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Though flying never lost its thrill, these days, it was equally contemplative. When Meleys launched into the sky, Rhaenys’ thoughts launched with her.
War was undeniably ugly. It was cruel. Rhaenys knew that, perhaps better than some of the people making the decisions about whether to engage in it.
But from up here, the vantage made everything clear. Without Daemon and Caraxes, it had to be her, and it had to be Meleys.
She sighed, and beneath her the dragon trilled a mournful echo. They’d always been of one mind, and she knew Meleys understood. It was time to fight.
Rhaenys had faced her duty and fought like a true Targaryen, but she had lost. Lost in fire and blood, but in shrieking pain. The disappointment cast a dark shadow behind her physical agony.
She was grateful the end was short.
In the dark, in the place beyond suffering, she grieved. For herself, and what was to become of Rhaenyra’s queendom.
A soft grunt made Rhaenys open her eyes to light, and to her dragon nudging her.
In disbelief, she mounted Meleys, and they flew on together toward the bright white gleam before them; to what waited for them next.