisport.

He had signed the writ himself, his hand steady, even as the ink smeared with sweat.

And in return, he lived. Willem and Martyn lived. His uncle Kevan and cousin Lancel were spared the axe, sent to the Wall instead, along with twenty-five hundred Lannister soldiers, soon to be  sworn brothers of the Night’s Watch.

He looked to his left, where Willem and Martyn rode side by side, still boys, trying to wear the faces of men. Martyn was humming a tune under his breath. Willem was silent, brow furrowed, his golden hair tied back in a soldier’s knot. Tyrion felt a rush of affection for them both, and guilt.

They should never have been caught in this war. But then, none of them should have.

The Lion had roared for too long.

“My lord,” came a voice to his right, Lord Randyll Tarly, riding with a spine like iron and eyes that missed nothing. Just behind him rode Dickon, broad-shouldered, silent as stone, his father’s image in size if not yet in sharpness.

“Lannisport is just over that ridge,” Tarly said, his tone clipped and precise. “We should be there within the hour.”

Tyrion gave a single nod in response, keeping his expression carefully neutral. There was no warmth between them, only duty.

Tyrion reined in slightly, letting his horse fall behind the vanguard, the better to look over the company trailing him. So few left, compared to what Tywin Lannister had once commanded. But they were loyal, or at least obedient. And they wore his lion still, even if it fluttered alongside the dragon.

And yet he was still here.

The Broken City

Lannisport lay broken beneath a grey sky.

From the ridge, Tyrion could see the scars long before they entered the city, plumes of lingering smoke rising from gutted warehouses, roofs blackened, windows hollowed like skulls. The golden harbor, once alive with sails and laughter and the song of rigging in the wind, was now a graveyard of splintered masts and sunken hulls.

The tide rolled in sluggishly, streaked with ash and debris, carrying with it the stink of salt, rot, and burned flesh. The air tasted of iron and old fire.

The Lannister fleet was gone.

Every last ship. Dozens of warships, merchant vessels, and fishing boats, all reduced to floating wreckage or buried beneath the harbor’s depths. Half-sunken hulls jutted out at strange angles, like ribs from a drowned beast. Sails hung in tatters from shattered masts. One galley had drifted onto the shore, its charred figurehead lying in pieces on the sand, the lion’s head split in two.

“Gods...” Willem muttered beside him, voice hollow.

Tyrion said nothing. There were no words for this.

They rode into the city slowly, hooves echoing through empty streets lined with crumbling stone, past burned-out homes, collapsed inns, and shattered fountains now dry and filled with debris. Corpses had been cleared, but the blood had seeped too deep into the cobblestones to be washed away.

The people who remained watched them from doorways, thin, wary eyes peering from behind barricaded shutters or makeshift cloth curtains. Some bowed their heads. Most did not. Too tired. Too hungry. Too angry.

Tarly’s men spread out, forming tight patrols, establishing security. It felt less like a homecoming and more like an occupation.

At the gates of what remained of the harbormaster’s office, a man sat sharpening a rusted cleaver, his arm in a bloodstained sling. When he looked up and saw the lion banners, he spat into the dust.

This had been Lannisport, the jewel of the western coast, a city of laughter, gold, and glory.

Now it was a ruin.
And the krakens had done it.

Tyrion dismounted in silence. The pain was quieter than grief. He had no tears left to give. Only thoughts. Only guilt.

It would take years to rebuild. Perhaps a generation.

They had barely reached the harbormaster’s square, what was left of it, when Ser Damon Lannister, Lord of Lannisport, emerged from the cracked colonnade of the city hall, flanked by a handful of guards in battered armor bearing the lion of Lannisport.

He was a broad-shouldered man, once handsome, now lined with bitterness and pride. His red-gold beard was streaked with grey, and his voice was sharp enough to draw blood as he strode forward, boots echoing through the scorched stone.

“You’ve returned, then,” Damon said. “Clutching a dragon’s leash and calling it mercy.”

Tyrion said nothing at first. He dismounted slowly, dust clinging to his boots, his legs stiff from the ride. The square around them was half-emptied, cleared for their arrival, but onlookers still lingered in the shadows of broken arches and scorched storefronts.

Damon’s voice rose.
“Do you even see what they did?” He swept his arm toward the harbor, where half-sunken wrecks still smoldered in the bay. “Our fleet is ash. Our sons are dead. Our pride drowned beneath krakens.”

Tyrion’s voice was quiet, but steady.
“No. Our pride died long before the krakens came.”

Damon blinked, thrown by the quiet certainty in Tyrion’s voice.

Tyrion stepped forward, brushing a speck of dust from his sleeve. His cloak bore the lion of House Lannister, not gilded, not embroidered, but stitched plainly in red on gold. It was the only ornament he wore.

“This is what your pride built,” he continued. “This ruin. This hunger. This silence.” He gestured to the empty city. “You think bending the knee was betrayal? It was survival.”

Damon’s jaw clenched.
“You would kneel to the dragon after they killed your own father?”

Tyrion didn’t flinch.
“My father died in a trial by combat,” he said, his voice clear and measured. “The gods deemed him guilty of his crimes. And it’s his sins that House Lannister is paying for now.”

Damon’s guards shifted uneasily. Tyrion’s own men, and Tarly’s behind them, stood still. Watching. Listening.

“I bent the knee to save what was left,” Tyrion said, voice rising slightly now. “To make sure my cousins still draw breath. To ensure this city still has walls, even if they’re cracked. To give you something to cling to besides the bones of old glories.”

He stepped closer to Damon, now eye to stomach, yet somehow towering.

“I am the Warden of the West now.”

The title hung in the air, heavy as iron.

“Not because I asked for it. Not because I wanted it. Because no one else stood. Because you all looked to the Rock and found it hollow.”

He turned, speaking now not just to Damon, but to the guards, to the gathered onlookers, to the city itself.

“You look at me and see a dwarf. But I’ll tell you this—” he met Damon’s eyes again, burning with cold clarity, “—in the ruins of the West, I am the tallest man left standing.”

A silence followed, deep and wide.

Even the wind paused.

Then Damon spoke again, voice low but tight with fury.

“The Ironborn reaved. They raped. They pillaged.”
He swept his arm toward the harbor, a graveyard of broken ships and blackened stone.
“And then they sailed back into the Sunset Sea like ghosts, as if none of it mattered. No justice. No reckoning. And now we bend the knee to the ones who let them go?”

Tyrion met his gaze without blinking.
“The Ironborn will face justice,” he said. “The King is ridding them from the North as we speak. Then he means to invade the Iron Islands themselves.”
He paused, letting the words settle.
“That is your retribution.”

Damon said nothing.

“You want vengeance,” Tyrion continued, his voice harder now, “but vengeance doesn’t rebuild cities. It doesn’t feed the hungry or lift a house from ruin. It buries it deeper.”

He stepped forward, eyes gleaming with sharp, cold fire.

“I am the Head of House Lannister now.”
“Not because I am the strongest. Not because I am beloved. But because I bent the knee, paid the price, and stood up while the rest fell.”

Damon said nothing more.

He stepped closer, voice sharper now.

“The Ironborn left us ashes. I intend to build from them. You want justice? Then stand with me while we drag what’s left of the West into the future. Or stand aside while someone else does.”

Damon Lannister did not speak again.

He gave a tight nod, more out of shame than submission, and stepped back into the shadows.

Tyrion exhaled, softly. His breath caught in the stale, ash-stung air.

Then he turned to Lord Tarly.

“See to the muster,” he said. “We’ve gold to deliver and a city to rebuild.”

He did not look back at Damon.

There was no time for ghosts.

Casterly Rock

The sea wind struck him first, salt and cold and heavy with the ghosts of lions.

Tyrion Lannister stood before the Lion’s Mouth, the colossal southern face of Casterly Rock, and stared into the yawning cavern that had haunted his dreams since he was a boy.

It was everything he had imagined. And nothing like he had hoped.

The Rock rose from the edge of the world like a god’s fist, its shadow cast long over the surf. Two leagues from west to east, half a league thick, and towering nearly 2,100 feet above the sea, it was said to be three times as tall as the Wall, and higher still than the Hightower of Oldtown. It didn’t glitter like a castle in a tale. It loomed. It endured.

The Lion’s Mouth, the main entrance to the stronghold, was an enormous natural cavern, two hundred feet high, carved into the sheer southern face. The great stone stairway that led up to it wound like a spine across the rock, its steps wide enough for twenty riders to ascend abreast. At its base, guards waited in Lannister crimson and gold, though fewer than in years past.

Behind Tyrion, his column stretched back down the hill, crimson banners with gold lions, bruised but still flying. Willem and Martyn, the Reachmen, and the ragged remnants of Westerland pride. Behind them, the shattered weight of war and too many ghosts.

And before him… the hall of his blood.

He took the first step.

Stone echoed beneath his boots as he ascended. For once, he did not care that each step came slower than the last, that his legs ached, that his shadow was dwarfed by the walls around him. He was home. And he wore no collar of shame now.

They passed under the Lion’s Mouth, the air growing cooler as the light faded into golden gloom. Torches lined the path within, casting flickering shadows across carved columns, old lion heads, and the bones of wealth. Gold veins gleamed in the walls like trapped lightning. Deeper still, he knew, were the sea gates beneath the western face, great enough for galleys and cogs to sail directly into the Rock, docking within caverns untouched by storm or fire.

Further below still were the ancient cages, where real lions were once kept to roar beneath the floor of the Great Hall. Cells for traitors, oubliettes too small to sit in. And deeper even than that, the secrets his father never shared.

Now all of it was his.

And all of it had cost more than gold.

At last, they reached the inner hall, tall, cold, eternal. The heart of the Rock, where voices echoed like thunder and banners hung like memories. Tyrion stepped forward and turned, facing those who followed.

The son they had once mocked. The dwarf. The joke.

Now Lord of the Rock.

The one voice left to speak for lions.

He did not raise his voice. He did not puff his chest. He only stood still and let the weight of stone and silence settle around him.

All my life, I dreamed of this.
And it took the destruction of my family to have it.

He breathed in deeply, his throat tight. Not with sorrow, but with resolve.

“I serve the crown. I serve the King,” he said aloud, voice echoing through the chamber.
“And I will serve Rhaenar Targaryen and his heirs until my last breath. He gave me the only gift I ever truly wanted.”

He looked up, toward the peak of the Rock, hidden by stone and time.

“He gave me this.”

And he would not waste it.

Not again.

The Lord’s Solar

The solar was smaller than Tyrion remembered. Or perhaps he had grown. The high arched windows looked out over the western cliffs, where the Sunset Sea glimmered like beaten bronze. Light slanted across the floor in golden bars, catching the dust that still hung in the air. Tywin had once kept this chamber impeccable, no dust, no warmth.

Now it smelled of parchment, sea salt, and old stone. It felt… quieter.

Tyrion stood by the window, a glass of Arbor gold in hand, watching gulls wheel above the broken coast far below.

The door creaked open.

He turned to see Gemma Lannister, his aunt, robed in mourning black, though she had not bothered with the veil. Her golden hair had faded with time, and the lines around her eyes had deepened since he’d last seen her in King’s Landing, but she still carried herself with that particular Lannister grace, unyielding, proud, and tempered by grief.

She did not curtsy. She only stepped inside and closed the door behind her.

“You’ve done it,” she said softly.

Tyrion nodded. “At long last.”

She crossed the room, her hands folded in front of her. For a moment, she simply looked at him, not with judgment, but with something gentler. Understanding. Admiration, even.

“I understand why you kneeled,” Gemma said. “You didn’t have a choice… but even if you did, I think you still would have.” She paused, then added with quiet conviction, “And I think Tywin would have wanted you to as well, if it meant House Lannister endured.”

Tyrion exhaled, his gaze dropping to the floor. “He would have spat in my face first. And made sure I knew I was a disappointment, even as he signed the terms.”

Gemma gave a sad smile. “Of course he would have. But that wouldn’t have changed the truth of it.”

She stepped closer, her voice thickening.

“I mourn for Kevan. For Lancel. They will live their lives in a frozen hell, but they live. I’m grateful Willem and Martyn are here. And I’m glad it’s you on the Rock, Tyrion.”

That silenced him more than any accusation could have.

“You’ve always been sharper than the rest of them,” she said. “And you’ve lived with eyes open, no illusions. You know what this house became. You know what it could be again.” She reached out and touched his arm gently. “And I’ll help you. However I can. Them too. Willem and Martyn need more than just a lord. They need a family.”

Tyrion felt a rare, unfamiliar tightness in his throat. He nodded once. “Thank you, Aunt.”

She gave a small, knowing nod and moved to the hearth, where a small fire cracked gently. Her voice was softer now.

“What comes next?”

Tyrion turned back to the window, watching the gulls vanish into the light.

“We rebuild Lannisport,” he said. “Stone by stone. Life by life.”

He turned to face her.

“We lead the West into better days. That’s what comes next.”

He paused, thoughtful.

“It may take my entire life to fix what Tywin shattered. To cleanse the Lannister name of everything it became. But I will do it. Inch by inch, word by word, gold by gold.”

He set the glass down.

“And if our king should call, Rhaenar Targaryen, who gave me more than any father ever did, then House Lannister will answer. Faithfully. And without hesitation.”

Gemma smiled, eyes glistening.

“Spoken like a true lion.”

He gave a soft chuckle. “A smaller lion, perhaps. But one with sharp teeth all the same.”

They stood together for a long moment, watching the sea roll in below the Rock.

And for the first time in what felt like years, Tyrion did not feel alone.

The fire crackled quietly as Gemma settled into one of the old lion-carved chairs near the hearth. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then she looked up at him with that familiar matriarchal gleam in her eye, the kind that had steered half the Westerlands into their marriages.

“You know what comes next, don’t you?”

Tyrion raised an eyebrow. “I thought I just told you what comes next.”

She smiled. “That was for the Rock. I meant for you.”

He gave a soft groan and sank into the chair opposite her. “Seven save me. You’re matchmaking already.”

“Someone must,” she said primly. “You’re Lord of Casterly Rock now. Warden of the West. One of the most eligible bachelors left in the realm, whether you like it or not.”

Tyrion gestured at himself. “Yes, the picture of a maiden’s fantasy. Wealth, wit, charm, and just the right height to kiss a lady’s knee.”

Gemma snorted despite herself. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re a Lannister. That still matters. And more importantly, you’ve proven yourself, through fire and ruin.”

She leaned forward slightly.

“I was thinking… Jeyne Westerling.”

Tyrion blinked. “Gawen’s daughter?”

Gemma nodded. “Raynald’s sister now. A match like that would pull the Crag tighter to the Rock. They’re proud and fractured after Lord Gawen’s death. You would show them they’re still in the lion’s heart.” She tilted her head. “And she’s kind. I remember that about her.”

Tyrion sipped from his cup. “I’ll be her dream come true. Every highborn lady dreams of marrying a dwarf.”

Gemma gave him a flat look, then smirked. “If you’re going to be a dwarf, you may as well be a rich and powerful one.”

Tyrion laughed, truly laughed, deep and unguarded. It felt strange in his chest, like something old waking up.

“That’s the Lannister spirit,” he said, raising his cup.

Gemma raised hers in return.

They drank.

Then Tyrion set his goblet aside, smile still lingering.

“I’ll consider it.”

Gemma nodded once, satisfied. “That’s all I ask.”

  Lannisport: A Few Weeks Later

The city still smelled of ash. But now, at least, it was the ash of progress.

Scaffolding wrapped around stone walls like ivy, and hammers rang out through the harbor like bells of renewal. Dozens of laborers hauled stone blocks from the quarries, and smoke rose from the blacksmiths’ forges once again, this time not from pillage, but from purpose.

The worst was far from over, but for the first time in weeks, Lannisport was building instead of burning.

Tyrion Lannister stood at the edge of the old harbor wall, watching as two dozen heavy wagons were loaded with heavy chests, each bound in bronze and stamped with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. Inside them; ten million gold dragons, the price of mercy, the ransom of his house.

And escorting it all back to King’s Landing, Lord Randyll Tarly.

“You’d think the King was sending the crown jewels to Braavos,” Tyrion muttered, squinting at the rows of Tarly men in tight formation, spears high and discipline higher.

“Only a fool would treat this lightly,” came Tarly’s voice, flat as ever. He stood at Tyrion’s side, arms folded over his breastplate. “Bandits, Ironborn stragglers, ambitious hedge knights, they’d all throw themselves at these wagons if they knew what rode in them.”

Tyrion gave a dry smile. “Which is why we didn’t paint a lion and a dragon on every chest, I assume.”

Tarly didn’t rise to the bait. He never did.

“The King expects them in the capital by moon’s turn,” he said. “We’ll ride hard and fast. No detours. No delays.”

Tyrion gave a theatrical sigh. “You know, you’d make a marvelous dinner guest, Lord Tarly. So full of warmth and spontaneity.”

Randyll glanced sidelong at him. “And you would’ve made a fine jester. If not for the wine, women, and war crimes of your family.”

Tyrion raised his cup in salute. “At least one of those still brings me joy.”

The final chest clanked into place, the wagon rocking slightly under its weight. Soldiers snapped into position. Dickon Tarly, broad-shouldered and stone-faced, barked a sharp order and turned toward the column, readying the escort.

Tyrion’s humor faded as he stepped forward. The gold gleamed faintly beneath the canvas. So much weight. Not just in coin, but in expectation.

He turned to Tarly.

“Protect it with your life,” he said. “Every crown. Every coin. The Seven Kingdoms are counting on it, even the ones that hate each other.”

Tarly nodded once. “They’ll get it.”

Tarly gave him a final look, cold, respectful, and utterly joyless, then strode off, barking orders as the column began to move.

Tyrion remained behind, watching the wagons roll east, gold-bound and fire-tested.

And for once, the lion felt at peace.

Not triumphant. Not proud.

Just… still.

He watched until the last of the gold wagons disappeared into the eastern haze, the sun catching faint glimmers through the dust. The sound of hammering resumed in the harbor, sailors shouted over crates, and the smell of new timber floated in on the breeze.

It was not the future he imagined. But it was a future. And that was enough.

Tyrion exhaled, straightened his doublet, and turned back toward the city.

He whistled as he walked, an old Dornish tavern tune, low and cheerful, as his boots carried him down the hill and into the winding streets of Lannisport.

He’d abstained for weeks.
No wine. No women. No wickedness.

But the king was satisfied. Gold was moving. The city was healing.

And now?

Now he needed release.

He rounded the corner toward the brothel, what remained of it, anyway. A red lantern still hung outside the rebuilt entrance, swaying in the wind.

“Duty fulfilled,” he muttered, pushing open the door with a grin.
“Time to remind myself I’m still alive.”

Chapter Text

The sea wind stung his cheeks, but Robb Stark stood tall at the prow, one gloved hand resting on the carved wolf’s head that crowned the ship's bow.

Before them, White Harbor emerged from the mist, not as a sleepy port, but as a city braced for war. Ready to repel an Iron Born invasion.

Their fleet sailed past Seal Rock, its jagged crown rising from the grey waters like the broken tooth of a drowned god. Atop it stood the remnants of an old ringfort, stones of the First Men, worn by centuries of salt and wind. Once a relic, it had come alive again.

Manderly banners snapped above the ramparts, and Robb could see them clearly now; crossbowmen crouched behind crude battlements, spitfires mounted behind barricades, scorpions waiting with firestones loaded.

It was no longer just an ancient ruin.

It was a warning.

“They’ve done well,” came the voice behind him, low, steady, unmistakably his father’s.

Eddard Stark stepped beside his son, the wind tugging at his cloak of direwolf grey. His eyes were fixed on the ringfort, and then the harbor beyond.

“They have,” Robb said quietly. “They understand what’s coming.”

The ships glided forward, past the Wolf’s Den, its bleak towers rising over the bay like a watching sentinel. Windows glowed with lamplight. Robb could make out the shadows of men moving along the battlements. The old prison had never looked more alive.

Beyond that, the city revealed itself fully.

A great stone wall, thirty feet tall and a league in length, wrapped around White Harbor like a ring of protection and purpose. Towers rose at regular intervals, one every hundred yards, manned and ready.

And above each tower, three banners flew, fluttering in the sea breeze like signals to gods and men alike.

The white merman of House Manderly.
The grey direwolf of House Stark.
And now, newly raised, but no less proud.

The red three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.

“It’s strange,” he said, “how quickly we learn to fight beside the names we were taught to fear.”

Ned gave a small nod. “Stranger still to realize they’re a part of our family now.”

The longships began to slow as they entered the harbor proper. The city’s docks were alive with motion, Manderly men shouting orders, sailors tying down lines, guards waving signals from the piers. Bells chimed somewhere deeper inland. The scent of brine and smoke was strong in the air.

And at the harbor’s highest point, rising above the rooftops and piers like a lord above his bannermen, stood the New Castle.

Its pale blue-green banners rippled from the tallest tower, the windows gleaming in the sun.

The seat of House Manderly.
And today, the meeting place of war.

Robb watched the fortress draw nearer, the water rippling beneath their hull.

“We’ll reclaim the North,” he said at last. “Send every last squid swimming for Pyke.”

Ned placed a hand on his shoulder, firm and warm.

“Then let’s make it so.”

The Merman’s Court

Eddard Stark stood at the head of the table, his hands resting lightly on its edge, eyes scanning the markers laid across the map of the North. The council had just begun, but already the weight of it settled in his bones like deep winter frost.

They had gathered in the Merman’s Court, the great hall of the New Castle, where Lord Wyman Manderly held his feasts and judgments. The chamber smelled of old wood and salt air, and it creaked softly like a ship moored in place too long. Unlike the stone halls of Winterfell, this one was fashioned entirely from timber, its floor, walls, and ceiling notched cunningly together, the craftsmanship masterful, though aged, carved in every corner with the shapes of the sea; leaping trout, twisting kraken, snarling sea lions, and a vast merman with a trident that watched from above the dais.

Outside, the harbor bustled with Northern soldiers and dockhands unloading the last of the supplies. Inside, the storm was quieter. But heavier.

Around the table stood the North’s fury.

Lord Rickard Karstark, his long black beard streaked with grey, stood stiffly, arms crossed over his chest, eyes narrowed on the map like it might bleed.
Greatjon Umber loomed beside him, a mead horn in one hand and the other clenched into a fist. He’d been laughing earlier. He wasn’t laughing now.
Roose Bolton stood opposite them, pale and still as a corpse, his hands folded neatly before him like a careful maester, eyes flickering over the markers without expression.
Galbart and Robett Glover, lean and weatherworn, muttered to one another in low voices, glancing between the map and their liege.
Maege Mormont, mail still dusted with salt from the road, stood with her arms bare and her brow furrowed.
Ser Helman Tallhart, quiet but resolute, had a weathered sword laid beside him on the table’s edge.
And at the far end, seated in a reinforced wooden chair built broad enough to bear him, was Lord Wyman Manderly, his sea-green doublet embroidered with silver merlings, his swollen hands resting on the arms of his throne like a man carved into place.

A map of the North had been laid across the table. Heavy stones pinned its corners. Carved wooden markers denoted castles, roads, rivers, and now, enemies.

Three black iron tokens marked Moat Cailin, Torrhen’s Square, and Deepwood Motte.

Ned stared at them for a long moment before speaking.

“Madness,” he said at last. “The krakens have risen. They can’t think they will hold these lands.”

Wyman nodded solemnly. “Ravens arrived over the past ten days. Moat Cailin was first lost within hours. Torrhen’s Square fell on the third day. Deepwood Motte sent one last raven before it went silent.”

“The Ironborn are no raiders this time,” Robett Glover muttered. “They’ve come for land, and they’ve taken my home.”

“And blood,” Roose Bolton added quietly.

The words hung in the air.

Rickard Karstark slammed a fist on the table. “They strike while the lion bleeds, thinking the North unguarded. Let them try. Let them drown in our marshes.”

“The marshes won’t hold Moat Cailin,” Galbart said grimly. “It’s ours no longer. And without it, the Neck is lost.”

“Damn them all,” growled the Greatjon. “Cowards and carrion-feeders. They never face you in the open field; they slip through the cracks like worms.”

“They face us now,” Ned said. His voice cut through the rumbling tension like a sword through smoke. “And we will answer.”

He looked to each of them in turn.

“First, we reclaim our castles. Then we break their fleet.”

Ned’s voice was iron.

Around the war table, the lords of the North stilled. Even the Greatjon held his tongue. The flames in the braziers crackled softly, the only sound beneath the weight of purpose.

“And then?” asked Maege Mormont, her voice low and steady, as though she already knew the answer, but needed to hear it spoken aloud.

Ned’s jaw clenched. The lines on his face deepened like carvings in granite. His eyes, grey and cold as the Weeping Water, swept the room.

“The King is coming,” he said.
“With his dragon.”

That changed the air. Just slightly.
Even Roose Bolton’s pale brow arched.

“He will fly with us,” Ned continued, “to reclaim our lands. Then, when the last kraken has been pulled from the shore and their banners torn down from our walls, he intends to cross the sea.”

He let that hang for a breath.

“To the Iron Islands.”

A pause.

“And end their reaving. Forever.”

The silence that followed was not one of fear.
It was of understanding.
Of Northern vengeance given wings.

“About bloody time,” muttered the Greatjon.

“I’ll be glad to watch those sea rats burn,” grunted Robett Glover.

The firelight danced across the walls of the Merman’s Court, casting shifting shadows across the carved wood. Sea serpents, krakens, leviathans, beasts locked in endless struggle, tangled together in waves and coils, locked in battles carved by hands long gone. It was as though the room itself remembered every tide of war, every drowning king, every storm-swallowed fleet.

And now, a new tide was coming.

The North would rise. And it would rise with fire.

The war council pressed on.

A King’s Welcome

The sky answered before the horns did.

A thunderous beat of wings echoed off the harbor walls, and every head in White Harbor turned upward. From the northwestern sky, two shadows descended like storm-born omens, vast, winged, and terrible.

Vhagar, emerald-scaled and towering like a cathedral of flesh and flame, let out a roar that shook the sea. Balerion, jet-black with a burning crimson underbelly, circled once above the New Castle before beginning his descent. His screech was sharper, impatient and fierce.

The dragons came down as one.

Soldiers dropped tridents. Horses reared. Crossbowmen manning the walls near the Wolf’s Den stumbled back from their posts. The wind from the beating wings snapped banners and shook ice from window sills.

The Northern lords emerged from the Merman’s Court, pushing out into the castle courtyard just as the dragons touched stone.

Vhagar landed with a thunderous impact, claws digging into the ground outside the New Castle. In the forward saddle sat Rhaenar Targaryen, black-and-red cloak flaring, eyes calm and unreadable beneath his dragon head helm. Behind him, Ser Arthur Dayne dismounted without a word, his white cloak already stirring in the cold breeze.

Balerion’s wings fanned the square before folding like a castle’s doors. From his back descended Daenerys Targaryen, regal in black and silver, her braid bound in Valyrian rings. Behind her, Ser Oswell Whent dropped lightly to the ground, hand already on the hilt of his blade.

For a long moment, no one moved.

Then, slowly, Lord Wyman Manderly stepped forward, flanked by his standard-bearers and armored guards. His sea-green cloak trailed behind him like a tide.

He bowed deeply, as his knees allowed.

“Your Grace,” he said, his voice deep and clear, “White Harbor welcomes its King.”

He gestured toward the keep with a sweep of his hand.

“New Castle is yours, Your Grace. As is our loyalty. And our swords.”

The lords of the North had all bent the knee.

Rickard Karstark, with solemn eyes.
Greatjon Umber, thumping his fist to his chest.
Maege Mormont, proud and unbowed, but kneeling all the same.
Roose Bolton, slow and quiet, calculating even in deference.
The Glovers. The Tallharts. The Forresters. All knelt. Lord Eddard and Robb in front of them all.

Rhaenar lifted his hand, a simple, upward sweep of his fingers, calm and assured.

No words were needed.

The rustle of cloaks and armor followed as the lords of the North rose together, a dozen hardened warriors and proud bannermen brought to their feet by a single silent command. The wind tugged at their cloaks, and above them, the banners of wolf, Merman and dragon stirred in tandem.

In that moment, Rhaenar was every inch a king, not by crown, but by presence.

The old gods watched in silence. And the new king stood before them with a dragon at his back.

From within the castle, Ser Jaime Lannister and Ser Aurane Velaryon emerged, cloaked in white. They moved to Rhaenar’s side at once, their boots crunching the gravel.

Jaime’s eyes flicked from Daenerys to Rhaenar, a faint trace of surprise passing over his features.

“She flew with you?” he asked under his breath.

Rhaenar gave no answer.

Jaime didn’t press. Neither did Aurane.

Behind them, Lord Manderly clapped his hands once, sharply.

“Summon my sons!” he called. “And my granddaughters! Tell them the King is here!”

He turned to a steward lingering nervously by the hall doors.

“And you, see to it that a feast is prepared. No corners cut. Make it fit for a king.”

The steward bowed low and hurried off, shouting orders to kitchen staff as the dragons settled and the lords rose from their knees.

The court of White Harbor had bent.
The North had welcomed its King.
And for the first time in centuries, dragons stood in the North again.

A Feast for a King

The Merman’s Court was warm with laughter, firelight, and feasting.

Rhaenar Targaryen had sat through feasts in Kings Landing and Highgarden, but few rooms had ever felt quite so alive. Candles flickered in glass floats strung from the rafters, and the carved walls, etched with sea creatures great and strange; seemed to dance with the shadows of the feast. From the beams above, a great wooden merman watched with salt-carved solemnity, trident raised in eternal salute.

The feast was a grand affair, and Lord Wyman Manderly had spared no expense in welcoming his king.

Boars roasted whole, dripping fat into trenches of herbs and onions. Barrels of Northern ale were cracked open beside casks of Arbor gold, a gift, he’d said with pride, from his own trade ships. There were honeyed crabs, iced oysters, spiced venison, and seaweed bread salted with crushed walnuts, a White Harbor delicacy served only at high feasts.

But still, Rhaenar felt oddly out of place.

Not unwelcomed. Not distrusted.

Simply watched.

Lord Wyman, seated at the head of the hall beside his king, kept glancing his way with a wide, ruddy-cheeked smile that never quite faded. His laughter boomed after every toast. His jowls quivered with joy every time a new tray was set on the high table. He toasted the King three times in one hour and then toasted the Queen twice more for good measure.

“I think he’s trying to outdo the coronation feast,” Daenerys murmured at Rhaenar’s right, voice low and amused.

Rhaenar took a slow sip of wine. “He’s winning.”

She leaned closer, warmth radiating from her shoulder to his. “He wants to please you. Impress you.”

He glanced sidelong at Wyman, who was now whispering animatedly to a steward about a lemon trout pastry he insisted must be brought now.

“I think I’m more likely to be crushed under the weight of his affection.”

Daenerys laughed, brushing her fingers briefly against his under the table.

On his other side sat Eddard Stark, silent for most of the meal, but his presence grounding nonetheless. There was comfort in his quiet watchfulness, in the way he kept one eye on his son, one on the room, and yet seemed, at last, to be allowing himself to exhale.

They made no mention of war, not yet.

This night was meant for peace.

Rhaenar found his gaze drifting to the dance floor, where minstrels strummed lutes and pipers filled the hall with soft, winding music. Lords and ladies turned in time with the tune, and among them—

Robb Stark.

Broad-shouldered and bold in his dark blue surcoat, he moved in step with a young woman in sea-green silk, her laughter light and her cheeks flushed.

Wynafryd Manderly.

They danced closer than was proper, spinning just a beat longer than etiquette demanded. She touched his hand a little too long. He smiled at something she whispered. Their steps slowed as the music did, though their eyes did not part.

They thought themselves subtle. They were not.

Even Wyman Manderly noticed.

He elbowed Ned with a chuckle that made the table tremble. “Do you see that? Young Lord Robb’s caught in the tide already.”

Ned grunted faintly, watching the pair.

“He’ll swim well enough,” he said.

Wyman gave a wheezing chuckle, grinning at Rhaenar. “She’s a bright one, our Wynafryd. The North will be glad to see Stark blood dancing again, even if it’s not in armor.”

Rhaenar allowed a small smile. “I’d rather see them dance than die.”

“Aye,” Wyman said, lifting his cup, “but we’ll do both soon enough.”

Daenerys leaned in again, her voice low, playful. “Even in the North, no one can resist a touch of court gossip.”

Rhaenar gave her hand a gentle squeeze beneath the table. “Let them talk. It’s good to hear laughter again.”

The music shifted, slower, softer, a melody that curled like snow melting in spring and Rhaenar felt the hum of the hall settle into something gentler. Laughter drifted across the tables. Silverware stilled. And on the dance floor, Robb Stark and Wynafryd Manderly turned with easy grace, lost in each other’s eyes.

Rhaenar watched them for a moment, then leaned toward Daenerys.

“Come,” he said, standing and offering his hand, “before my cousin shames the royal dignity.”

She laughed and took his hand.

As they descended from the high table, a murmur stirred through the hall, a king and queen rising to dance. Minstrels struck a lively new tune, and space parted for them as they stepped into the light.

Robb turned as they approached, momentarily startled, then grinned and gave a slight bow. Wynafryd curtsied beside him, cheeks pink with wine and movement.

Rhaenar gave her a nod. “May I steal your partner for the next song, my lord?”

Robb laughed, with a mock bow. “She’s all yours, Your Grace.”

Rhaenar and Robb exchanged an amused glance and smoothly switched partners.

Daenerys took Robb’s arm, her silver hair catching the candlelight, and they moved with slow elegance into the rhythm. Robb, trying not to step on her toes, looked down awkwardly, until she said something with a mischievous smile that made him laugh outright.

Rhaenar turned to Wynafryd, who smiled more confidently than he’d expected.