Chapter Text
War…war never changes.
And war is all she sees and feels as she lies amidst the smoldering ruins of Planky Town, her face a grotesque array of bruises and searing agony. There’s chaos here. One that she once reveled in, for the battlefield was her domain, a realm where her strength and will were supreme. But now, the melee of men, the clashing of steel, the stench of charred flesh, the cries of the dying and injured, the lamentations of those who have lost all that they held dear - these are the grim melodies to which Rhaenyra Targaryen has become reluctantly attuned to.
Her silver-gold hair, once lustrous and vibrant, is now a matted nest, singed and blackened by dragon flame. Her vision is hazy; hindered by the ugly scar slashed across her cheek. It still bleeds even now, sizzling as the charred remnants of her ringmail press into her wounds. The smell of her own burning flesh is a sickening aroma added to the stale incense of death that surrounds her.
“Foul Targaryens!”
A hoarse shriek emerges from the smoke-filled battlefield, a venomous curse that stabs into her heart. It was a voice of Dornish man, those proud inhabitants of the sunlit domains they now sought to conquer. She ought to be atop her dragon, Vhagar, her fellow soldiers viewing her in awe and terror as she mercilessly rained fire upon their enemies. But she had fallen, her body battered and heavy as stone.
Her fingers twitched, clawing into the hardened earth beneath her as the urge to rise took hold of her. Her blade, Dark Sister, lay a mere foot away, glistening dully in the chaotic flicker of dying flames. The Valyrian steel whispered to her like an old friend, promising a swift end to her suffering, if she chose to embrace it. She’s been leaning against that tempting promise more than she'd like to admit.
Rhaenyra tries to push herself into a sitting position to crawl for it, wincing as her wounds protest painfully so. But she feels something, or rather someone, lying on her legs —a body, still warm, but ever closer to the steps of death as she was. She knows this man, knows this silver-gold hair matted with blood and grime, long and curled like her own. His face, once handsome, was now marked with cuts and bruises. He bore the Valyrian beauty of their bloodline, although it was rapidly being consumed by the impending cold kiss of death.
It was her brother; Baelon the Perfect.
His reptilian-like eyes slowly moved to meet her gaze, his breathing labored, a feeble gasp against the symphony of carnage that played out around them. His body shuddered with each inhale, hands covering the festering wound on his abdomen. The blood seeped through the gaps between his fingers, pooling around the charred ringmail, a stark contrast against the dull black iron.
He’s dying. Even she could see that, feel his life ebbing away with each shuddering breath and each agonized whimper against her gore-streaked thigh. The two were both in a state of delirium and anguish so profoundly deep that the world around them seemed to blur into one macabre smear of hazy shapes and echoes.
"Rhaenyra," Baelon’s whisper came out as a ragged breath, his violet-dragon eyes welling up with unshed tears. His lips moved, shaping sounds that barely reached her ears over the cacophony of death that surrounded them. Yet she could read his lips - he was saying her name like a prayer. As if she was the last vestige of hope left in this world. His hand, covered in splotches of his own blood, reached out toward hers. His fingers, weak and twitching, were wet and sticky against her own blood-crusted ones. She could feel the tremors running through them as if they were her own.
The searing pain that remained on her cheek stung anew, the poison from the spear that struck her face finding new life. But she ignored it, the piercing gaze of her brother compelling her to stay present. The desperation in his eyes, the lingering fear of what was coming, and the underlying hope that perhaps she could do something – anything – to lessen his pain were clear in those violet depths. For here he was, vulnerable and weak in her arms - his ambition reduced to clinging to life in these fleeting moments.
“Is this what you saw, Father?” Baelon croaked, his voice barely a whisper, each word an effort. His gaze shifted upwards toward the clouded night sky, where dragonfire once painted a masterpiece of terror and beauty. "Is this the grand destiny you foresaw for us? Is this what the Song proclaimed?"
The once vibrant Planky Town was now a desolate ruin, its floating houses torched and its people butchered. The city's lifeblood, the Greenblood River, was now a murky mess of crimson. The scent of roasted flesh and charred wood hung heavy in the air, a macabre testament to their pyrrhic victory. And there were no words Rhaenyra could offer. No tears or prayers to their gods that could heal the wounds they bore. Her own life was a steadily draining pool, a threadbare tapestry rapidly unweaving itself from the grand design of their family's history.
“The one…to unite the Realm against the cold…and the dark,” Baelon whispers, his eyes glassy and unfocused. His hand weakly tugs at her sleeve, as if seeking warmth while the other clings to his side, pressing against wounds that marred his once-perfect figure. His features contort in pain, every breath a struggle, every word a battle in itself. But his eyes never leave her face, reflecting the same torment and resignation mirrored on her own. “It was supposed to be me…”
Again, no words came from Rhaenyra, even as his breathing grew shallower, more sporadic. His grip on her sleeve loosens as bloodied tears spill from his eyes, mixing with the mud and gore on his face. His gaze remains fixed on hers, pleading, searching for something she knows she cannot give.
“Tell me, Rhaenyra,” he gasped out, each word punctuated by a throaty cough that wracked him with spasms of pain. "Tell me it was worth it. All this death... all this loss." He clutched his bleeding side tighter in a futile attempt to staunch the flow of life seeping away from him.
There was something profoundly heart-wrenching in his plea, in the fear and regret etched into those once proud and arrogant features. Rhaenyra could feel her breath hitch as she met her brother's gaze, seeing the desperation mirrored in her soul reflected at her.
What was there to say? To lie to him as death claimed him would be a dishonor greater than any. But even if she could brush aside the sting of betrayal, the resentment that had festered since their father’s decision, she couldn't find the strength within her to deliver the sharp pang of truth. She could only stare into his dying eyes, their shared bloodline now a bond of shared misery.
The grip Baelon had on her sleeve slackened until it fell away entirely, his hand limply falling to his side. A lone tear rolled down his soot-streaked face, carving a clean path through the grime before falling unnoticed onto the gruesome battlefield. His lips moved in silent prayer, shaping words she could hardly hear over her ragged breathing.
“Laena, Rhaena, Baela,…forgive me,” his voice trailed off into a faint whisper, the effort of uttering each name noticeably draining him further. His eyes held a faraway look, perhaps seeing faces that she couldn't, his mind wandering to places beyond her reach.
And once his breathing had finally come to a halt, and his eyes lost their last spark of life, Rhaenyra found herself alone amidst the ruin and decay. Numbly, she reached out one trembling hand and gently closed his eyes for the last time. The once charismatic conqueror lay silent and still beneath her touch, the ambitious fire within him snuffed out just like the flames that continued to die around them.
A silent tear trickled down her face, catching in the gash that tore across her cheek. It burned but she felt no pain, her senses dulled amidst the stench of death and despair. The tears that had watched and waited in the corners of her eyes spilled over, tracing their salty paths down her grimy face, mingling with the blood that dried on her skin.
She held Baelon's lifeless body close, her sobs muffled against the blood-stained cloak that still held the faint scent of him - the heady notes of musk mixed with the metallic tang of his lifeblood. Around them, the remnants of Dorne's defenses lay shattered and the ashes fluttered in a chilling wind that swept across Planky Town, none yet to realize that the heir to the Iron Throne had fallen.
“…Goodbye, brother.”