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Chapter Text

The storm rolled in heavy and unyielding, a black sea of clouds pressing low over Dragonstone, where the wind carried the scent of brine and the promise of thunder. The torches in the courtyard burned valiantly against the gale, their flames flickering defiantly, casting jagged shadows on the ancient stones. Amidst the storm’s song of wind and crashing waves, Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen stood at the heart of the castle’s great entrance, unmoving and regal, a figure of fire and blood.

She was resplendent in her mourning black and crimson, her bodice glittering with pearls and diamonds that caught the torchlight like stars scattered across the night. Her silver-gold hair was braided in the manner of Queen Visenya Targaryen, the long plait trailing over her shoulder and adorned with ruby pins shaped like dragon wings. The crown of Viserys I sat upon her brow, its Valyrian steel cold yet familiar, a weight she carried not just as a symbol of her rule but as the burden of the throne itself. On her fingers rested rings, glittering bands of gold and silver, and she turned one absentmindedly, a small betrayal of her inner anxiety.

By her side stood Addam Velaryon, his expression stoic, the mantle of his station as Lord of Driftmark resting heavy on his shoulders. His eyes were fixed on the distant horizon, where the storm shrouded the sea in darkness. To her other side, Joffrey stood with youthful vigilance, his hand brushing the hilt of the sword he had yet to grow into. The Queen’s Guard flanked them, their white cloaks billowing in the wind like ghosts, their polished armor reflecting the wavering light of the torches. The air around them was taut, alive with unspoken tension.

Above, the skies were alive with dragons. Syrax, resplendent and golden, circled the keep with a low, haunting cry that resonated in the bones. Her great wings moved with deliberate grace, her yellow scales gleaming faintly as she flew, ever watchful. Seasmoke joined her, his silver form a streak against the stormy sky, his sharp cries echoing off the cliffs. Together, the two dragons patrolled the skies, their presence a reminder of the power that House Targaryen wielded, even in the face of uncertainty.

A raven had arrived that morning, its wings cutting through the heavy storm-laden skies to land within the rookery of Dragonstone. The seal it bore was unmistakable—Helaena’s. The missive had been brief, the handwriting shaky, but its meaning was clear.

I come in peace, seeking mercy for those who are innocent of the crimes of men. I beg you as a mother.

The words were etched in Rhaenyra’s mind as she stood now in the courtyard, her gaze fixed on the horizon where the ship carrying her half-sister approached. The queen’s fingers twisted the heavy gold ring on her hand—a nervous habit she could not suppress—as she pondered the implications of Helaena’s plea. Her breath was steady, her expression regal, but her mind was far from calm.

The Greens had taken everything from her. They had stolen her throne, spilled her children’s blood, and unleashed a storm of betrayal that shattered her family. And yet, as she read Helaena’s words, something within her shifted. It was not forgiveness—she was far from capable of that—but an understanding that came from the shared agony of motherhood.

She thought of Jaeherys, Helaena’s son. Rhaenyra had not been in King’s Landing when Blood and Cheese carried out their bloody retribution, but the echoes of that night had reached her all the same. She had felt the horror of it in the pit of her stomach, imagining the moment Helaena had been forced to choose which of her children to save. The pain of such a choice was unimaginable, even to someone like Rhaenyra, who had endured more loss than most could bear.

Her thoughts turned to her own children. She remembered the searing grief she had felt when she believed Lucerys was dead, the endless nights of rage and sorrow that followed. The image of him falling into the seas of Shipbreaker Bay had haunted her dreams. And then, by some divine miracle, he had returned to her. The joy of holding him again had been so overwhelming that it left her trembling.

But the scars of that loss remained. Every time she looked at him, she was reminded of how close she had come to losing him forever.

She thought of Jacaerys, her eldest, who had nearly perished in the flames of the Gullet. The relief of his survival had been tempered by the knowledge that war could snatch him from her at any moment. And Visenya—her only daughter, taken from her before she ever had the chance to live. The loss of her stillborn child was a pain that no mother should endure, and yet she had borne it, silently and alone.

These memories made Helaena’s plea impossible to ignore. Rhaenyra recognized the desperation in her sister’s words, the unspoken terror of a mother willing to risk everything to save her children. Yet doubt gnawed at her all the same.

Yet Helaena was not just any mother. She was the sister-wife of Aegon, the man who had stolen her throne. The daughter of Alicent, whose machinations had poisoned their family for years. Could she be trusted? Or was this a trap, a carefully woven ploy to lure Rhaenyra into vulnerability?

Her thoughts spiraled further, torn between distrust and compassion. She had always seen Helaena as a quiet, fragile creature—innocent, perhaps, but weak. Yet the letter in her hands painted a different picture. It took courage to send such a plea, to leave the security of King’s Landing and venture into the heart of her enemy’s stronghold. Helaena was risking her life for her children, and that, Rhaenyra knew, was a kind of strength she could respect.

Could she deny her? Would she have done any differently in her place?

Now, as the sound of waves crashing against the cliffs below filled the air, Rhaenyra’s gaze remained fixed on the horizon. The ship had been spotted some time ago, its unmarked sails barely visible against the dark sea. The Queen’s breath was steady, but her fingers continued to twist the ring on her hand. She knew what was at stake—this could be a trap, a ploy to lower her guard. But the plea in Helaena’s words had rung true. She had to see for herself.

At last, the ship broke through the mist, its silhouette sharp against the crashing waves. Its approach was cautious, its sails lowered as it neared the shore. The hiss of ropes and the creak of wood carried through the air as the vessel anchored. For a moment, the only sound was the restless wind and the mournful cries of Syrax and Seasmoke above.

The gangplank lowered, and the first figure to appear was small and shrouded. Rhaenyra’s breath hitched as Helaena Targaryen stepped into view, her pale face framed by damp, wind-tousled hair. She descended slowly, her movements hesitant yet deliberate, her slender frame swathed in a heavy cloak that seemed to weigh her down. Her children followed close behind. Maelor clung tightly to her hand, his young face pressed against her side, while Jaehaera walked beside her, her head bowed and her steps tentative.

Above them, a piercing cry rent the air as Dreamfyre swept low, her pale blue wings cutting through the storm. The great dragon circled the ship protectively, her molten eyes glowing faintly in the dark. Her presence was both a reassurance and a warning—a testament to the unbreakable bond between rider and dragon, even in exile.

Helaena stepped into the courtyard, her movements hesitant and fragile, like a bird caught in a storm. The air was thick with tension, the storm’s winds biting against the gathered assembly. Rhaenyra stood motionless, her posture regal, her expression unreadable as her violet eyes fixed on her half-sister. Every detail was seared into her mind—the damp strands of Helaena’s silver-gold hair clinging to her face, the dark circles beneath her eyes, and the trembling hands that clutched her children as though they were her last tether to life.

Behind Helaena, Maelor pressed himself against her side, his small hands clutching at her skirts, his wide, frightened eyes darting around the unfamiliar surroundings. Jaehaera followed, her steps measured but unsteady, her gaze fixed downward as though the weight of the moment threatened to crush her. Above them, Dreamfyre circled, her low, mournful cries echoing against the cliffs, a shadowy sentinel that refused to leave her rider’s side.

Rhaenyra’s breath hitched, though she willed her face to remain composed. The sight of Helaena stirred something deep within her, an ache she could not suppress. She saw the vulnerability in her sister’s trembling frame, the quiet determination in her movements, and the overwhelming despair etched into her face. It was not weakness—no, this was something far greater. This was a mother’s strength, stripped bare of pride and dignity, driven only by the primal need to protect her children.

Her fingers tightened around the heavy ring she twisted on her hand, the cool metal grounding her against the storm of emotion threatening to rise. She thought of her own children, of the lengths she had gone to shield them from harm.

And now, here was Helaena, kneeling before her in the pouring rain, her desperation laid bare for all to see.

The moment Helaena reached the center of the courtyard, she lifted her gaze to meet Rhaenyra’s. For a heartbeat, neither moved. Rhaenyra’s expression remained still, carefully neutral, but her mind raced. Every instinct told her to remain guarded, to weigh each word carefully, for Helaena’s plea could just as easily be a trap as a genuine cry for help. But as their eyes locked, she saw no deception, no cunning. She saw only pain.

Then, to the astonishment of all gathered, Helaena sank to her knees.

The sound of the rain seemed to quiet, the air itself growing heavy with the weight of the moment. Her skirts pooled in the mud, the fabric soaking through as her trembling hands rested on the stones before her.

“I come not for myself,” Helaena said, her voice trembling, barely more than a whisper at first. “But for my children.”

The words hung in the air, trembling and raw. She lifted her head slightly, her tears glistening like streaks of silver against her pale cheeks. Her voice grew stronger, but no less vulnerable. “I seek peace, not war. Please, Rhaenyra.” Her breath hitched, and she bowed her head, her tears falling freely now. “They are innocent. I beg you—forgive me. Protect them.”

The sight struck Rhaenyra like a blow. The queen’s chest tightened, and for a fleeting moment, she thought she might weep herself. She remembered all too vividly what it felt like to stand at the precipice of despair, to be willing to cast aside everything for the sake of her children. Helaena was no longer a queen or a sister-wife to the usurper. She was a mother, begging for the lives of her children.

And yet, beneath the stirring empathy, doubt lingered. The Greens had taken so much. Aegon sat her throne, Alicent’s schemes had ignited this war, and Helaena herself had been a silent participant in their rise. Could she be trusted? Could this plea be genuine, or was it a carefully calculated maneuver to lower her guard?

Rhaenyra’s mind raced as she stared down at her half-sister, her emotions clashing like waves against the cliffs below. Helaena’s voice, fragile and trembling, echoed in her ears. She thought of Jaehaerys, the boy stolen from Helaena by the violence of war.

Rhaenyra felt her throat tighten. She had not ordered that vengeance, but it had been carried out in her name. She could not absolve herself of its consequences.

A sharp gust of wind pulled her back to the present, whipping Helaena’s damp hair across her face. Rhaenyra’s fingers twisted the ring harder, her knuckles whitening as the silence stretched unbearably. The gathered guards and courtiers dared not speak, their eyes darting between the two women, their breaths held in anxious anticipation.

Helaena’s head remained bowed, her tears mixing with the rain that streaked her face. Her shoulders trembled, but she did not lift herself from the ground. Her children clung to her, their small forms pressed close, their fear palpable. Rhaenyra’s gaze softened as it fell on them—Maelor, so young and wide-eyed, and Jaehaera, silent but resolute, her small hand gripping her mother’s sleeve as though it were her lifeline.

Finally, Rhaenyra spoke, her voice steady but low, each word weighted with emotion. “You are my half-sister, Helaena,” she began, her tone measured but trembling slightly beneath its surface. “My blood.”

Helaena looked up then, her red-rimmed eyes meeting Rhaenyra’s. For a moment, Rhaenyra faltered, the intensity of her sister’s desperation nearly undoing her. But she pressed on.

“I understand the lengths a mother will go to for her children,” Rhaenyra continued, her voice softening. “I have felt that same desperation, that same terror. I would do anything for mine. And though much lies between us, though war has made us enemies...” She paused, the storm around them roaring as though to fill the silence. “I will not turn you away.”

Helaena let out a choked sob, her hands gripping the hem of her skirts as though she might collapse entirely. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Thank you, Rhaenyra.”

The words carried a weight that struck everyone present, the rawness of the moment settling heavily over the courtyard. Even the storm seemed to quiet briefly, the wind carrying Helaena’s gratitude to the cliffs and beyond.

Rhaenyra exhaled, her shoulders relaxing only slightly. She reached out, hesitating for a moment, before placing a hand on Helaena’s shoulder. “You and your children are safe here,” she said, her voice firmer now, the weight of her decision settling within her.

Rhaenyra extended her hand, the gesture deliberate and steady despite the turmoil within her. Helaena’s gaze lingered on it, her hesitation visible as if she feared that this moment—this fragile offering—might be a mirage. Slowly, tentatively, she reached out, her trembling fingers brushing Rhaenyra’s before finally clasping them. The Queen’s grip was firm yet gentle, an anchor amidst the storm.

As Rhaenyra helped her to her feet, the two women stood face to face, their breaths mingling in the rain-chilled air. Violet eyes met pale blue, and in that shared gaze lay a thousand unspoken words. This was not the meeting of queens or half-sisters divided by war. This was the silent communion of two mothers who had known the deepest grief, the fiercest love, and the unrelenting weight of protecting their children in a world that sought to tear them apart.

For Rhaenyra, the sight of Helaena—so small, so vulnerable, yet unyielding in her love for her children—struck a chord she could not ignore. It was as if, in that moment, she could see herself reflected in her half-sister: the desperation, the courage, the unbreakable bond of motherhood.

The silence between them was heavy but not uncomfortable. It was the silence of understanding, of shared pain and an unspoken promise.

Then, breaking the tension with a quiet bravery that belied his youth, Joffrey stepped forward. His curls were damp with rain, his cheeks flushed from the cold, but his expression was one of earnest kindness. He approached Maelor and Jaehaera cautiously, his small hands visible at his sides, his steps careful and unthreatening.

“I’m Joffrey,” he said softly, his voice gentle as the lull between thunderclaps. “You don’t need to be afraid. You’re safe here.”

Maelor pressed himself closer to his mother, his small hands clutching Helaena’s skirts as though they were a shield against the unfamiliar faces and towering guards. His wide eyes darted nervously, unable to find solace even in the boy’s kind demeanor.

But Jaehaera, silent and solemn, lifted her gaze. For a moment, she simply studied Joffrey, her pale blue eyes cautious yet curious. Something in his expression—his sincerity, his openness—seemed to reach her. She took a hesitant step forward, her small fingers twitching at her sides as though she wanted to reach out but didn’t know how.

Joffrey noticed the movement and smiled gently, his eyes warm and inviting. “I’ll show you the dragons sometime, if you’d like,” he offered, his voice filled with the innocent excitement of a child eager to share something he loved.

Rhaenyra’s breath caught as she watched the exchange. There was something achingly tender about the moment, the way Joffrey, still untouched by the bitterness of war—offered his kindness so freely. It reminded her of what had been lost, of the innocence stolen by bloodshed and betrayal.

Helaena glanced at her children, her lips trembling as she fought back another wave of tears. She reached down, resting a hand lightly on Maelor’s shoulder, as if to reassure him that they were safe. Her gaze shifted to Rhaenyra, and for the first time, her voice softened. “Thank you,” she whispered, the words barely audible above the wind.

Rhaenyra didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she looked at Helaena with a mixture of sorrow and resolve. “We are not so different, you and I,” she said at last, her voice low but steady. “War has taken so much from us both. But here—here, I will protect them. As I would protect my own.”

Helaena’s lips parted, but no words came. Instead, she nodded, the silent gratitude in her expression speaking volumes.

Above them, Syrax and Dreamfyre continued their vigilant circles, their cries reverberating through the storm. The wind howled against the stone walls, carrying with it the briny tang of the sea. The courtyard remained drenched in shadow, but then, as if in answer to the moment unfolding below, the clouds parted slightly. A sliver of moonlight broke through, its pale glow casting a faint silver sheen over the rain-slick stones.

Joffrey extended a hand toward Jaehaera, and after a moment’s hesitation, she placed her small fingers in his. It was a simple gesture, but it felt monumental in the quiet tension of the courtyard. Maelor remained pressed to his mother, but his eyes softened slightly, his fear giving way to tentative curiosity.

Rhaenyra exhaled, her shoulders easing as she took in the scene before her. It was fragile, this peace—like the faint moonlight breaking through the storm clouds. But it was there, and it was enough.

Rhaenyra’s violet eyes flicked to her guards, their hands still resting on the hilts of their swords as if awaiting her next command. She raised a hand, her tone steady but edged with authority. “Take Maelor and Jaehaera to their chambers. Ensure they are safe and comfortable. Post guards at the doors.”

Maelor whimpered softly, clinging to Helaena’s skirts as if sensing he was about to be separated from his mother. Jaehaera stood silent and unmoving, her pale blue eyes locked on the stone floor. Helaena hesitated, her trembling hands brushing over her children’s damp hair, whispering reassurances neither truly seemed to believe.

As the guards approached, Maelor protested weakly, but Helaena knelt and pressed her lips to his forehead. “It’s all right, sweetling,” she murmured, her voice trembling. “I’ll come for you soon.”

Jaehaera glanced back at her mother as the guards led them away, her steps reluctant but resigned. Maelor’s frightened sobs echoed faintly through the stone halls, and Helaena stood frozen, her hands trembling at her sides.

“Come,” Rhaenyra said, her voice softer now, though it carried a note of urgency. She turned and began walking down the corridor, her long braid swaying behind her like a silver banner. Helaena followed hesitantly, her expression clouded with confusion and unease.

The silence between them was thick and heavy, punctuated only by the distant roar of the storm battering Dragonstone’s cliffs. Torchlight flickered on the damp stone walls, casting dancing shadows that seemed to follow them like ghosts. Rhaenyra’s strides were purposeful, but the tension in her shoulders betrayed the storm raging within her.

Finally, Rhaenyra slowed, her footsteps echoing in the empty hall. She turned to face Helaena, her expression unreadable. “What happened to Jaehaerys...” she began, her voice low and steady, though it trembled at the edges. “What happened to him was unforgivable.”

Helaena flinched at the mention of her son’s name, her arms crossing tightly over her chest as if to shield herself from the weight of the words.

Rhaenyra took a deep breath, her hands curling into fists at her sides. “I did not order it, Helaena. I wasn’t even in King’s Landing when it happened. But it was done in my name, and I carry that guilt with me every day.”

Helaena’s lips parted, as if to speak, but no words came. Her pale face was drawn tight with grief, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

Rhaenyra stepped closer, her gaze softening. “I know what it is to lose a child,” she said quietly. “I know the pain that tears through you like a blade, the nights spent choking on your own tears, the rage that burns hotter than dragonfire. I lost my daughter, Visenya, the day your brother stole my throne. And I thought I had lost Lucerys.”

Her voice broke slightly, but she pressed on. “When he came back to me, it felt like a miracle. But even then, the pain of losing him never truly left. I know what was taken from you, Helaena. And I am sorry.”

Helaena let out a soft, shaky breath, her head bowing slightly as a tear slipped down her cheek. “You don’t need to apologize,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t blame you for Jaehaerys. It was this war that took him, not you.”

Rhaenyra studied her half-sister carefully, her lips pressing into a thin line. “This war,” she repeated, her tone growing colder. “This war was brought to my door by your brothers. Aegon stole my throne. Aemond killed my son. They are the ones who have torn this realm apart.”

Helaena’s head snapped up, her expression alarmed. “Please,” she said quickly, her voice trembling. “Don’t let this war take more from us. There must be another way.”

“There is no other way,” Rhaenyra said firmly, her violet eyes hard as amethyst. “Aegon and Aemond must die. Their blood is the only price that will bring peace to this realm.”

Helaena took a step back, her pale hands trembling as she pressed them to her chest. “You can’t mean that,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “They are my brothers, Rhaenyra. Aegon is my husband. Please, there must be another way.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze softened, but her resolve did not waver. “I understand your grief, Helaena,” she said quietly. “I understand your desperation. But this war will not end until they are gone. I will do what I must to protect my children, to reclaim what is mine. And I will not let them take anything more from me.”

Helaena’s breath hitched, and for a moment, the two women simply stared at one another, the storm outside echoing the tempest within them. Then, Helaena’s expression hardened, a flicker of defiance lighting her pale purplish-blue eyes.

“It doesn’t matter who started it,” she said, her voice rising with emotion. “What matters is that we’ve been given a second chance. When Lucerys was returned to you, it was a sign. It was a chance to stop this madness before it destroys us all.”

Rhaenyra’s jaw tightened, her hands curling into fists. “You speak of second chances,” she said bitterly. “But where was Aemond’s mercy when he chased Lucerys through the storm? Where was Aegon’s when he crowned himself king? Do not ask me for something they would never give.”

Helaena stepped forward, her expression fierce despite the tears streaming down her face. “I could have gone anywhere in the realm,” she said, her voice trembling with emotion. “Anywhere. But I came here, to Dragonstone, because I believe in him. I believe in Lucerys. I believe in the Midnight Flame.”

Her words hung in the air, raw and charged with desperation. Rhaenyra’s eyes widened slightly, her lips parting as she searched her sister’s face for some sign of deceit. But there was none. Only pain, and a flicker of hope that burned brighter than the storm.

“You believe in him,” Rhaenyra repeated softly, her voice heavy with disbelief.

“I do,” Helaena said, her voice steady now despite her trembling hands. “He is more than just your son, Rhaenyra. He is something greater. Something this realm needs. I believe in him, and I believe that if we stop fighting, if we choose peace, he can lead us into something better. But if we keep tearing each other apart, none of us will survive.”

Rhaenyra’s heart clenched at the raw sincerity in Helaena’s words, but her mind remained clouded with doubt. “You speak of peace,” she said quietly. “But peace cannot be built on lies and betrayal. It cannot exist while my throne is occupied by usurpers.”

Helaena’s shoulders slumped, her expression crumpling with despair. “Please,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Please, Rhaenyra. Don’t let this war take more from us.”

For a long moment, Rhaenyra said nothing, her violet eyes searching her sister’s tear-streaked face. The silence stretched, broken only by the distant roar of the storm and the crackle of torches along the walls.

Finally, Rhaenyra spoke, her voice low but trembling with emotion. “I don’t know if I can forgive,” she admitted. “But for the sake of our children... I will try.”

Helaena’s breath hitched, her tears spilling freely now. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Thank you, Rhaenyra.”

Rhaenyra nodded, the weight of the moment settling heavily on her shoulders. She turned and began walking again, her steps slower this time, her mind racing with the enormity of what lay ahead.

The silence between them stretched as Rhaenyra’s hand lingered on Helaena’s shoulder. The storm’s distant rumble softened, as if even the heavens were offering a moment of reprieve. Helaena wiped her tear-streaked face with trembling fingers, her eyes lifting to meet Rhaenyra’s.

“You came here for your children,” Rhaenyra began, her voice gentle but firm. “To protect them. I see that. And I respect it. But now, I need you to do more.”

Helaena’s brow furrowed, confusion flickering across her face. “More?” she asked, her voice quiet.

“Yes.” Rhaenyra stepped back slightly, the regal poise of a queen returning to her stance. “You have a role to play, Helaena. One that could help end this war—not just for your children, but for mine, for all of us.”

Helaena tilted her head, her confusion deepening. “What do you mean?”

Rhaenyra’s gaze softened, though the weight of her words was clear. “Daeron arrived at Dragonstone days ago,” she revealed.

Helaena’s eyes remained calm, her pale blue gaze steady as Rhaenyra mentioned Daeron. There was no surprise, no flicker of shock—only a quiet understanding that unsettled the Queen.

Helaena’s gaze didn’t flicker with surprise at the mention of Daeron. Instead, a quiet understanding settled over her features, a look so serene and knowing that it unsettled Rhaenyra.

“You knew,” Rhaenyra said, her voice low but edged with curiosity and suspicion.

Helaena nodded, her pale hair shimmering in the torchlight. “We were together in Oldtown when he left,” she admitted. “Daeron and I… we saw it. We shared dreams with Lucerys. Dreams of the Midnight Flame in a place where time seems to stand still.”

Rhaenyra’s breath caught, the words sending a chill through her. “Old Valyria,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.

Helaena’s lips curved into a faint, almost sorrowful smile. “Yes. The dreams began when Lucerys was there. At first, they were fractured—whispers of things we couldn’t understand. But as time passed, the flames showed us more. Daeron saw what was coming, and so did I. We knew he would come here. He had to.”

Rhaenyra turned away, her mind spinning. Daeron’s unexpected arrival had stirred many questions, but this… this changed everything. She remembered the boy who had bent the knee to her, pledging not just his fealty but his belief in Lucerys. The conviction in his voice, the way his gaze lingered on her son—it had struck her as unusual, but now it seemed almost inevitable.

“When Daeron arrived,” Rhaenyra began, her voice measured, “he spoke of what he had seen in the flames. He pledged himself not to me, but to Lucerys. He believes in him, Helaena. In the Midnight Flame.”

Helaena’s expression softened, her pale blue eyes shimmering with an almost maternal pride. “Daeron has always believed,” she said quietly. “Even as a boy, he saw the world differently. He has the heart of a dreamer, like all of us. And when Lucerys’s fire called to him, he followed. He left everything behind because he knew it was the only path.”

Rhaenyra’s thoughts churned. The pieces were falling into place, but they only deepened her unease. “And yet you’re not surprised to find him here,” she said, a hint of accusation in her tone.

Helaena met her gaze steadily. “How could I be?” she asked softly. “We knew he would choose the flames. Lucerys’s fire calls to all who dream of dragons. Daeron was no different.”

Rhaenyra’s lips tightened as her thoughts drifted to her son. Lucerys had always been special, but this was something more. The quiet reverence in Daeron’s voice, the almost worshipful way Helaena spoke of him—it unsettled her, stirring a sense of unease that she couldn’t shake.

“What was it that you saw?” Rhaenyra asked, her voice sharper now. “In these dreams, what did they show you?”

Helaena’s pale lashes lowered, her expression turning inward as though she were sifting through the fragments of memory. “We saw him in fire and shadow,” she said slowly. “A boy standing amidst ruin, his light burning brighter than the flames around him. We saw the dragons awakening, their wings darkening the skies. And we saw a crown—his crown, forged not by man but by the will of the flames themselves.”

Rhaenyra’s stomach tightened at the fervor in Helaena’s voice. “You speak of Lucerys as if he is something more than a boy,” she said cautiously.

Helaena nodded, her gaze unwavering. “He is more,” she said simply. “The flames showed us his purpose, his destiny. He is the one who will bring balance to the fire, the one who will reignite what was lost. Daeron saw it, too. It’s why he is here.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze lingered on her sister, searching for understanding in the depths of her calm resolve. She weighed Helaena’s words carefully, her mind turning to the youngest of her half-brothers.

“He’s not like Aemond or Aegon,” Rhaenyra began, her voice measured. “He’s young, but he’s thoughtful, measured. There’s a chance, Helaena, a chance to reach him. And perhaps through him, we can reach Alicent.”

The silence stretched between the sisters, heavy and taut, as if the storm outside had seeped into the walls of Dragonstone. Rhaenyra stepped closer to Helaena, her eyes searching her sister’s violet gaze for something—hope, understanding, or perhaps just the fragile bond they shared, tarnished though it was.

“Helaena,” Rhaenyra began softly, her tone both commanding and tender. “You’ve always carried the title of queen, but now you must wield it. Use the power you have to bring this war to an end.”

Helaena blinked, startled by the weight of Rhaenyra’s words. “What are you asking of me?” she whispered, her voice trembling but not without strength.

“I’m asking you to surrender,” Rhaenyra said, her voice steady, though the words themselves felt heavy as stone. “For the sake of your children, for the sake of peace. You hold the title, the station—use it to command the guards to lay down their weapons. Tell them to stand aside.”

Helaena’s breath hitched, her fingers clenching at her sides. For a moment, she didn’t respond, her expression a tapestry of conflicting emotions—shock, fear, and, beneath it all, a glimmer of resolve. “You don’t understand,” she said finally, her voice tight. “I have no power to surrender. Aemond has been named prince regent. He’s taken command of the armies, and he’s made it clear that he will not yield.”

The mention of Aemond brought a flicker of frustration to Rhaenyra’s face. “Aemond may hold the title of prince regent,” she said, her tone sharp, “but you are still their queen. Your voice carries weight, Helaena. If you speak, they will listen.”

Helaena shook her head slowly, her pale blonde hair brushing against her shoulders. “It’s not that simple. Aemond… he’s relentless. He believes in victory at all costs. And now, with Vhagar injured—”

Rhaenyra’s brows furrowed, her lips parting in surprise. “Vhagar is injured?”

Helaena nodded hesitantly. “Yes, she was wounded in the last skirmish. But Aemond… he refuses to see it as a weakness. He believes she is still enough to turn the tide of this war.”

The revelation hung in the air like a blade poised to strike. Rhaenyra’s expression darkened, her mind racing with the implications. “So he clings to a shattered beast and calls it strength,” she muttered, more to herself than to Helaena. “And you believe he will continue this madness until there’s nothing left.”

Helaena’s voice broke as she answered, “I don’t know how to stop him, Rhaenyra. He’s not the brother I once knew.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze softened, but the steel in her tone remained. “If Aemond will not listen, then we must turn to someone who will. Alicent. She’s your mother, Helaena. She loves you, and she loves your children. Convince her to order the guards to stand down. Show her the cost of this war. Make her see reason.”

Helaena’s violet eyes filled with uncertainty. “You think Alicent would listen to me?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “She’s always been… unyielding when it comes to Aegon and Aemond.”

“She’s unyielding because she’s afraid,” Rhaenyra countered. “Afraid of what will happen to them if she loses. But she loves you, Helaena. She loves Maelor and Jaehaera. Use that love to reach her. If anyone can, it’s you.”

The storm outside roared against the walls, its fury echoing the turmoil in Helaena’s heart. She turned away, her shoulders trembling as she struggled to steady herself. “You ask so much of me,” she murmured, her voice laced with pain. “And I don’t even know if it’s possible. Alicent… she’s always been so certain, so sure of her path.”

Rhaenyra stepped closer, her voice softening. “You’re right—it’s not easy. Peace never is. If it were, I’d already be sitting the Iron Throne. But you must try, Helaena. For your children, for mine, for the realm.”

Helaena’s hands trembled as she clasped them together, her gaze fixed on the stone floor. “And if I fail?” she asked, her voice barely audible.

“Then we will find another way,” Rhaenyra said, her tone both reassuring and unyielding. “But if there’s even a chance to end this without more bloodshed, we have to take it.”

Helaena turned back to face her sister, her expression a mixture of fear and determination. “You speak as though peace is within reach,” she said, her voice breaking. “But it’s never been that simple.”

“I know it’s not simple,” Rhaenyra replied. “But it’s worth fighting for. And you have the strength to do it, Helaena. You’ve shown it by coming here.”

For a long moment, neither woman spoke. The storm raged on outside, the wind howling against the walls like a beast desperate to break through. Finally, Helaena nodded, her eyes glistening with tears.

“I will try,” she said softly, her voice trembling but resolute.

Rhaenyra reached out, her hand resting gently on Helaena’s shoulder. “That’s all I can ask,” she said.

As Helaena turned to leave, her steps slow and deliberate, Rhaenyra watched her go, a silent prayer rising in her heart. She knew this might be their last chance for peace, and with every fiber of her being, she hoped that Helaena could succeed.

But even as she hoped, the weight of the war pressed heavily on Rhaenyra’s soul. She clenched her fists, her mind filled with the countless lives already lost and the battles yet to come. The path ahead was fraught with peril, but she would walk it, no matter the cost. For her family, for her throne, and for the realm that still clung to hope amidst the storm.

The corridors of Dragonstone were quieter than usual, the storm that had raged earlier now reduced to a steady drizzle, casting the castle in a subdued hush. Rhaenyra moved with purpose, her soft footfalls echoing faintly against the stone walls as she made her way toward Daeron’s chambers. The air was thick with the salt of the sea and the lingering tension of recent events. She was determined, though not without apprehension, to confront her half-brother.

As she neared his room, a melody stopped her in her tracks. It was a hauntingly beautiful tune, sung in High Valyrian. The words carried a mournful, almost reverent quality, weaving through the air like an incantation. Rhaenyra’s breath hitched. She had not expected this—a voice so pure, so filled with emotion. She lingered just outside the door, captivated.

Daeron’s voice swelled and ebbed, his song a lament that spoke of longing and loss, of fire and shadow. The cadence reminded her of their father, Viserys, whose love for music and the arts had once filled the halls of the Red Keep. For a moment, Rhaenyra’s resolve faltered. In Daeron, she saw not an enemy, but a young man caught in the tides of war and family feuds, much like herself once upon a time.

The song ceased abruptly as Daeron turned and saw her standing in the doorway. His violet eyes widened, his surprise evident as he instinctively rose from where he had been sitting near the hearth. “Your Grace,” he said, his voice still tinged with the lingering cadence of his song. “I didn’t hear you approach.”

Rhaenyra stepped inside, her expression unreadable. “You sing beautifully,” she said softly, her words carrying an undercurrent of something unspoken. “I had forgotten that our father’s blood runs in your veins, too.”

Daeron shifted uncomfortably, clearly unprepared for her presence. “It’s just an old song,” he said, brushing off the compliment as he bowed slightly, his tone deferential. “A habit I picked up in Oldtown.”

She studied him in silence for a moment, noting the traces of Viserys in his features—the same softness around the eyes, the same slight furrow of his brow when deep in thought. But her purpose here was not to reminisce. Her gaze hardened as she crossed the room, closing the distance between them.

“It’s strange,” she began, her tone suddenly sharp, “how fate brings us together after so much blood has been spilled. And yet, Daeron, I can’t help but notice the way you look at Lucerys.”

Daeron stiffened, his brows furrowing. “What do you mean, Your Grace?”

She tilted her head slightly, her violet eyes boring into his. “You know exactly what I mean. The way your gaze lingers when you think no one is watching. It’s a look I’ve seen before—in Laenor’s eyes when he was with his squires.”

Daeron’s cheeks flushed, a mixture of indignation and embarrassment flashing across his face. “I do not understand what you’re insinuating,” he said, though his voice lacked conviction.

Rhaenyra took another step forward, her voice lowering but losing none of its intensity. “You burn for him, Daeron. It is plain to see. You desire my son.”

Daeron’s jaw tightened, his hands clenching at his sides. “Lucerys has been through enough without being dragged into baseless accusations,” he said, his tone defensive. “He is my kin, Your Grace. My loyalty to him is unshakable.”

“I do not question your loyalty,” Rhaenyra replied, her voice laced with steel. “But understand this: you live only because of Lucerys. If any harm befalls him, if his heart is broken, or if he is betrayed, I will not hesitate to end your life myself.”

The words hung in the air like a blade suspended between them. Daeron’s face darkened, his composure slipping as he took a step closer. “I would never harm him,” he said fiercely. “Lucerys is… he is everything good in this world, and I would sooner die than see him hurt.”

Rhaenyra’s expression softened, though her voice remained firm. “I love my son unconditionally, Daeron. I do not care who he loves, even if I might disagree with his choice. But know this: my love for him is fierce, and I will not let anything—or anyone—bring him ruin.”

Daeron exhaled sharply, his shoulders slumping as some of the tension left him. “You think I would hurt him?” he asked quietly, his voice tinged with pain. “I would give my life for him, Your Grace. I swear it.”

For a long moment, the two stared at each other, their emotions raw and unguarded. Rhaenyra saw in Daeron the same protectiveness she felt for Lucerys, the same fire that burned within her own heart. Slowly, the anger between them ebbed, replaced by an unspoken understanding.

“You love him,” Rhaenyra said at last, her tone softer now. It was not a question, but a statement.

Daeron nodded, his gaze dropping to the floor. “I do,” he admitted, his voice barely audible.

Rhaenyra studied him, her mind racing with conflicting emotions. She thought of Lucerys, of the boy who had once brought her such joy and the man he was becoming. She thought of the bond between brothers, between family, and the fragile threads that held them all together.

Finally, she sighed, stepping back. “Protect him, Daeron,” she said quietly. “That is all I ask. Protect him with everything you have.”

Daeron looked up, his blue eyes filled with a mixture of relief and determination. “I will,” he said firmly. “You have my word.”

Rhaenyra turned to leave, pausing at the door. “And Daeron,” she said over her shoulder, “be careful. The world is not kind to those who love as you do.”

With that, she disappeared into the shadows of the corridor, leaving Daeron alone with his thoughts. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, its light casting flickering shadows across his face as he stared into the flames, his heart heavy with both hope and dread.

***

            The dim light of dawn filtered through the heavy curtains of Rhaenys’s chambers, casting muted hues across the stone walls. The faint smell of healing herbs lingered in the air, mingling with the salty tang of the sea beyond Dragonstone. She stirred awake, her body heavy with the weight of wounds both seen and unseen. Pain coursed through her like an old adversary, sharp and relentless. Her hand instinctively reached out, gripping tightly to Laenor’s arm, as if tethering herself to the living while her mind lingered with the dead.

The face that hovered beside her bed was familiar and comforting, yet it brought with it an ache that no salve could soothe. She longed for Corlys, her husband, her partner in ambition and loss. But Corlys was gone, his steady presence lost to the tides of war. Now, it was Laenor—her son, thought dead by the world, alive by some miracle—who remained by her side. His hand, warm and strong, held hers tightly, as if willing her to draw strength from him.

“Mama,” Laenor whispered softly, his voice low but firm, laced with concern. “The fever’s broken. You’re safe.”

Her violet eyes fluttered open, taking in the sight of him. His silver hair glinted faintly in the weak light, and his face was etched with worry. She studied him for a moment, a bittersweet mixture of relief and sadness rising within her. He looked so much like Corlys in some ways, and yet, his presence reminded her starkly of all she had lost.

“I’m alive,” she rasped, her voice hoarse. Her fingers trembled as they reached for his face, as though needing to confirm he was real. “But at what cost?”

Laenor smiled faintly, though the expression didn’t quite reach his eyes. “At a cost we’ll reckon with together,” he said, brushing a damp cloth across her brow. Sweat had gathered there, evidence of her restless dreams. He wiped it away with the tender care of a son determined to shield his mother from further pain.

Rhaenys closed her eyes briefly, her chest tightening as her mind wandered to Corlys. Her Sea Snake, her indomitable partner, had weathered storms that should have crushed lesser men. Now he was gone, his laughter silenced, his wisdom lost to the winds. And with him had gone the unity they had fought so hard to preserve.

A pang of guilt pierced her as her thoughts shifted to Melys, her beautiful Red Queen, her loyal dragon who had fallen in the Battle of Rook’s Rest. Rhaenys could still hear the monstrous roar of Vhagar as Melys fought valiantly to protect her rider. The clash of dragons, the fiery tempest, and the thunderous crash of her bond being severed—it haunted her dreams as much as the faces of the loved ones she had buried.

“I miss her,” she murmured, her voice breaking as a single tear slipped down her cheek. “I miss them both. Corlys. Melys. They were my strength.”

Laenor’s grip on her hand tightened. “You have strength enough within you, Mama,” he said. “You’ve always had it. Even now, you endure.”

She turned her head toward him, her expression weary yet softened by his words. “I endure,” she echoed faintly. “But I wonder… for what?”

“For us,” Laenor replied, his tone gentle but unwavering. “For the realm. For what we still have to fight for. You’ve always been a queen of action, a woman of purpose. Don’t let grief take that from you.”

His words struck something deep within her, but the weight of loss was not so easily cast aside. She leaned back against the pillows, her breath coming in shallow gasps as she fought against the ache in her chest. Laenor reached for the cup of water beside the bed, pressing it gently to her lips.

“Drink,” he urged softly. “You need your strength.”

Rhaenys sipped the cool water, the liquid soothing her parched throat even as it failed to ease the storm inside her. She placed a trembling hand over his, her eyes searching his face. “You’ve rarely left my side,” she said. “I thought I’d lost you, Laenor. And now I fear losing you again.”

He shook his head, his jaw tightening. “You won’t lose me,” he promised, his voice firm. “Not now. Not ever.”

For a moment, they sat in silence, the only sounds the crackle of the fire and the distant roar of the sea. Rhaenys closed her eyes, leaning into the solace of her son’s presence. She clung to the small comfort he provided, even as the specters of her losses lingered like shadows around them.

“Rest now,” Laenor said, brushing her hair back from her face. “I’ll stay here.”

Rhaenys nodded faintly, exhaustion pulling her back toward sleep. But even as her eyes closed, her hand remained tightly clasped over his, unwilling to let go of the one piece of her family that still remained.

The sharp knock at the chamber doors echoed through the dimly lit room, startling Rhaenys from her thoughts. She glanced toward the entry, her posture stiffening despite the lingering ache in her body. A servant’s voice came from the other side, clear and deferential.

“Your Grace, Queen Rhaenyra approaches.”

Laenor, seated by her side, stood immediately. His expression softened at the mention of Rhaenyra, a warmth in his eyes that had been absent during their days of secrecy and exile. He crossed the room in a few purposeful strides, his silver hair catching the flickering light of the fire. As the doors opened, revealing the Queen of the realm in all her regal splendor, Laenor’s face lit with something Rhaenys had not seen in years—a quiet, undeniable love.

Rhaenyra entered with grace, her silver-gold braid flowing over her shoulder like molten light. The crown of Viserys rested on her brow, and her gown glittered with pearls and diamonds, catching the dim light of the room. Her violet eyes immediately found Laenor, and the faintest smile softened her regal demeanor.

“Laenor,” she said, her voice warm. She reached for his hand, and he took it without hesitation, his grip lingering as though he needed her touch to steady himself.

The love between them was undeniable, as palpable as the tension in the room. Rhaenys watched from her bed, her gaze hardening at the sight. A familiar fire stirred within her, a combination of grief, anger, and something unspoken—something that had festered in her heart since the truth about Laenor’s survival had come to light.

“Rhaenyra,” Rhaenys said, her tone sharp enough to cut through the tender moment. The single word carried both an edge of acknowledgment and a pointed reminder of her lingering ire.

Rhaenyra turned her attention to the older woman, her expression softening with concern. “Princess Rhaenys,” she said, stepping closer. “It gladdens me to see you awake. I’ve prayed for your recovery.”

Rhaenys offered a faint, perfunctory nod, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Recovery is a slow process, as you can see,” she said curtly, her tone cold. “But I’ve endured worse.”

Rhaenyra hesitated, sensing the frost in Rhaenys’s words, but she pressed on, stepping toward the bed. “I am here to offer my support, Princess,” she said gently. “Your courage has been an inspiration—”

“Spare me the pleasantries, girl,” Rhaenys interrupted sharply, her voice rising just enough to sting. “I would speak with you alone.”

The use of girl lingered in the air like an accusation, the weight of it clear in every syllable. Rhaenyra blinked, momentarily taken aback, and a flicker of confusion crossed her face. She turned to Laenor, who stood frozen between them, his expression caught between guilt and apology.

“Laenor,” Rhaenys said firmly, her gaze never leaving Rhaenyra. “Leave us.”

Laenor hesitated, glancing at Rhaenyra with an apologetic look before nodding. “Of course, Mother,” he said quietly, stepping toward the door. His hand briefly brushed Rhaenyra’s as he passed, a silent reassurance, before he disappeared into the corridor, leaving the two women alone.

Rhaenyra stood just inside the chamber, her hands clasped before her, the door closing behind her with a muted finality. She carried herself with the grace of a queen, her braided hair glimmering like molten silver in the firelight, but even her regal bearing couldn’t mask the tension etched into her features.

Rhaenys, propped against a mound of pillows, did not bother with pretense. Her gaze bore into Rhaenyra, her violet eyes sharp and blazing despite the pallor of her face. The room, dimly lit and heavy with the scent of herbs, seemed to vibrate with the unsaid, a tension thick enough to choke on.

“You knew,” Rhaenys said, her voice a blade slicing through the silence. “All this time, you knew Laenor was alive.”

Rhaenyra’s lips parted, but the words faltered before they could take shape.

“Don’t you dare deny it.” Rhaenys’s voice rose, fueled by a tide of anger and grief that had festered for years. Her hands trembled as she gripped the edge of the blanket draped across her lap. “You let me mourn him. You let the realm mourn him. You let Corlys—” Her voice cracked on her husband’s name, but she pushed forward, her fury undiminished. “You let us all believe he was dead while you spun your schemes.”

“It was not a scheme,” Rhaenyra said quickly, her tone trembling as she took a step closer. “It was never a scheme, Rhaenys.”

“Oh?” Rhaenys’s laugh was bitter, her eyes narrowing. “Then what would you call it? Deception? Betrayal? Treason against your own kin?”

Rhaenyra’s throat tightened, but she held her ground, her violet eyes locking with Rhaenys’s blazing ones. “I did what I had to do,” she said, her voice trembling but resolute. “Laenor was my friend. My best friend. And he was drowning, Rhaenys. Drowning in a life he didn’t choose, suffocated by expectations that weren’t his. He was hurting, crushed under the weight of living up to Corlys’s legacy, to yours, to all of Driftmark.”

“Loved him?” Rhaenys spat, her voice sharp with incredulity. Her hands gripped the edge of the blanket covering her lap as though it were the only thing grounding her. “You dare speak of love? You tore him away from his family! From me! You turned him into a ghost. A shadow. How is that love, Rhaenyra? How?”

The crack in Rhaenys’s voice struck Rhaenyra like a blow, but she didn’t step back. Instead, she closed the distance between them, her tone hardening with emotion. “I saved him,” she said, her voice raw, thick with emotion that had been building for years. “I saved him because he couldn’t save himself. He was spiraling, Rhaenys. He was drinking himself to oblivion night after night. Do you know how many mornings I found him sprawled on the floor, his cup still in his hand? He was reckless—seeking danger, finding comfort in the arms of strangers who could have turned on him at any moment. He was miserable, and if I hadn’t acted, he would have died. And then what? You’d mourn him just the same, but it would have been his corpse you buried, not his name.”

Rhaenys recoiled as though struck, her expression a tumult of anger and grief. “And what of me?” she demanded, her voice breaking. “Did you think of me, of the mother who mourned her son? Who held her husband as he wept for a child we thought lost forever? Did you think of the hole you left in our lives, Rhaenyra?”

“I did think of you,” Rhaenyra admitted, her voice soft but trembling. “And I hated myself for it. I hated that I couldn’t tell you. That I couldn’t trust anyone with the truth—not even you. But Laenor begged me, Rhaenys. He begged me for freedom, for a chance to escape the life that was crushing him. What was I supposed to do? Say no? Condemn him to death just to spare us a little heartache?”

“That heartache tore me apart!” Rhaenys shouted, her voice raw and trembling. Her fists clenched as tears spilled freely down her cheeks. “I carried that grief every day. Corlys carried it. We buried him in our hearts because we thought he was gone forever. And you let us.”

Rhaenyra’s own tears welled, her voice breaking under the weight of her own guilt. “I know,” she whispered. “And I will carry that guilt for the rest of my life. But he was dying, Rhaenys. Dying in spirit, if not in body. I saw it. Every time he looked at Corlys, he felt like he was failing. Every time he looked at you, he thought he was disappointing you. He drank to forget, but it didn’t work. He found comfort where he could, but it wasn’t enough. He told me he couldn’t breathe. That he didn’t want to be alive if it meant living like that. So I made the hardest choice I’ve ever made. I let him go.”

Rhaenys’s fiery gaze locked onto Rhaenyra, and for a moment, the air in the room seemed to freeze. When she finally spoke, her voice was sharp, cutting through the thick tension like a blade. “You didn’t let him go for his freedom,” she hissed, her words laced with venom. “You let him go for your freedom.”

Rhaenyra’s breath caught in her throat. “What are you saying?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“You needed him out of the way,” Rhaenys spat, her voice rising with each word. “You needed him gone so you could marry Daemon, so you could secure your throne, your ambitions. Don’t dress it up as love or compassion. You didn’t do it for him. You did it for yourself.”

Rhaenyra recoiled as if she had been struck, her hands curling into fists at her sides. “That’s not true,” she said, her voice low and tight. “You don’t know—”

“I do know,” Rhaenys interrupted, her tone fierce, unwavering. “I know because I’ve seen what ambition does to people. I’ve lived long enough to see the lengths some will go to for power. You say you loved him, but your actions spoke of selfishness, not love. You let him disappear, let the realm mourn him, because it suited you.”

Rhaenyra’s face burned with a mix of anger and shame. “You think I didn’t struggle with this?” she demanded, her voice rising to meet Rhaenys’s fury. “You think it was easy for me to let him go, to watch him leave knowing what it would mean for all of us? Yes, I loved Daemon, and yes, I wanted to be with him. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t love Laenor too. It doesn’t mean I didn’t want him to have a life he could bear to live.”

Rhaenys’s laugh was bitter, cutting. “You tell yourself that because it’s easier than admitting the truth. You didn’t save him. You used him. You used my son to clear the path for your own desires.”

“Enough!” Rhaenyra’s voice cracked like a whip, her violet eyes blazing. “I will not stand here and let you twist this. I made a choice to give him a chance at happiness because I knew he wouldn’t find it here. Yes, I married Daemon. Yes, I wanted to. But that doesn’t erase what I did for Laenor. I freed him from a life that was killing him. And I will not apologize for saving him from himself.”

The room fell silent except for the faint crackle of the fire and the sound of their heavy breathing. Rhaenys’s expression remained fierce, but her hands trembled as she gripped the edges of her blanket. “You speak of saving him,” she said, her voice quieter now, trembling with pain. “But you saved yourself too. Don’t pretend you didn’t.”

Rhaenyra didn’t respond immediately. The truth in Rhaenys’s words pierced her like a dagger, and she felt the weight of her decisions pressing down on her chest. Finally, she whispered, “Maybe I did. Maybe it was selfish. But I would rather live with that guilt than bury him.”

Rhaenys turned her head away, her jaw tight, tears slipping down her cheeks. “You’ve taken so much from me, Rhaenyra. Corlys. Melys. And now this… You ask me to forgive you, but I don’t know if I can.”

“I’m not asking for forgiveness,” Rhaenyra said softly, her voice heavy with emotion. “I’m asking you to see that I did the best I could. For Laenor. For all of us.”

Rhaenys’s shoulders slumped, her once fierce demeanor crumbling under the weight of her grief. Her violet eyes, bloodshot and glistening, fixated on the fire crackling in the hearth. “You should have trusted me,” she whispered, her voice low and raw, trembling with the weight of loss. “I deserved that much.”

Rhaenyra hesitated, her hand hovering uncertainly before she reached out to take Rhaenys’s. Her fingers trembled as they curled around her icy hand, which lay limp and unyielding. “I know,” Rhaenyra said softly, her voice thick with emotion. “I know I failed you. And I’ll carry that failure with me for the rest of my days. But please, believe me when I say I did it for him. For Laenor. I couldn’t bear to lose him too.”

Rhaenys turned her head sharply, her expression fierce and accusatory. “Don’t you dare speak of what you could or could not bear. You think you know loss?” Her voice rose, sharp and cutting like the edge of a blade. “The Red Queen, my Melys, slain under the shadow of Vhagar. Corlys, the love of my life, torn from me in the blink of an eye. And Laena…” Her voice broke as she said her daughter’s name, and tears streamed unchecked down her face. “My daughter, my bright, beautiful Laena, burned alive by her own dragon rather than succumb to this world’s cruelties. Don’t speak to me of loss, Rhaenyra. You know nothing of it.”

Rhaenyra flinched at the venom in Rhaenys’s words, but she didn’t pull away. “You think I don’t understand?” she said, her voice rising, her own grief sharpening her tone. “I lost Visenya before I even had the chance to hold her. I thought I lost Luke—I thought I had buried my son under the waves. Jace nearly died in the Gullet, and every day, I live with the fear that this war will claim the rest of my children. Don’t tell me I don’t understand.”

“Yet you dared to take my son from me,” Rhaenys snapped, her tears giving way to fury. “You conspired to make the world believe him dead, and you didn’t even think to tell me. His own mother.”

Rhaenyra’s grip on Rhaenys’s hand tightened as her own temper flared. “Laenor agreed to it,” she said firmly, her violet eyes blazing. “He wanted to leave. He begged for freedom, for a life outside of this war, outside of this suffocating existence. I gave him that. I won’t stand here and take the blame alone when it was his choice as much as mine.”

“His choice?” Rhaenys’s laugh was bitter, hollow. “A choice he made in the shadows, under the cover of secrecy, without his family. What kind of choice is that?”

“A choice to live,” Rhaenyra shot back, her voice breaking. “Laenor was drowning, Rhaenys. He was miserable. He drank to forget the weight of Driftmark, the expectations of Corlys. He buried himself in risky affairs because he didn’t care if he lived or died. I couldn’t let him waste away like that.”

“And so you set him free?” Rhaenys spat, her voice thick with contempt. “You call it freedom, but what it was—what it is—is exile. You didn’t save him, Rhaenyra. You abandoned him. You abandoned all of us.”

Rhaenyra’s tears spilled over now, streaking her pale face. “I did what I thought was right,” she said, her voice trembling. “Maybe it wasn’t enough. Maybe it was selfish. But I loved him, Rhaenys. Not in the way Corlys wanted, but as my closest friend, my confidant. I couldn’t watch him destroy himself.”

Rhaenys’s voice broke again, her grief spilling out in jagged sobs. “You had no right,” she choked out, her body trembling with the weight of her emotions. “No right to take him from me.”

Rhaenyra dropped to her knees beside Rhaenys’s bed, her hands clutching at her aunt’s. “I know,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “And I will carry that guilt for the rest of my life. But if I hadn’t done it, if I hadn’t let him go, he would have died. And I couldn’t bear that. I couldn’t let Laenor become another name on the long list of those we’ve lost.”

The firelight flickered between them, casting long, trembling shadows on the walls. Rhaenys shook her head, her tears falling freely now. “I’ve lost almost everything,” she murmured, her voice hollow. “Corlys. Laena. My dragon. My pride. And now, the truth of Laenor. How much more am I meant to endure?”

“You have him,” Rhaenyra said softly. “You have your son. And for that, I am grateful every day.”

Rhaenys closed her eyes, her chest rising and falling in slow, shuddering breaths. “Leave me,” she said finally, her voice heavy with exhaustion. “I need no more of your justifications.”

Rhaenyra hesitated, her hand lingering on Rhaenys’s for a moment longer before she rose to her feet. “I am truly sorry,” she said quietly. But the words felt hollow, empty against the vast chasm of pain between them.

As Rhaenyra turned and made her way to the door, she glanced back one last time. Rhaenys sat in silence, her face turned away, the flickering firelight casting shadows across her features. The sight of her, so proud yet so broken, etched itself into Rhaenyra’s heart like a scar.

“You have him,” Rhaenyra said softly, her voice trembling under the weight of her emotions. “You have your son. And for that, I am grateful every day.”

Rhaenys closed her eyes, her chest rising and falling in slow, shuddering breaths. Her hands, trembling in her lap, clenched into fists as though holding onto the last remnants of her strength. “Leave me,” she said finally, her voice heavy with exhaustion and a bitterness that sliced through the room like a blade. “I need no more of your justifications.”

The words landed hard, and Rhaenyra hesitated. Her hand hovered near Rhaenys’s, the urge to comfort her battling the knowledge that no touch, no words, could ever mend what had been broken. “I am truly sorry,” Rhaenyra whispered, her voice raw and quiet. The apology felt small, fragile, against the enormity of Rhaenys’s grief.

Slowly, Rhaenyra rose to her feet, her movements careful as though afraid that any sudden gesture might further shatter the proud woman before her. She lingered there, her gaze fixed on Rhaenys. The firelight painted her face in flickering shades of anguish, and her eyes—so like their shared Valyrian kin—stared into the flames as if seeking answers that refused to come.

As she turned to leave, the silence in the room was broken by Rhaenys’s voice, quiet but laced with an undeniable edge. “I don’t hate you, Rhaenyra.”

Rhaenyra paused, glancing back, her violet eyes wide with surprise.

“I thought I did,” Rhaenys admitted, her gaze fixed on the fire, its flickering light casting deep shadows across her weary face. “In those early days, after Laenor… after I thought I’d lost him, I wanted to hate you. I blamed you for everything. For his death, for the lies, for the emptiness you left behind.” She turned her head slightly, her gaze sharp as it locked onto Rhaenyra. “But hate isn’t what I feel. Not anymore.”

Rhaenyra swallowed hard, her throat tightening. “What is it you feel, then?”

Rhaenys exhaled deeply, her shoulders slumping under the weight of her next words. “Betrayal. Grief. A loss I can never reclaim. You gave him a chance to live, Rhaenyra, but you took something from me in return. You took the time I’ll never have with him. And for that…” She paused, her voice steady but resolute. “For that, I don’t think I can ever forgive you.”

Rhaenyra’s heart clenched at the raw honesty in her words. She stepped back toward the door, her movements slow, as though weighed down by the enormity of what had just been said. “I never meant to hurt you,” she said softly. “And I’ll carry the pain I caused you for the rest of my days.”

Rhaenys’s gaze softened, though her expression remained resolute. “I will continue to serve as your Hand,” she said, her tone firm. “Not because I forgive you, but because I believe in the realm we are fighting for. But do not mistake my loyalty for absolution, Rhaenyra. That… you may never have.”

The finality of her words settled heavily in the room, and Rhaenyra nodded, her face a mix of sorrow and acceptance. “I understand,” she said simply.

Without another word, she turned and walked out of the room, the door closing softly behind her. As Rhaenyra made her way down the dimly lit corridor, her mind was a storm of emotions—grief, guilt, and a profound sense of loss that seemed to echo the heavy silence of the castle.

Rhaenyra walked with deliberate slowness, the sound of her footsteps muffled by the ancient stone corridors of Dragonstone. The air was damp, carrying the faint scent of brine and ash. She let her fingers brush the cold walls, their surface rough and unyielding—a reminder of the fortress’s enduring strength and her own resolve. Yet, despite her steady stride, her mind was a torrent of questions and doubts, circling endlessly as she made her way toward the place she often sought for solitude.

The chamber was deep within the heart of Dragonstone, a cavern that seemed almost untouched by time. At its center stood the massive skull of Meraxes, its hollow eyes wide and menacing, its jaw agape in eternal silence. The sight never failed to stir something primal within her—a mixture of awe and melancholy. Candles surrounded the skull, their flames flickering with an almost unnatural rhythm, casting long, twisting shadows across the room. It was a space that demanded reverence, a shrine to power and loss.

Rhaenyra hesitated at the entrance, her breath catching as her eyes adjusted to the dim light. There, kneeling before the skull, was a figure cloaked entirely in red. The fabric shimmered like molten fire in the candlelight, and her presence seemed to shift the air itself, making the room feel colder, heavier. Rhaenyra stood motionless, her gaze fixed on the woman. The scene was surreal, as though she were intruding on a ritual not meant for mortal eyes.

Finally, she stepped forward. The sound of her boots against the stone floor echoed faintly, breaking the fragile silence. The woman rose fluidly, turning to face her. Her pale skin was like alabaster, and her fiery hair cascaded down her back in waves that caught the light. But it was her eyes that held Rhaenyra captive—deep, endless pools that seemed to see through flesh and bone, into the very essence of a soul.

“You linger in the shadows, Queen Rhaenyra,” the woman said, her voice smooth and low, like embers crackling in the dark. “Do you fear what the light might reveal?”

Rhaenyra remained in the doorway for a moment longer, her hand brushing against the cold stone as her gaze swept over the room. The skull of Meraxes loomed large, its hollow eyes reflecting the flickering candlelight. The sight of the kneeling figure, draped in crimson, unnerved her, but she was careful to conceal it. Slowly, she stepped into the chamber, her presence commanding despite the strange and ominous air.

“I fear nothing in my own halls,” Rhaenyra said, her voice steady, though her violet eyes glinted with suspicion. “But I am not a fool. You are not here by accident, and I have questions that you will answer.”

Melisandre rose gracefully, her movements fluid as though she were part of the shadows themselves. Her pale face, framed by the hood of her scarlet robes, held an inscrutable expression. “Questions,” she repeated softly, as if tasting the word. “Questions often lead to truths that are heavier than the questions themselves. Are you certain you wish to carry such a burden?”

Rhaenyra took another step forward, her shoulders squared. The light of the candles danced across her silver-gold braid and the gleaming fabric of her gown, a reflection of her unyielding spirit. “I am,” she said firmly. Her tone did not waver, though curiosity and skepticism warred within her. “You saved my son, Lucerys. For that, I owe you my gratitude. But I must know why. What compelled you to intervene? What purpose could you possibly have for involving yourself in the affairs of my house?”

Melisandre tilted her head, her crimson robes brushing against the stone as she moved closer. Her presence seemed to command the space, the air around her heavy with an almost imperceptible hum. “Gratitude,” she said, her tone faintly amused. “An uncommon response when the favor is not fully understood. Your son is no ordinary prince, my Queen. He is the Midnight Flame, a harbinger of what is to come. His return was not a kindness—it was a necessity.”

Rhaenyra’s brows knitted, her suspicion deepening. “Necessity? For whom? For what?” she demanded. Her voice rose slightly, laced with the fire of her Targaryen blood. “You speak in riddles, cloaking your intentions in mystery. You will find I am not so easily swayed by cryptic words.”

Melisandre’s expression remained calm, her dark eyes glinting with an otherworldly light. “The Lord of Light does not deal in riddles,” she said. “But in truths, often hidden beneath layers of flame and shadow. Lucerys Velaryon is not merely a prince of your house—he is the key to ensuring that fire does not succumb to darkness. Without him, the Great Other will rise, and all will be lost.”

The weight of Melisandre’s words pressed against Rhaenyra like a tangible force, but she did not falter. Her gaze bore into the Red Woman, her lips curving into a faint, defiant smile. “You speak of destinies and gods as if they are beyond question. But I am no stranger to the weight of prophecy. My house has lived and died by it. You tell me my son is the key, the Midnight Flame. Then answer me this: how? What makes him so vital? Why was his resurrection so necessary?”

Melisandre’s gaze softened, though the intensity in her voice did not waver. “Because his flame burns brighter than most,” she said, her words reverent. “He is the bridge between what was and what must be. The dragons must endure, the bloodline of fire must remain unbroken, for from his blood will come the Prince That Was Promised. The one destined to wield Lightbringer and banish the Great Other for all time.”

Rhaenyra’s breath caught, the implications of Melisandre’s claim slicing through her composure like a blade. She masked her turmoil with practiced ease, but her skepticism lingered. “And yet, you expect me to take your word as gospel,” she said coldly. “Do not mistake my gratitude for blindness. My son is alive because of you, but I will not let you wield him as a pawn in whatever game you play.”

Melisandre’s faint smile returned, tinged with something that might have been approval. “A mother’s fire burns fiercely,” she said. “But you misunderstand. Lucerys is no pawn. He is a beacon, and it is his light that will guide the world through the coming storm.”

Rhaenyra took another step forward, her tone sharpening. “And what of the gaps in his story? In Laenor’s? They withhold truths from me, thinking to protect me. But I must know. If my son is what you claim, then I have a right to every piece of his story.”

Melisandre regarded her in silence for a moment, her expression unreadable. “They do not speak of it because the burden is theirs to carry, not yours,” she said finally. “Some truths are born of love, my Queen. And some are born of fire. Yours is the task of nurturing the flame. Theirs is the task of protecting it.”

Rhaenyra’s jaw tightened, her frustration simmering beneath her composed exterior. “You speak of truths as if they are absolute, yet you offer nothing but more questions. If you know so much, then tell me this: how does my son know of Aegon’s dream? The Song of Ice and Fire? That knowledge has only ever been passed through the royal bloodline. And yet, Lucerys speaks of it as though it were his birthright.”

Melisandre’s smile faded, her expression growing solemn. “Because the flames reveal what they will to those who are destined to see,” she said softly. “Your son is touched by fire, guided by its light. He sees what others cannot, knows what others will not. It is not for us to question why. It is for us to ensure that his flame does not falter.”

Rhaenyra’s heart pounded, her mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. Gratitude, suspicion, curiosity, and fear warred within her, each demanding her attention. She took a deep breath, her voice steady but low as she said, “You ask much of me, Red Woman. Trust, belief, acceptance. And yet, you offer little in return. If what you say is true, then prove it. Show me why my son matters so greatly to your god.”

Melisandre stepped closer, her dark eyes shimmering like embers. “The proof is in the flame,” she said, her voice a whisper that seemed to echo through the chamber. “But beware, Queen Rhaenyra. The answers you seek may not bring the solace you hope for.”

Rhaenyra stepped forward, her patience finally snapping like a bowstring drawn too tight. Her hand shot out, seizing Melisandre’s wrist with a force that betrayed the fury burning beneath her composed facade. The Red Woman’s skin was warm to the touch, unnervingly so, as though fire coursed through her veins.

“You will stop evading me,” Rhaenyra said, her voice low but trembling with command. Her violet eyes blazed like dragonfire, pinning the enigmatic priestess in place. “Whatever it is that Laenor and Lucerys refuse to tell me, you will.”

Melisandre’s eyes lowered to the queen’s hand before lifting to meet her gaze, unshaken. The warmth of the firelight reflected in her crimson robes, casting shadows that danced along the walls. “Your son and Laenor guard you out of love,” she said, her tone calm, unyielding. “But you do not understand the questions you ask, Queen Rhaenyra.”

Rhaenyra’s voice cracked with restrained fury. “Then make me understand. I am no stranger to burdens.”

Melisandre gently pulled her wrist free, her hands folding in front of her like a priestess at prayer. “Do you remember the white hart?”

The sudden shift in conversation caught Rhaenyra off guard, her defiance faltering for a heartbeat. “The white hart?” she repeated, her voice softer now, a thread of unease creeping into her tone. “I saw it in the woods when I was young. My father spoke of it as a symbol of royalty, a blessing from the gods.” Her eyes narrowed. “Why do you ask me this?”

Melisandre’s lips curved into a faint, enigmatic smile. “A white hart is no ordinary creature, nor is it bound by mortal whim. It appears to those chosen, those whose path will alter the course of history.”

Rhaenyra felt her breath hitch. “Chosen?” she echoed, her skepticism warring with the flicker of unease in her chest. “And what would you say I was chosen for, priestess?”

Melisandre’s voice lowered, almost reverent. “You are destined to rule, Queen Rhaenyra. The white hart appeared to you because it saw what you could not yet see in yourself—a queen not merely by blood, but by fire, by sacrifice.”

The memory of that moment in the woods washed over Rhaenyra like a cold wind. She remembered the silence, the stillness as the magnificent creature had regarded her with unblinking eyes. “If I am destined to rule,” she said cautiously, “then why has the throne been denied me at every turn?”

“Because destiny does not walk a straight path,” Melisandre replied, her voice almost a whisper. “The white hart heralded your journey, but not its ease. Every step you take will be marked by pain, but that pain will forge you into the queen you were born to be.”

Rhaenyra clenched her hands into fists, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “You speak of destiny as though it is immutable, but I have seen destiny crumble beneath the weight of swords and treachery. When?” she demanded, her voice rising. “When will I sit the Iron Throne?”

Melisandre’s expression softened, her eyes dark as the shadows around them. “Soon,” she said, the word falling like a stone into the still air.

Rhaenyra bristled. “Soon? That is not an answer. That is another riddle.”

“It is not for me to say more,” Melisandre replied. “The flames do not whisper when or how, only that it will be. But know this—your reign will shape the fate of this realm, not just for this generation but for all those to come.”

Rhaenyra felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold stone beneath her feet. “You expect me to put my faith in flames and whispers?” she asked, her voice sharp. “I am a queen, not a pawn in your god’s game.”

Melisandre’s smile did not falter. “The flames do not play games, Your Grace. They reveal truths. You may not see them now, but they will unfold before you in time.”

Rhaenyra’s mind raced as she stared into the priestess’s unyielding gaze. The memory of the white hart, the weight of her son’s miraculous return, the gaps in the stories she had been told—all of it coiled around her like a tightening noose. And yet, even as doubt gnawed at her, a small, flickering ember of belief began to glow in her chest.

Melisandre stepped closer, lowering her voice as if confiding a sacred truth. “You do not need to trust me, Queen Rhaenyra. Trust yourself. Trust the blood of the dragon that runs through your veins. You have always known who you are—what you are.”

For a moment, neither spoke. The storm outside seemed to still, leaving only the crackle of the candles around them. Rhaenyra released a shaky breath and stepped back, her heart pounding in her chest.

Rhaenyra turned back to Melisandre, her mind a whirlwind of questions, fears, and an ache she couldn’t name. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her breath struggling to keep pace with the storm raging within her. She felt it—there was something more, something the Red Woman had not yet revealed. It was in her stillness, the measured way her dark eyes lingered too long on the flickering flames.

“There’s more,” Rhaenyra said, her voice firmer now, though it cracked at the edges. “Something you’re not telling me.”

Melisandre tilted her head slightly, her lips pressing into a thin line. The light of the candles cast shadows across her face, making her features appear both ageless and ancient, as though she was both part of the room and beyond it. She said nothing, her silence stretching out, taut and suffocating.

Rhaenyra stepped forward, her heart pounding harder with each second that passed. “Tell me,” she demanded. Her voice trembled, but it carried the weight of a queen’s command. “I deserve to know.”

Still, Melisandre did not speak. She gazed at Rhaenyra with an intensity that bordered on reverence, her eyes glimmering with something like sorrow—or was it pity? Rhaenyra couldn’t tell, and the ambiguity of it made her stomach twist. The flames crackled louder, their dance erratic, as though the very air around them was alive with tension.

Melisandre tilted her head slightly, her gaze steady, unwavering. The firelight painted her features with an ethereal glow, her expression unreadable. “There is always more,” she said, her tone even, almost soothing. “But some truths are better left unspoken.”

“I need to know,” Rhaenyra said, her voice firmer now. She stepped closer, the hem of her gown brushing against the cold stone floor. “There are gaps in what Laenor and Lucerys have told me. Things they won’t say—things I feel they are protecting me from. If you know what those are, if you know why my son lives when he should have died, then you owe me that truth.”

The Red Woman regarded her for a long moment, the silence between them growing heavier with each passing second. “You think you are ready for the answers you seek?” she asked finally, her voice soft, almost pitying. “Are you prepared to carry the weight of such knowledge?”

Rhaenyra’s throat tightened, but she nodded. “I’ve carried the weight of this war, the weight of loss. I’ve borne burdens that would break lesser women. If there is something more I must endure, then I will endure it. But I cannot move forward in the dark.

Melisandre studied her, and for a moment, Rhaenyra thought she might remain silent. But then the Red Woman spoke, her words deliberate and measured. “You ask what they will not speak, what they cannot bear to say aloud. Your son lives because he must. Because the Lord of Light has willed it so.”

Rhaenyra’s breath caught in her throat. She took another step forward, her hands trembling at her sides. “Why?” she asked, her voice breaking slightly. “Why Lucerys?”

“Because he is destined,” Melisandre said simply. “Because he is the Midnight Flame, the one who will unite and purify. From his blood will come the Prince Who Was Promised. Without him, the darkness will consume us all. Lucerys will be King.”

The words hit Rhaenyra like a physical blow. She staggered back slightly, her mind racing with the implications. “Lucerys… king?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Melisandre nodded, her gaze unyielding. “It is his destiny. He must ascend to the throne. He must foster in a golden age of dragons, an age where the darkness is driven back, where the fire of your house burns brighter than ever before.”

Rhaenyra’s legs felt weak, but she forced herself to stand tall. Her emotions were a tempest within her—joy and sorrow colliding in equal measure. Lucerys would be king. Her son, her sweet boy who had once been lost to her, would sit upon the Iron Throne. Joy surged at the thought, yet sorrow lingered like a shadow. What would it mean for her? For her family? For Jace?

Rhaenyra’s heart pounded, her breath shallow. Her emotions churned—a maelstrom of disbelief, defiance, and a flicker of hope she dared not name. She stepped forward, her voice trembling with barely restrained fury. “You speak of destiny as though it’s immutable,” she said. “But my son, Jacaerys, is my heir. He was born for the throne. How can Lucerys take what is his?”

Melisandre’s gaze remained steady, her eyes glowing with an unearthly light. “The flames have chosen,” she said simply. “Destiny is not dictated by birthright but by purpose. Lucerys is the Midnight Flame, and his light must guide the world through the darkness.”

Rhaenyra clenched her fists, the firelight casting her shadow long and jagged on the walls. “You speak in riddles, woman. Tell me plainly—what will become of me? Of Jace? Will we live to see this supposed golden age?”

A silence followed, thick and heavy. Melisandre did not answer, her expression unreadable. Rhaenyra’s pulse quickened as her thoughts spiraled. She hated this—this ambiguity, this gnawing doubt. She opened her mouth to demand an answer, but before she could speak, a noise from the shadows drew her attention.

Melisandre’s gaze remained fixed on the flames, the depths of her expression unreadable. For what felt like an eternity, the only sound was the crackling fire. Then, faint and almost imperceptible, there was a noise from the shadows—a creak, a shift of movement. Rhaenyra turned sharply, her senses honed, her eyes narrowing on the figure stepping into the light.

“Jace,” she breathed, her tone wavering between frustration and relief. Her eldest son stood tall, shoulders squared, his face carved with defiance.

“I heard everything,” Jacaerys said, his voice cold and defiant. He strode closer, his posture radiating barely contained anger. “And I want answers.”

Rhaenyra’s mouth opened, but before she could form a response, Jace’s anger flared. “And you believe her?” he pressed, his voice rising. “Why? Why would you trust the words of a stranger who claims to see the future?”

“This is not the time for defiance,” Rhaenyra said sharply, her voice firm but strained. “Stand down, Jace.”

“It’s not defiance,” Jace snapped back, the bitterness in his tone cutting. “It’s disbelief. It’s questioning why my brother should be king when I am your heir. Why he is destined for greatness while I am left to—what? Watch from the sidelines?”

Rhaenyra’s stomach twisted. She could feel his pain, his anger, and it mirrored the questions swirling in her own mind. “You think I don’t have doubts?” she countered, her voice trembling but fierce. “You think I don’t wonder why Lucerys and not you? Do not mistake my composure for acceptance, Jace. I am as unsettled by this as you.”

“Then why?” Jace demanded, stepping closer, his hands clenched at his sides. “Why let her words hold so much weight?”

“Because there is power in them,” Rhaenyra said, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade. “Because if she is right, we cannot afford to dismiss her.”

Jace’s jaw tightened, his dark eyes narrowing. “You don’t even know if she’s telling the truth. You don’t know what her agenda is.”

Melisandre’s voice, calm yet piercing, broke through their heated exchange. “I have no agenda, young prince,” she said. “Only the will of the Lord of Light. And his will is clear—Lucerys must ascend.”

“To what end?” Jace shot back, his defiance unyielding. “What purpose does this prophecy serve, except to pit us against each other?”

Melisandre regarded them both with a calm that seemed to unnerve them further. “You do not need to trust me,” she said. “But the flames speak the truth, whether you believe them or not.”

“That’s not good enough,” Jacaerys snapped, stepping closer. “If you expect us to risk everything for some prophecy, then prove it. Show us why we should believe you.”

Melisandre’s lips curved into a faint smile. “Very well,” she said. She gestured toward the flames burning in the hearth, their light flickering and casting strange shadows on the stone walls. “Look into the fire, and see what I see.”

Rhaenyra and Jace exchanged a glance, their doubt palpable, but neither stepped back. Together, they turned to face the fire as Melisandre began to chant in a language older than the Seven Kingdoms. The flames twisted and danced, their color deepening to an ominous red. The air grew heavy, charged with a power that made the hair on their arms rise.

“Look,” Melisandre said, her voice low and commanding. “See what will come to pass if Lucerys does not take his place as king.”

The flames surged, and visions began to form within the fire. Rhaenyra’s breath caught as she saw a battlefield, the ground littered with the charred remains of dragons and men alike. The sky was darkened by ash, the sun a feeble glow behind the smog. Screams echoed through the chamber, though whether they came from the vision or her own mind, she could not tell.

Jacaerys staggered back, his face pale, but his gaze remained fixed on the horror before them. “What is this?” he demanded. “What are we seeing?”

“This is what will happen if the darkness is not driven back,” Melisandre said, her voice unyielding. “Without Lucerys, the dragons will fall, and your house will crumble. The realm will be consumed by shadow.”

The vision shifted, showing a figure cloaked in black, their face obscured but their presence radiating malice. Behind them, an army of wights marched, their eyes glowing with an unnatural light. At their side stood a monstrous creature, its icy breath freezing everything in its path. The cold seemed to seep into the chamber itself, and Rhaenyra shivered despite the fire’s heat.

“No,” Rhaenyra whispered, her voice breaking. Her hands trembled as she clutched the edge of the table for support. “This… this cannot be.”

“It is what will be,” Melisandre said, her tone devoid of pity. “Unless Lucerys fulfills his destiny.”

Jacaerys turned on her, his anger reigniting. “And what of me?” he demanded. “Am I nothing in this prophecy? Am I to stand aside while my brother takes everything?”

“Your worth is not measured by a crown,” Melisandre said, her words sharp and deliberate. “Your role is no less vital, but it is different. You will marry Baela Targaryen, and together, you will ensure the survival of your lineage. But the throne is not your path.”

Jacaerys clenched his fists, his jaw tightening. “You expect me to accept that? To give up everything I’ve been raised to believe is mine?”

“You must,” Melisandre said simply. “The flames have spoken.”

“This is madness,” Jace muttered, turning away from the fire. “How can you place our lives in the hands of something so uncertain?”

“It is not uncertain,” Melisandre replied, her voice like steel. “The flames do not lie. They show what must be.”

 “Why is he destined for greatness while I am left to… what? Watch from the sidelines?” Jacaerys shot back, his tone bitter.

Rhaenyra’s heart broke at his words. She reached out to touch his cheek, but he flinched away, the pain in his expression cutting deeper than any blade.

“This isn’t about you,” she said softly, her voice thick with emotion. “This is about something greater than all of us. Something we cannot fully understand.”

“Then help me understand,” Jacaerys pleaded, his voice cracking. “Help me see why I’m not enough. Why it’s always Lucerys.”

“It is not about worth,” Melisandre interjected, her tone calm but firm. “It is about destiny. The flames do not choose based on merit or desire. They choose based on necessity. And Lucerys is necessary.”

Jacaerys turned to her, his anger flaring once more. “Necessary for what? To fulfill some prophecy? To save the world? How do we know any of this is true?”

“You don’t,” Melisandre replied simply. “Belief is not something I can give you, young prince. It is something you must find for yourself.”

Rhaenyra placed a hand on her son’s shoulder, her grip tightening as she tried to ground him. “Jace,” she said quietly, her voice filled with a mother’s love. “I know this is hard. I know it feels unfair…”

Jacaerys stormed out, his footsteps echoing down the stone corridor, each one a defiant beat against the silence that followed. The chamber seemed to breathe in his absence, the heavy air filled with the faint crackle of flames and the lingering tension of his anger.

Rhaenyra remained, her gaze fixed on the fire. The light flickered across her face, catching the sheen of unshed tears in her violet eyes. She felt the weight of Melisandre’s words pressing down on her, a burden she had not asked for and one she was not sure she could carry.

“My son,” she whispered, her voice breaking. The words hung in the air, fragile as glass. The prophecy loomed over her like a crown of iron—unyielding, suffocating.

The fire seemed to dance in response, its light casting shadows that twisted and stretched across the walls. The visions she had seen in the flames were etched into her mind—the ash-covered battlefield, the icy march of death, the monstrous figure that brought ruin to the world. And yet, amidst the chaos, there was Lucerys, her sweet boy, standing tall, a beacon of hope in the darkness.

She turned away from the hearth, her steps heavy as she left the chamber. The storm outside had begun to fade, its fury spent, leaving only the sound of rain tapping against the windows of Dragonstone.