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Chapter Text

Prologue - Gart the Bald 132AC

I felt the rain in my bones before I tasted it on my lips. It came soft at first, a mist clinging to my face like the breath of ghosts, then heavier, fat drops that slicked the roads and turned the fields to mire. My cloak hung heavy against my back, my boots sucked at the mud with every weary step, and still we marched. Twenty thousand men, they said. Twenty thousand Baratheon men, marching beneath the crowned stag toward Rosby, beneath banners soaked dark by rain and wind.

We were the storm, or so Lord Borros Baratheon had called us, shouting from horseback as we left the gates of Storm’s End. “The storm rides north!” he had roared, and the men had roared with him, spears raised high, shields banging in rhythm like a thousand drums. I had shouted too, because what else was a man to do? But as the miles wore on, and the rain began, and the roads worsened, the storm seemed to falter, the roar turned to mutters, the thunder to a slog of mud and hooves and iron.

I walked with the footmen. Hedge knights had no place among the lords and their bright banners. My armor was patched and dull, my cloak a threadbare green, my sword an old thing notched and battered from years of use. Gart the Bald, they called me. Not for my head, though the hair had begun to thin, but for the plainness of me. A bald man’s luck, they’d say. A bald man’s future. No coin, no castle, no cause but the gold in his purse. And the Greens paid well enough.

The road from KingsLanding twisted through low hills, and as we crested a rise I could see the host stretched out behind me, a winding serpent of men and horses, carts and banners. The archers tramped along the verges, hoods drawn up against the rain, their longbows slung across their backs. The knights rode in columns beneath fluttering pennants, their shields painted with stags and mailed fists and thunderbolts. Lords’ sons with golden spurs, hedge knights with none. And behind them, the baggage train: wagons creaking, oxen lowing, the camp followers trudging through the muck, women and boys and old men trailing the army’s wake like shadows.

Ahead, Rosby loomed in the distance, a low curtain wall and a crooked tower rising from the wet plain. Smoke curled from its chimneys, faint against the gray sky. It looked small, defenseless, a mouse’s burrow before the jaws of a lion.

“They’ll yield,” muttered Ser Harwin Wensington beside me, his mail wet and dark. “Rosby’s not fool enough to stand against twenty thousand men.”

“Maybe,” I said. “Or maybe they’re waiting for us to bleed ourselves dry before the real war begins.”

He laughed at that, a short bitter sound. “This isn’t the real war?”

No, I thought. Not yet.

We passed a field of sodden barley, the stalks flattened by rain, and ahead the horns blew to signal a halt. Lord Borros rode to the front, his armor black and gold, his warhelm crowned with antlers that gleamed despite the gloom. His sons rode beside him, grim-faced beneath their plumes.

“Rosby will open its gates,” Lord Borros declared, his voice carrying over the ranks. “And if they do not, we will tear them down. The king’s justice will be done.”

A cheer rose, half-hearted, tired. I kept silent. My eyes were on the ridge beyond the town, where something stirred, a line of riders, perhaps, or just shadows in the mist. The banners were hard to make out, blurred by distance and rain, but they weren’t ours. Red and black, I thought. Or was it just the dusk playing tricks?

Ser Harwin followed my gaze. “You see something?”

“Maybe.”

He frowned. “Dragons?”

“No,” I said. “Not yet.” But the thought lingered.

We made camp beneath the hill, the army spreading like spilled ink over the muddy ground. The fires sputtered and hissed in the drizzle. Men wrapped cloaks about their shoulders, huddling together in small groups, passing skins of wine between them. Laughter came from one circle, soft and nervous.

Ser Harwin squatted beside me, cutting a hunk of bread with his dagger. “You fought at Torturer's Deep, didn’t you?” he asked, glancing sideways.

I nodded. “Aye.”

“What was it like?”

I thought of the sea, choked with corpses, the screams that had echoed through the reeds. As men were burnt alive, as the Triarchy bore witness to the Red King, and all his wrath.

“Wet,” I said. “Bloody. Loud.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “You’ve a poet’s tongue, Gart.”

“Not much call for poets these days.” I said back,

“You served with Prince Gaemon then?” Harwin should’ve been a damned maester with all his questions.

“Aye I served with the Prince” I said trying to end the conversation

“What was he like, I heard he was a hell of a warrior, to be one and ten and gutting down men like that” Harwin gushed,

“He was exactly as the stories say” I said, a Monster .

A gust of wind rattled the trees. Somewhere a horse whinnied in alarm. I looked toward the ridge again. The figures were gone now, or hidden by the mist.

“They’ll come at dawn, if they come,” I said quietly.

Ser Harwin chewed his bread. “You think they’ll fight us?”

“They’ve little choice.”

A horn sounded in the distance, low and mournful. A second answered it. Then silence.

I pulled my cloak tighter, lying back on the damp earth. Sleep did not come easy. The rain stopped in the small hours, leaving the night cold and damp. I dreamt of wings, vast and leathery, blotting out the stars.

When I woke, the eastern sky was pale, the fires reduced to embers. Rosby’s walls stood quiet, torches guttering atop the battlements. And above, circling in the dawn light, was a crow.

Rosby’s Gates reamined shut, I put my armor on solemnly as the morning air washed over me, a slight bit of calm and peace before this bloodbath. Harwin was finally quiet at least, I think he had the knot all men get before battle, the one that tells you to run, but running don’t pay.

I can taste the blood of the storm in the air, the rain lingering in the earth beneath my boots. My sword is heavy in my hand, the grip slick with the rain and the sweat from my palms. The Baratheon army surges forward like a wall of iron and mud, twenty thousand men pressing against the crumbling defenses of Rosby. The ground is a churn of filth, hooves slipping, men shouting, and the distant clamor of the siege echoing in my ears.

The city is silent behind its walls, a quiet stillness that only fuels the tension building in my gut. I try not to look at it, try not to see the glimmer of torches from the battlements as we draw closer. There is no going back now.

Ser Harwin walks beside me, his dark mail soaked through, his face grim. “You ready for this?” he asks, his voice barely audible over the din of the army.

I grip my sword tighter. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” I say, though I can feel my heart hammering in my chest. The words feel like a lie even as they leave my mouth.

The Baratheons begin their advance in earnest. The first wave of archers fires, their arrows soaring into the misty morning, but Rosby’s defenders answer with their own volleys, the twang of bows sharp in the air. I’m just another man among many, pushing forward with the footmen, my face hidden beneath the soggy hood of my cloak, my armor a dull thing that’s seen far too many fights to gleam.

Ahead of us, the first ladders are raised against the walls, and the roar of battle begins. It’s loud. Too loud. There’s no room for hesitation now. Men start to climb, the sounds of the struggle rising as more ladders hit stone. I move toward the base of the ladder, the tip of my sword rising with it.

The first climb is a blur of arms and legs, the wet wood of the ladder slick beneath my palms, and then I’m over the top, my boots slamming into the stone as I leap into the chaos of Rosby’s defenders. They are waiting, their faces hard, their weapons drawn.

A man charges at me, a bastard sword in hand. I barely have time to raise my own, deflecting the blow that would’ve taken my head clean off. The sound of steel meeting steel is deafening. I counter, driving my sword into the man’s gut, and watch him collapse, the life draining from his eyes. His body crumples into the muck beneath us.

I barely have time to breathe before another man is on me, this one a soldier with a broad shield. I sidestep, swinging my sword low, and it cuts through the man’s legs, sending him stumbling to the ground. There’s no time to savor the victory; more are coming, rushing forward like rats abandoning a sinking ship. I press on, my feet slipping in the blood-soaked mud.

“Push!” someone shouts from behind me, but it’s hard to make out who, the voices lost in the maelstrom of the battle. I keep my eyes ahead, slashing at anything that moves.

A horn blows in the distance. It’s low, mournful, and for a moment I think it might be the signal to fall back. But then another horn answers it, this one louder, more urgent. Rosby’s defenders are rallying. They must be, or we wouldn’t still be fighting here.

I push forward, my mind focused only on the fight at hand. My body moves on instinct, ducking under a wild swing, landing a quick thrust into a soldier’s side. Blood spills everywhere, the rain making the ground slicker by the second. The smell of sweat, mud, and death hangs in the air like a thick fog.

Another charge. This one is harder. I find myself back-to-back with Ser Harwin, both of us holding the line against a fresh wave of defenders. “They’re not giving up,” he mutters between gritted teeth, fending off a blow with his shield.

“No,” I say, my voice tight. “They’re not.”

More bodies fall. I don’t count them, don’t need to. The sight is burned into my memory, the faces of those who fall in front of me. I don’t feel pity, not now. Not when I’m fighting for my life.

The siege towers have finally reached the gates, and with a deafening crash, the gates are torn asunder. The Baratheons flood the city like a river breaking through a dam. But the defenders aren’t done yet. They fight back harder, retreating only when there is nowhere left to run.

I cut through another man’s defense, his shield splintering under my blow, and then, finally, the gates are taken. I hear Lord Borros’ voice, commanding his men to push forward, to claim victory, but the city isn’t surrendered yet. There’s more to be done.

I feel something rising in me, a tension pulling tighter and tighter until I’m sure it’s going to snap. This is war. This is what it feels like to fight for your life.

The battle had raged for hours, but now, at last, it was over.

The gates had fallen, and the flood of Baratheon men had overwhelmed the defenders. I stood at the top of the shattered wall, gazing out at the carnage. Blood soaked the earth like a dark tide, bodies scattered across the ground, their once vibrant shields now dull and shattered. The air was thick with the stench of death and the sharp tang of steel. I was covered in it, blood, sweat, rain, mud. The weight of my sword was a comfort now, its familiar weight a reminder that the fight had ended.

I wiped the sweat from my brow, my hands trembling. It was always the same after a battle, the rush, the chaos, and then the silence. And it was in that silence that I heard Harwin’s voice behind me, rough and strained.

“Gart…” he said, his voice hoarse from shouting and the exertion of the fight. “We did it.”

I nodded, though the words felt hollow. The storm had won. Rosby had fallen. But the cost... it would always be there, a stain that couldn't be washed away.

Looking around, I saw the aftermath, men picking themselves up, helping their wounded comrades, some kneeling to pray, others shouting in triumph. But none of it felt like victory. Not to me. Not after seeing the faces of the men we’d killed, the faces of the men I’d killed.

Harwin clapped me on the shoulder, a rough gesture. “Come on. They’ll be feasting soon. You need a drink.”

I didn’t argue. I didn’t know if I needed a drink, but it would numb the gnawing in my gut. I followed him through the ruins of the city, past the broken walls and abandoned homes. The streets were slick with rainwater and blood, and the air was thick with the smoke of burning buildings.

We found our way to the Baratheon camp, where the fires were already blazing. Lord Borros Baratheon was at the center of it all, his massive frame surrounded by his sons and the other lords. They were celebrating, their voices booming over the crackling of the fire.

I didn’t belong among them, but I wasn’t about to stand outside either. I was a hedge knight, after all, a man without a title or a name. Still, I had my sword, and I had my life, and that counted for something in this world.

Ser Harwin found us a spot near the fire, and I sank onto a log, the heat from the flames cutting through the dampness of my bones. A servant came by with a flagon of wine, and I took it gratefully, the liquid burning down my throat. It wasn’t the best wine, but it was strong enough to chase away the taste of death that still lingered in my mouth.

I looked over at Harwin, who was already talking with some of the other knights, his voice rising in the midst of the laughter. I wasn’t much for company tonight. I found myself staring into the flames, watching them flicker and dance.

The sounds of the feast surrounded me, the clinking of cups, the laughter, the occasional shout of triumph, but it all felt distant, like I was watching it from behind a veil.

A voice broke through my thoughts. “Didn’t think you’d survive the day, Gart.”

I looked up, and there stood Lord Borros, his massive frame towering over me. His armor was clean, for the most part, though I could see the bloodstains on his cloak.

“I’m still here,” I said, meeting his eyes. “By some luck, I suppose.”

He laughed, a deep belly laugh that seemed to shake his whole body. “Aye, luck and skill. That’s what keeps men alive in battle.”

He clapped me on the back, and I fought the urge to wince. The man was a mountain of muscle and weight.

“You fought well today. You’ll be getting a reward, I think,” Borros said, his tone casual but not without some weight.

I raised an eyebrow. “A reward? For a hedge knight?”

“Even a hedge knight can earn his place. It’s the Baratheon way.” He grinned, showing a mouthful of crooked teeth. “Consider it your share of the spoils. When this is all done, we’ll see about finding you a proper seat.”

I wasn’t sure if I believed him, but I nodded anyway. What else could I do? The man had just handed me a sliver of hope, and I wasn’t about to throw it away.

“Thank you, my lord,” I said, my voice still rough.

Borros gave me a slap on the shoulder and moved on to the next group. I watched him go, the firelight casting long shadows across his face.

Harwin sat beside me then, his face still flushed from the wine and the battle. He was grinning.

“I told you we’d make it through,” he said, his voice full of an energy I didn’t feel. “Didn’t I? We fought like the gods themselves were watching over us.”

I didn’t answer right away. Instead, I just stared at the fire, thinking about everything we’d lost in the fight for Rosby. The city might have fallen, but something deep inside me had cracked, a part of me that would never heal.

The wind carried the scent of smoke and death across the camp. The feast raged on, but I didn’t feel like celebrating. Not tonight. Not when there were still so many men left behind.

“We did what we had to do,” I said finally, my voice low.

Harwin looked at me, his grin fading just slightly. “Aye. We did. But now we’re alive to drink and feast, and maybe that’s enough for tonight.”

I didn’t know if it was enough. But for now, it would have to be. I raised my cup and took another drink, the bitter taste of wine doing little to drown out the thoughts in my mind.

The Baratheons had won. Rosby had fallen. And tomorrow, we would march on to the next battle.

But tonight… tonight, I would remember the faces of the dead, and hope that I wouldn’t forget them too quickly. I had learned to be grateful for my life, ever since I almost lost it in the Stepstones.

And as the feast went on around me, I thought of the battle and the wreckage it had left in its wake. The Baratheon banners were raised high, and I wondered just how long they would fly before the next one came.

I wake to the sounds of screams, distant at first, but soon growing nearer, sharp and desperate. My mind instantly snaps to attention, the instinctive reaction of a soldier long trained to respond to danger. I spring from my bedroll, hand already seeking the hilt of my sword. The chaos of fleeing men floods my senses, shouting, clattering footsteps, the crackling of burning wood, but it’s the roar that stops me cold.

A dragon’s roar.

It echoes across the camp, low and thunderous, vibrating in my chest. And I know that sound. I know it all too well. It’s a dragon. The same beasts I fought alongside in the Stepstones. The same dragons that razed everything in its path. The very beasts I had hoped to never have to encounter again.

I stumble forward, pushing past the disoriented men scattering in every direction. The heat begins to press in, even from here, and the shadow overhead darkens the sky like a storm cloud. There’s a terrible, overwhelming feeling in the air, the feeling of something too massive to fight.

And then I see it, Silverwing, descending toward the camp like a living storm. Its wings blot out the sun, casting the ground beneath it in shifting shadows, the enormous form descending with terrifying grace.

The ground shudders beneath my feet as it lands, the impact throwing up a cloud of dust. My stomach lurches as I remember that roar, the fire, the destruction from when we against the Triarchy in the Stepstones. But this time, it’s different. The dragon isn’t here to fight, it’s here to burn.

I don’t need to look at the rider to know who it is. The shape on the dragon’s back is unmistakable.

Baelon. The prince.

My heart tightens as I watch him, memories flooding back from the Stepstones. His gaze briefly shifts to me, and for a moment, I swear it is as if he recognized me. It’s fleeting, but it’s enough to send a shiver down my spine.

The dragon’s massive wings beat once, sending another wave of heat through the camp. Men around me scream and scatter, and the air itself feels like it’s on fire. There’s no fight to be had here. I know that now. It’s not about us standing our ground, this is a power play, a show of dominance, and we are nothing but ants beneath its shadow.

I clutch my sword tighter, but I know the outcome before it’s even begun. We’re too outmatched, too far from any hope of escape. All we have left is the decision to stand or run.

I am knocked to the ground by a passing squire. Then I see him, making another pass through the camp, his line is directly at me. I am frozen by fear, I wonder, will it be quick, or will it be the agony I once saw in the stepstones.

Chapter Text

Chapter 1 - Baelon I. 132AC

I ran through the gates, breathless, heart pounding in my chest, the weight of exhaustion forgotten beneath the rush of longing. And there she was, Helaena, standing beneath the archway, her hands folded at her waist, her smile tremulous and shining through the gathering dusk. I barely had the presence of mind to drop my sword before I crossed the yard in great strides and swept her into my arms.

I held her tight, tighter than I’d ever held anyone, feeling the softness of her body against mine, the warmth of her skin pressing into the cold armor I hadn’t yet shed. Three long years apart. Three years of war and blood and fire. Three years dreaming of this moment. The wait was over.

I buried my face in her hair, breathing her in, sweet and familiar despite the faint scent of ash clinging to me from Rosby’s burning fields. My hands shook as I held her, and I did not care. I must have looked a sight, smeared with soot, my cloak singed at the hem, sweat and dirt crusting my brow, but she didn’t pull away. She simply melted into me, and for that one endless moment, nothing else mattered.

I don’t know how long I held her. Minutes? Hours? I never wanted to let go.

But then I opened my eyes, lifting my head just enough to glimpse a small figure beside her. A nursemaid stood nearby, cradling a swaddled child in her arms. My breath caught in my throat. Helaena followed my gaze and turned, her smile widening with quiet pride.

“Baelon,” she said softly, voice trembling with joy, “meet your son. Prince Viserys.”

It was as if the world shifted beneath my feet. Slowly, reverently, I stepped forward, and the nursemaid placed the child into my waiting arms. I cradled him close, scarcely daring to breathe, as though he were a fragile dream that might vanish at a touch.

My son. My own flesh and blood. I had known he existed, written in letters carried by ravens across sea and sky. But knowing and holding were worlds apart. His weight settled against my chest, grounding me in a way nothing else ever had. He stirred faintly, eyelids fluttering, small fingers curling into tiny fists.

He was perfect. His skin was soft and warm, his hair already the pale silver of our house, his eyes, those eyes, opening slowly, shining amethyst beneath his delicate lashes. Valyrian through and through. Mine. Ours.

I swallowed hard, a knot forming in my throat, too large for words. I pressed a trembling kiss to his brow, silently vowing in that instant that I would burn the world thrice over to protect him.

A commotion at the gate drew my gaze. Turning, I saw them entering the yard, Mother, Jaehaerys, Baela, and little Shiera. They had all come to welcome me home. For a moment, I could only stand there, holding my son, drinking in the sight of them.

They all looked so different, older in ways that stung with the reminder of time lost. Except for Mother, no, she hadn’t changed. Or perhaps I simply couldn’t bear to see it. Her eyes met mine, shining with unshed tears, and she hurried forward, wrapping me in a fierce embrace, careful not to crush Viserys between us.

“It is good to have you back, my son,” she whispered, her voice trembling. I felt her tears warm against my cheek, and I had to bite the inside of my lip, hard, to keep my own from falling.

I held her tightly, pressing my face into her shoulder as the dam threatened to break. “It’s good to be home,” I murmured hoarsely.

Jaehaerys approached next, Baela at his side, their hands intertwined. They had married here, I’d heard, while I was away spilling blood in foreign fields. He stood taller now, leaner, the beginnings of a beard dotting his chin. A man grown. And yet, when he smiled at me, I saw the same boy beneath it.

“Brother,” I said warmly, drawing him into a firm hug, careful of the child between us. “How you’ve grown.”

“And you as well, Baelon,” Jaehaerys replied with a grin, clapping me on the shoulder. “Looks like Father made a man of you after all.”

I laughed softly, the sound rough with relief. “Seems he did.”

Then it was Shiera’s turn. She practically flew into my arms, her laughter bubbling like a brook. “Big brother,” she exclaimed, squeezing me tight, “you’ll have to tell me everything! Everything about the Stepstones!”

I looked down at her, astonished by how much she’d changed. No longer the willful girl of one-and-ten I’d left behind, but a young woman blooming into her own, though her mischievous grin remained untouched by time.

I hugged her back, my heart aching with the joy and grief of all I’d missed. “I’ll tell you all,” I promised softly, glancing down once more at the small, warm weight in my arms. “But not tonight. Tonight… tonight, I am home.”

And for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, I let myself believe it.

We sat at a great wooden table, and I ate the food of my home for the first time. Not the hard food of the north, or the hearty evening meal of the Vale but the food of my home, light and decadent. 

Mother turned to me, “So what of the Vale and North?” she said, no pleasure without business I suppose,

“The north comes with no price, but they will take a time to muster, the vale is loyal, but requires assurances” I said,

“What assurance?” mother asked,

“They require a dragon to defend the Eyrie” I said to her, I knew she would not like it. She swore up and down about there oaths and all that.

“Many things decay in the time of war, but we are not without options” I said to her,

“What options” she asked,

“Send Jaehaerys and Baela, both of their dragons are viable with riding, perhaps small but still useful, and two is better than one” I said to her,

Jaehaerys dropped his fork, turning to stare at me “You want me to go to the Vale?” he asked, 

“I don’t actually, Father does” I said taking the parchment from my pocket and passing it to him. He looked defeated at that, if my information was correct father was still in the riverlands, gathering a host there to repel and fight the Baratheon Army, reinforced by the vale he might be able to crush them. 

“When?” Baela asked, she did not seem as made as Jaehaerys, 

“As soon as possible, the more men we can muster to aid father the better” I said to her,

“We can leave on the morrow” Baela said, and the rest of dinner went well, me telling Sheira stories of battle in the Stepstones, although it haunted me at night I am glad to know she found comfort in it, or atleast entertainment.

That night I lay in bed with Helaena, we had just finished coupling for what felt like hours, I let out a satisfied sigh as she cuddled up next to me, hugging my arm and looking up at me with her great big Eyes,

“Please Baelon, stay for as long as possible” she said to me in a soft tone. She knew the war could not wait forever, but tonight I was content to act as if it could.

“I will try, my love” I said to her, kissing her forehead.

I rose early, the sunlight filtering pale and thin through the high windows of the solar. My body ached from travel and battle, but there was no time to rest. Duty called, as it always did. Today, I was no longer merely a son or a brother or a husband. Today, I was heir and prince, and all eyes would turn to me.

I entered the council chamber to find them already gathered. The Castellan, Septwyn, stood nearest the door, his hands folded in front of him, his robes immaculate despite the hour. Lord Tyro, Master of Coin, sat beside him, counting a stack of ledgers with meticulous care. Across the table, the lords of the surrounding lands murmured among themselves, old men and young, weathered faces marked by worry and doubt.

They fell silent as I strode in, every head turning to me. I took my place at the head of the table, my father’s chair still empty in his absence, though its shadow loomed large. I rested my hands on the table, steadying myself.

“Report,” I said simply.

It was Septwyn who spoke first, his voice even but urgent. “We’ve had word from the Reach and Westerlands, my prince. The Hightowers and the Lannisters have raised their banners. They march east, toward King’s Landing, to reinforce the city and push through the Crownlands.”

A heavy weight settled on my chest. “And King’s Landing itself?”

“ The city prepares for siege, but their walls are strong, their food stores deep. They mean to hold. The stolen Triarchy fleet that Gaemon has led into Kingslandings arms seems to have turned to their side”

I nodded grimly. “And Corlys?”

Lord Tyro answered this time, his voice more hopeful. “Lord Velaryon’s blockade holds strong in Blackwater Bay. No ships enter, no ships leave. His fleet keeps the supply lines choked, but the city still draws from inland granaries. He sends word: he cannot hold the blockade alone if the Lannister fleet sails from Lannisport.”

“I don’t believe he will, not until the Kraken makes its move, he should not leave the rock undefended by the sea.” I exhaled slowly. “And the Reach?”

“Still splintered, my prince,” Septwyn said. “The Tyrells remain undecided. Redwyne is silent. Daemon remains at the Arbor.”

I frowned. “He’s been there too long without sending word.”

“Perhaps the Redwynes hesitate, waiting on Highgarden’s lead,” Lord Tyro suggested.

“Perhaps,” I murmured. “But time is a luxury we don’t have.” I paused, then added, “I did some damage to the Baratheon host at Rosby, but I dared not stay should they have had a dragon with them”

“Tyrosh and the Stepstones?” I asked, 

“We have word that order has been restored, reconstruction is going as well as it can be expected with the coin we have, the Red Company should be able to move at seventy five percent capacity to aid us within the year” Septwyn said,

I nodded, at least that was good. “What courses of action do we have currently” I asked, 

“Not much outside a full out Dragon attack on KingsLanding, but the King has forbid that, there is naught to do but wait my Prince, let the King gather forces in the Riverlands, Once he has done that hopefully the Vale will be able to join him to fight the Baratheons, we must pray Prince Daemon has the Strength to take Old Town, if he does, we will have delt a major blow to the Greens cause” Septwyn said,

I think he thought I was anxious, and I was. But I was also content to stay with my family for another day, 

The courtyard was still and cold, the pale morning light just beginning to touch the stone of the castle walls. Horses were being saddled, the heavy sound of hooves echoing off the stone as Jaehaerys and Baela stood by their mounts, preparing for a journey that would take them far from here.

I stood at the edge of the courtyard, my heart clenched tight in my chest. The reality of what was happening, what was about to unfold, had settled like a weight I couldn’t shake. They would be gone for the rest of the war. How long that would be, none of us could say.

Jaehaerys looked back at me, his expression a mixture of resolve and something softer that he quickly masked. He could never show weakness, not in front of his soldiers, not in front of his wife. But I saw it, the uncertainty behind his eyes, the fear that his duty would separate him from his family forever.

“Baelon…” he started, his voice steady, though I knew it took every ounce of control to keep it that way. “I’ll be back. I promise.”

I stepped forward, resting my hand on his shoulder, feeling the solid strength of the man he had become beneath my fingers. There was no denying it. He had grown into his role, and it was a role he would not easily relinquish. He was a man now, one day I hoped to have him by my side as I ruled.

“I know,” I said, my voice low, the words barely a whisper. “Just make sure you return, Jaehaerys. I don’t know what I’d do without you, while we are different, that is our strength, you are part of my strength, I will need you by my side.”

The words hung between us, more powerful than any promise or oath. 

Baela, standing quietly by Jaehaerys’s side, gave me a small, bittersweet smile. She knew what this meant. We all did. The war had already begun , everyone had their part to play, even they did.”

“Baelon…” she said softly, stepping closer. “We will be back, I swear. I will see to it.”

I reached out and pulled her into a tight hug, my hand lingering on the back of her head, holding her close. She was my sister-in-law, but she was more than that, she was a part of this family, and the thought of not seeing her, not hearing her voice for the months or even years ahead, struck me harder than I’d imagined.

“Take care of him, Baela,” I said, my voice thick with emotion. “And if anything happens, ”

“Nothing will happen,” she interrupted, her voice strong, though I knew she was holding back her own fears. “We will return. And when we do, we will be here to help you.”

I pulled away slowly, glancing from one to the other, trying to commit them to memory. The sight of them, standing so resolutely together, was both a comfort and a pain. I wanted them to return. More than anything, I wanted that.

But a part of me knew better. The war would take time. It would take everything.

Jaehaerys mounted Dusk Scale, his movements sure, but his eyes never left me. Baela followed his lead, swinging gracefully onto Moondancer, and for a moment, I could see the unity between them, the strength they drew from one another.

I took a step back, my heart heavy. “Stay safe. Both of you,” I said, my voice cracking despite my efforts to keep it steady.

Baela gave me a final, lingering look, her eyes full of unspoken promises. “This will all be over before you know it.”

Jaehaerys nodded, and for the first time, I saw the shadow of something else in his gaze, a deep, unwavering love for his family, for his wife, for me. He would not return empty-handed. He would bring the Vale into the fold..

The dragons spread their wings, and in a moment, they were gone. Soaring into the sky, leaving me behind on the ground.

I stood there, watching them disappear into the horizon, my chest tight with the weight of their absence. The wind had picked up, carrying the dust of the battlefield on its breath. I could feel it, the pull of fate, the inevitability of the war.

And though I didn’t want to admit it, I knew that their journey was only just beginning. It was a journey none of us could escape from.

I turned away, my heart a mix of pride and sorrow, as I prepared to face what would come next.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2 - Daeron I. 132 AC

From the highest balcony of the Hightower, I could see it all: the winding streets twisting like threads spun from the Honeywine, the city's veins glinting golden in the afternoon light. Each turn of the roads spoke of history, of merchants, beggars, and knights alike, all tangled within Oldtown's ancient embrace. The white domes and pale spires of the temples gathered around the Starry Sept, their marble forms gleaming like seashells washed up on an endless shore. The docks bustled with life, the ships’ masts like a forest of iron and wood, their sails rippling in the wind as sailors bellowed commands and the creak of ropes punctuated the air. Beyond it all, the sea shimmered, stretching endlessly to a horizon that felt as unknowable as the future itself.

When I was younger, I thought Oldtown was a city of wonder. A place for dreamers, for maesters and bells, where the smell of books and ink filled every corner and the stories woven within the ancient walls seemed to have no end. It was a place where my heart felt light, and the world seemed full of possibility. But now, as I stood there, the city's beauty no longer soothed me. I could see the fear beneath it, creeping like a shadow, thickening with each passing day.

The soldiers drilled in the yards below, their armor flashing in the sunlight, and I could hear the sharp clank of weapons as they practiced their formations. Barricades had risen at the gates, iron and wood standing like silent sentinels, guarding against some impending storm. Whispers floated through the markets, low and fearful, the tension almost palpable in the air. I saw the way men clutched their swords tightly, as though they might slip into the unknown at any moment, and the way mothers pulled their children close, as if trying to shield them from the world beyond. The city was waiting—waiting for war, and so was I.

They told me Tessarion was ready. The dragon gleamed in the sunlight, her scales a brilliant blend of blue and copper. I could almost feel her restlessness from here, the barely contained energy that matched my own. Every day, Lord Ormund pressed me with the same words: “Soon, you’ll ride, Daeron. Soon, the realm will need you.” His hand on my shoulder was always heavy with the weight of expectation. I tried to stand tall, to show courage for him, for my mother, for the King, but I was only ten.

I wasn’t supposed to be afraid. Dragons weren’t supposed to be afraid. They were creatures of power and fire, untouchable and eternal. But every night, I dreamt of fire. Fire over the Honeywine, consuming the streets in a flash of red. Fire on my skin, scorching my flesh with its heat. I had been told it was the price of being a Targaryen, but I was too young to know if I could bear the cost.

And now Daemon Targaryen had sailed to the Arbor. No one knew if the Redwyne fleet would stand with him or against him, and no one knew if he would make his way to Oldtown next. Every bell that rang, every ship’s sail on the horizon, made my heart skip a beat. The world felt smaller, more immediate, every hour. I stood on the balcony, the wind tugging at my hair, and watched the sea.

Waiting.

Ser Garmund, Lord Ormund’s son, had taken the Hightower’s army and was marching toward King’s Landing, to join my brother. I should have been there, at my brother’s side, not here in this fortress, waiting for something that seemed far out of my control. The fleet Gaemon had acquired was caught in the Blackwater Rush, trapped beneath the Sea Snake’s blockade. The Lannisters, too cautious to move without knowing where Lord Dalton Greyjoy stood, would not lift a finger to help us. I couldn’t blame Lord Jason for his hesitation; the kraken’s ships prowled the waters now, raiding the coasts of the North and Riverlands. Fear of them was as instinctual as fear of fire.

At sunset, they summoned me to the hall.

The Hightower’s great hall smelled of smoke and ancient stone, the scent of age and power clinging to the very air. Candles burned in iron sconces, their flames flickering like little reminders of the danger that surrounded us, casting long shadows across the beams above. Maps were spread out on the table, with small wooden figures pinned down to represent ships, dragons, knights, and castles. The lords and captains of the Hightower circled around the table, their faces grim, their voices low, weighed down by the gravity of the moment.

“The Baratheons have taken Duskendale,” Maester Thaddeus said, his finger tracing the map. “Lord Borros marches north toward Rook Rest. They could reach the walls in a fortnight if they press hard.”

“And Prince Rhaegar?” Lord Ormund asked, his tone sharp with concern.

“Still in the Riverlands, my lord,” Maester Thaddeus replied. “But ravens report that the men of the Vale are on the march. Lady Jeyne has called her banners. They will join him at Harrenhal.”

A low murmur passed through the assembled lords. Their expressions darkened further.

“And Daemon?” Ormund’s voice was tight with something like dread.

“No word since he arrived at the Arbor,” the maester answered, his voice betraying a hint of unease. “No declaration from Lord Redwyne. Only silence.”

The silence that followed was almost oppressive, as though the very air had grown heavier. It stretched out, leaving no room for easy words.

Ser Hobert frowned, his lips pressing into a thin line. “If the Redwyne fleet joins him…”

“If,” Lord Ormund cut in sharply. “Until then, we hold.”

“But if the Arbor opens its ports to him, Daemon could sail by sunrise,” Ser Hobert pressed, his brow furrowed in concern. “He could be here in two days.”

“And we have no fleet to stop him,” another knight muttered, his voice laced with frustration.

Lord Ormund’s gaze swept over them, his eyes hard and unyielding. “Oldtown has withstood worse than Daemon Targaryen. We will not yield.”

Yet, beneath the flickering candlelight, I saw the shadows beneath his eyes, the exhaustion of a man stretched thin by too many burdens.

He looked at me then, his gaze steady but heavy. “Prince Daeron,” he said, his voice low but full of command.

I stepped forward, my heart pounding in my chest.

“If Daemon comes, you will ride Tessarion. You will guard the skies.”

The words hit me like a blow. The weight of them hung in the air, thick and suffocating.

I nodded, my throat dry. “Yes, my lord.”

“Not to seek battle,” Lord Ormund continued, his tone softer now, more fatherly, “but to watch. To warn. To stand between the city and his flame.”

I imagined it then: the harbor burning, the Hightower burning, the streets choked with smoke, the sky painted with fire. I imagined Tessarion’s wings spread above it all, and me upon her back, facing the terror that was Caraxes.

I wasn’t supposed to be afraid.

But I was.

The council continued to speak in low voices, debating ravens unanswered, armies gathering, the blockade tightening around King’s Landing. I stood there, a small figure among them, staring at the map. Tessarion, a tiny copper dragon, was pinned next to Oldtown, a stark reminder of the responsibility that awaited me.

That night, I sat alone in my chambers, staring out into the starry night. I wondered how long I had left before I would have to face Daemon. I had heard the stories of his battle prowess, how he had torn through armies like a knife through cloth. How could I stand against him? How could I fight someone like him?

A soft knock at my door interrupted my thoughts. “Come in,” I said, my voice hollow.

Bethany entered, her beauty like a balm to my troubled soul. She was Ormund’s daughter, a girl with smooth, golden skin and hair that shimmered like the sunlight on the Honeywine. Her eyes were kind, and her smile, though small, was enough to make the world seem a little less heavy.

She moved to sit next to me, a flagon of wine in her hands. I smiled faintly as she poured us both goblets of honeyed wine. The liquid was sweet, tart, and warm, slipping down my throat with a comforting heat that spread through my veins.

“How are you, Daeron?” she asked, her voice soft, a touch of concern in it.

I stared down into my goblet, watching the candlelight dance off its surface. “I don’t know,” I admitted, my voice tight. “I feel like a boy wearing a prince’s cloak. Everyone sees the cloak, but inside…” I trailed off, shaking my head.

Bethany’s gaze softened, and she leaned in, her eyes understanding. “Inside, you’re still you.”

I looked at her, really looked at her, and felt something stir deep within me. Something more than the warmth of the wine. “I’m supposed to be more than me,” I whispered. “A dragonrider. A warrior. The savior of the city.”

She reached out, her hand covering mine with a gentle, reassuring pressure. “You’re ten.” Her smile was small, but it held a quiet strength. “And still braver than most men twice your age.”

I wanted to believe her, I did. But the weight of the future pressed down on me, and I could only look out into the night, waiting for the dawn.

“There have only been so many men riding dragons,” she said, I gave her a curious look.

“I mean sure in the days of old Valyria there were hundreds, mayhaps even a thousand, but now. Today in our world, in Westeros there are so few” she said, continuing but I still did not see the point she played at.

“I suppose so” I said, 

“You are one of them though, if my counting is right one of ten” she said,

“Eleven” I corrected her,

“ King Aegon, Prince Aemond, Queen Helaena, yourself, Rhaegar, Rhaenyra, Baelon, Jaehaerys, Sheira, Daemon” she said,

“Rhaenys” I told her and she facepalmed,

“I cannot believe I forgot her,” she said.

“What's your point?” I asked her,

“You are one of few men who can do what my father asks, you are a commodity like no other, the gods surely have not given you the power you wield so that you might fail” she said to me, her comforting words were appreciated but lost on my ears.

When she left, I sat alone by the window, the stars blooming over the dark sea. Somewhere beyond, Daemon Targaryen was moving, and the sea between us seemed smaller every hour.

Tessarion stirred in her tower, a distant rustle of wings in the night. She was waiting too.

The next morning, I awoke to the sound of waves crashing against the rocks below the Hightower. The night had passed too quickly, but sleep had been fitful and shallow, filled with the same restless dreams of fire. Tessarion’s wings, dark as night and burning like the sun, flapping above the city as it burned to ash. I had tried to push the images away, but they clung to me like the scent of smoke, always there in the corners of my mind.

As I walked down the long, cold halls of the Hightower, the familiar faces of servants and guards greeted me, their eyes filled with respect, but also something else, something I couldn’t quite place. Fear, perhaps. I had seen it too many times now, in the eyes of men, women, and children alike, as they went about their daily tasks, trying to ignore the growing storm on the horizon.

At the base of the tower, I met Lord Ormund, standing beside a group of his captains. His stern gaze softened as he saw me approach, but only for a moment. “You are ready, Prince Daeron?” he asked, his voice gruff.

I nodded, swallowing the lump that had formed in my throat. “I will be.”

He regarded me for a long moment before motioning toward the stables. “Then let’s make sure Tessarion is ready as well.”

The stables were at the far edge of the keep, away from the bustle of the city. When I reached the entrance, Tessarion’s shape loomed in the shadowed distance. Even from here, her scales gleamed like polished copper, a striking contrast against the grey stone. She was magnificent, her body coiled like a serpent in repose, but her eyes, those violet eyes, were wide with alertness. She knew something was coming, just as I did.

She had always been my companion, my protector, my friend. From the moment I had first laid eyes on her, when she had been but a hatchling, I knew that we were bound in a way that few understood. She wasn’t just a dragon; she was a part of me, as much a part of my soul as the blood that ran through my veins. But now, in the face of the war that loomed, I knew she was more than just a companion. She was my weapon, my strength, my only chance to stand against Daemon.

The stable doors creaked as I entered, the faint smell of hay and leather mixing with the salt air. Tessarion lifted her head, her nostrils flaring as she sensed my presence. Her wings unfurled slightly, brushing against the walls in a slow, deliberate motion. She was restless, eager. And I couldn’t blame her. I was the same.

“Easy, Tessarion,” I whispered, stepping closer. I reached out, my fingers brushing against her warm, scaled skin. She leaned into my touch, as if seeking reassurance, as if she too feared the battle that was coming. “We’ll face it together,” I promised, my voice barely more than a breath.

It was strange, this bond between us, something that went beyond words. In her eyes, I saw the same uncertainty that I felt in my chest. We were both young, both untested in the fires of war. But there was no turning back now.

Lord Ormund’s voice broke the silence. “We’ve made arrangements. You’ll ride Tessarion over the city’s walls, make sure the coast is clear. If Daemon’s fleet does appear, we need to know it before he reaches the gates.”

I nodded, swallowing my fear. “I understand, my lord.”

Ormund studied me for a moment longer, as if considering something, before nodding curtly. “Then mount her, Prince Daeron. We’ve no time to waste.”

I mounted the steps that led up to Tessarion’s back, each step feeling heavier than the last. I had ridden her many times before, but today felt different. There was a weight to the moment that pressed down on me, suffocating in its intensity.

With one final glance at Ormund, I climbed onto Tessarion’s back, settling into the saddle with practiced ease. She was warm beneath me, her muscles rippling with each breath. For a moment, I closed my eyes, allowing myself to feel the rhythm of her movements, the steady beat of her wings as she shifted beneath me. We were one, as we always had been.

And then, with a flick of the reins, we were airborne.

Tessarion’s wings beat the air with powerful strokes, and we soared into the sky, higher and higher, leaving the ground behind. I could feel the city stretching beneath us, the winding streets, the towering spires of the Hightower, all growing smaller as we ascended. The wind whipped through my hair, cool and sharp, as if urging us onward, faster.

Below, the city of Oldtown lay in the morning light, a sprawling patchwork of white stone and blue sea, but it was not the city I saw. No, my eyes were fixed on the horizon, where the sea met the sky, the line blurred in a haze of salt and mist. Somewhere out there, Daemon’s fleet waited. I could feel it in the air, the tension, the promise of violence. The war had begun, and I was the first line of defense.

Tessarion banked to the left, her wings cutting through the air with effortless grace. I could feel the change in her, the shift from restlessness to purpose. She knew what was coming. And so did I.

The hours passed like minutes, the endless expanse of sea stretching before us. There was no sign of Daemon, no sign of anything, really. Only the vast emptiness of the sea and sky. But I didn’t let my guard down. I couldn’t afford to.

We circled above the city for what felt like an eternity, Tessarion’s wings carrying us higher and higher, the wind biting at my skin. Below, the streets of Oldtown looked peaceful, serene even. But I knew the truth. The peace was only a mask, a fragile illusion. Daemon’s shadow hung over us all.

At last, the sun began to dip lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the water. It was then, when I least expected it, that I saw them, the sails, dark and ominous, cutting through the horizon.

Daemon was coming.

I turned Tessarion’s head toward the oncoming fleet, my heart pounding in my chest. This was it. The moment had arrived. The war that I had feared was here. And I was alone in the sky, the only barrier between Oldtown and the wrath of Caraxes.

Tessarion growled beneath me, the sound low and rumbling, as if she too was preparing for the battle ahead. I didn’t need to give her a command. She knew what to do. Together, we would face the storm.

And for the first time since I had mounted her, I felt a surge of something other than fear. It was a flicker, just a glimmer, but it was enough. I was ready. We were ready.

The flames of war were coming. And I would not stand aside.

Tessarion’s wings beat once more, and we surged back towards Oldtown.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3 - Baelon II. 132 AC

The salty spray of the sea blew against my face, I stared out across the water, somewhere out there, The Green’s plotted, plotted this war, my death, the death of my family. The maester hobbled down the stones behind me, Taking his time to not slip on the slick rocks.

“Prince Baelon, your father has sent word, He has rallied the riverlands, and the knights of the Vale have arrived to support his claim, he marches to Meet Lord Borros at Rook Rest, where the Baratheon host Marches” he said to me, 

So we were finally going to see the hosts Clash, the war was truly going to begin, the battle for Rook's rest would happen, The Baratheon hosts was suspected to number twenty thousand, The riverlands could muster the same, but with the Vale they may be closer to Fifty thousand, There was no way however to know the location of the Hightowers or the Lannister hosts, The Hightowers were moving at a much brisker pace they would be more like to reach the Baratheon host sooner, The lannisters seemed to have been undecided in The river road or the gold road at first, but our last known place for them was at Deep Den along the gold road.

“Have the council assembled, we meet in an hour's time” I said to him, he nodded briskly, and bowed “yes my prince” he said as he left.

I stalked into the chamber, All stood as I took my fathers seat at the head of the Table. “Let us begin,” I said to them.

“Daemon has secured the Arbor fleet and at present is moving on Oldtown, by the end of the morrow we shall know the outcome. In light of his strength, we believe the stepstones secured, The Red Company has begun to be ferried by ship to Mistwood, at the command of his grace” Septywyn said to me, I nodded.

“My Father is marching on Rook's Rest with the strength of the Riverlands and the Vale, He will be going with Vermithor but I do not think it wise to leave him alone in this endeavor, if Vhaegar should appear and perhaps the King would be at a disadvantage” I said to the council,

“Who do you suggest we send?” Lord Mooton asked, 

“I will go myself” I said to them, “Silverwing is perhaps our most powerful dragon behind Vermithor and Caraxes, and I would not send my mother or wife into battle” I said to them,

“You are right that it would do no good to send your mother or wife, but I would caution that the King doing this alone may be a risk we have to take, he has not commanded you to join him and I doubt he wishes you too” Lord Tyro says to me,

“I agree” Septwyn said,

“I did not ask for approval, I was telling what I was going to do. If we lose my father we lose our greatest asset, this war will drag on much longer if we let him die, I will go, but only to support him in the most dire needs, and if something should happen to both of us, my son remains here, and Jaehaerys remains in the Eyrie, I would name him Regent in the case of both our deaths, until my son comes of age.” I said to the council, they all gave brisk nods but none of them seemed in line with my plans, 

I left after that, I was mine and Helaena’s bed, when she turned to me. “You're leaving soon aren't you?” she asked me, her voice was soft and it did not sound angry as I expected it would.

“Yes, father is marching on the Baratheon host and I do not wish to see him there alone, I must go and support him” I said to her, I kissed her brow tenderly.

“It is okay, I understand you have duties, husband, but make sure you come back” she said, looking down at her belly, I was confused for a moment.

“You are with child?” I asked, she smiled at me, and I kissed her once more. 

I was happy, more happy then I had been since I had first returned, but now I did not wish to leave, perhaps if I had known of this earlier I would have let my father face the war Alone. But for tonight I would pretend the wars of Tomorrow did not exist.

That next morning I held Viserys tight, I did not wish to leave the boy, soon he would have a baby brother or baby sister, and I would be a father again, hopefully a girl I find myself thinking. I hoped I would be back for this ones birth.

As I prepared to mount Silverwing, mother and sister met me in the yard. Joining Helaena who was waiting with me.

I kissed mother on the cheek, “I’ll be back mother, don’t fear” I said to her,

“I will always worry, child, but make sure your father stays safe, he was never good about looking out for himself” she said to me, I nodded, smiling at her before parting our hug.

I swept Sheira off her feet, pulling her into a hug. “Look after mother, and make sure you take care of your Dragon, you gotta get strong like me one day” I said to her, She smiled at that,

“Stay safe big brother, and make sure Father is safe please” her jovial demeanor was gone, replaced by fear. She was still so little yet had grown so much.

Finally I kissed Helaena goodbye, and kissed her belly. Saying goodbye to my unborn child. “I will see you very soon my love” I said to them both.

I mounted Silverwing, She pushed off the ground with a great rush of air, the wind pushing me down into my seat, as I circled Dragonstone once, one last look in case it was my last, then I turned her east, and we made our way towards Rooks Rest,

There was no greater time to think then when the wind was blowing through you like a mad gale and the water splayed out beneath you for what seemed like forever, even though from here I could see the land of Westeros.

I landed just east of Rook’s Rest, choosing a clearing where the trees stood tall enough to shield Silverwing’s glimmering silver scales from prying eyes. I needed space, space to stay hidden, to think, to plan. The sun was dipping beneath the horizon, bleeding orange and red across the clouds, when the warhorns shattered the evening calm. Then came the roar.

The unmistakable, thunderous roar of Vermithor. Silverwing’s head jerked up, her pale blue eyes searching the skies. She gave a low, mournful hum, as if calling for him, her mate. My heart clenched at the sound.

And then the battle began in earnest. The ground trembled with the pounding of hooves. The clash of steel echoed off stone and hill. I mounted Silverwing, tightening the straps, preparing her for flight. That’s when I saw it, a flicker of gold between the trees, just south of the castle walls. A shimmer, fleeting, like a coin catching sunlight.

Sunfyre.

Father’s silhouette streaked across the battlefield on Vermithor’s massive back, a mountain of wings and flame. His first pass through the Baratheon ranks left nothing but ruin, shrubs ignited, men screaming as they fled beneath the dragon’s fire. It was the Stepstones all over again, but fiercer, grander.

I spotted the golden glimmer again, weaving through the canopy, closing fast on Father’s flank. And then, rising, rising high into the heavens behind him, wings gilded by the dying light, came Sunfyre in his radiant glory.

“Not today,” I whispered.

Silverwing launched skyward at my command, her powerful wings propelling us like an arrow loosed from the gods’ own bow. Our ascent was swift and sure. The wind roared in my ears; the battle below faded beneath clouds of smoke. Nothing could divert me now. I fixed my gaze on Sunfyre, and our path became one of inevitability.

A shadow fell over us. For a heartbeat I thought it was Father, soaring higher above, but no. I realized too late. The shadow was vast, darker than night, and still.

But Aegon hadn’t seen me. His eyes, narrowed with resolve, ablaze with vengeance, remained locked on Father, unaware of the doom rising beneath him. I climbed higher, closer. I could end it here, end the war in a single stroke. Victory hung within reach, poised between wingbeats.

At last, Sunfyre’s golden head turned. Aegon’s eyes widened. He saw me.

But it was too late.

Silverwing struck. Her jaws clamped down on Sunfyre’s left wing, fangs sinking deep into golden flesh. A terrible, shuddering roar tore from Sunfyre’s throat as bone cracked beneath Silverwing’s bite. Fire erupted from her maw, engulfing the golden dragon in a torrent of flame.

The sky blazed with their fury.

I felt the wing tear loose, felt it through Silverwing’s muscles, the violent wrench of sinew and bone. Sunfyre’s body pitched sideways, spiraling down in agony. Pride surged through me. I had done it. I had crippled him. But beneath the triumph was a pang of sorrow.

I had just helped to kill a dragon. A creature of Old Valyria’s legacy. A living god of the skies. No dragon had slain another since Maegor’s reign.

Then, another roar. And another.

Two more cries split the air behind me. I turned, heart hammering. The shadow wasn’t Father’s. It couldn’t be. It was too large, too monstrous. And there, looming behind me, wings spread wide as mountains, eyes like molten pits, was Vhagar.

Panic seized me. But then I saw it, Vermithor, intercepting. Father had seen the danger and had come between us, Vermithor roaring his defiance as he collided with the ancient she-dragon. Fire lit the heavens as their claws raked and bit.

I had come to save him… but now it was he who saved me.

The two titans clashed above, their roars mingling with the screams of men below. Flames tangled in the sky like comet trails. I watched as they clawed at each other, Vermithor’s brown wings bleeding, Vhagar’s flanks marked with searing gashes.

I couldn’t just watch.

I urged Silverwing forward, diving toward Vhagar’s side. I spotted Aemond seated atop her, his sapphire eye gleaming in the chaos.

“Dracarys!”

Silverwing obeyed. Fire spilled from her jaws, arcing toward Aemond. The blaze struck, cloaking his figure in a swirling inferno. I couldn’t tell if it had pierced him, but it forced Vhagar to recoil, wings buffeted by heat.

The two great dragons disengaged, Vhagar spiraling away, retreating into the smoky horizon. For a moment, she hovered, distant and watchful, then turned and fled. Her shadow faded into the night.

Below, the Baratheon men broke ranks and scattered, their courage spent. Father and I circled lower, descending together toward the shattered ruin of Sunfyre’s broken body. His golden scales were dulled by ash, his wing a ruined, bleeding stump.

We landed beside him. The battlefield was eerily quiet now, save for the crackle of distant fires.

The moment my boots touched the scorched earth near Sunfyre's broken form, the acrid scent of charred flesh and smoldering wood filled my nostrils. The once-majestic golden dragon lay in a twisted heap, his radiant scales dulled and marred by soot and blood. His wings, tattered and torn, sprawled lifelessly, and his labored breaths echoed like distant thunder.

Father approached swiftly, his expression a storm of fury and relief.

"What in the Seven Hells are you doing here?" he demanded, eyes blazing.

"I came to aid you," I replied, taken aback by his ire. "I couldn't stand idle while you faced such peril."

He exhaled sharply, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "We'll discuss this later," he said curtly, drawing his sword as we advanced toward the fallen beast.

Aegon lay nearby, a grotesque figure of melted armor and scorched flesh. His once-proud visage was now a mask of agony, his moans a haunting symphony of suffering. Blackfyre still hung at his side, untouched by the flames that had consumed so much.

Sunfyre emitted a low, mournful roar, his golden eyes dimming.

"Go on," Father said, his voice heavy. "End it. Grant him mercy."

I hesitated, the weight of the moment pressing upon me. With a solemn nod, I signaled to Silverwing. She approached, her own eyes reflecting sorrow, and with a swift motion, ended Sunfyre's suffering.

Turning to Aegon, I drew Blackfyre from its sheath. He looked up at me, pain and resignation in his gaze.

"Do it," he whispered.

With a steady hand, I delivered the final blow, severing his head cleanly. The deed was done, yet a hollow ache settled in my chest. Victory tasted bitter.

Later, Aegon's head was mounted on a spike, a grim testament to our triumph. Father removed the conciliator's crown from the lifeless brow, a silent acknowledgment of the heavy price paid.

That night, the camp buzzed with a mix of jubilation and mourning. Ale flowed freely, and tales of valor were exchanged. The feast was grand, yet I found little appetite.

In the aftermath, we captured nearly five thousand Baratheon soldiers. Thanks to Ser Skorian's ingenious strategy, feigning a northern advance while positioning the Vale's cavalry to flank from the east, we suffered minimal losses.

The next morning, I joined Father for a modest breakfast. He looked up, a faint smile playing on his lips.

"Thank you for coming, Baelon," he said. "Your actions may well have turned the tide of this war."

I nodded, the weight of responsibility settling upon me.

"But you must trust me," he continued. "My plans are crafted with care. Do you believe you know better?"

I met his gaze. "No, Father. I do not."

He placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder. "Good. Now, will you return to Dragonstone?"

"I wish to stay by your side," I replied.

He considered this, then unfastened his sword belt, handing me BronzeBlood.

"I must wield Blackfyre now," he said. "But you deserve a Valyrian steel blade. Take this."

I accepted the sword, gratitude swelling within me. "Thank you, Father."

He embraced me tightly, a rare display of affection. 

“Your grace, word from the Citadel” the man shouted, Daemon must have captured the city, this war was going to be over soon.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4 - Daeron II. 132AC

I burst through the great oak doors of the council chamber, my chest heaving, my breath ragged. “He’s here!” I shouted, my voice cracking under the weight of panic. Every head at the long table turned toward me, faces taut with dread.

“Who?” demanded Ser Hobert, rising swiftly, his hand already resting on his sword hilt.

“Daemon,” I gasped. “Daemon has come, with the fleet of the Stepstones and the Arbor!” The words spilled from me, wild and desperate. A cold wave of terror swept the room.

At once, chairs scraped violently against the stone floor as lords and knights sprang to their feet, a flurry of motion.

“Go, Hobert,” commanded Ormund, his voice firm, cutting through the chaos. “Take the fleet into the harbor, secure it before his ships make landfall. Take the fastest steed from the stables and ride hard to the docks. Go!”

Ser Hobert didn’t hesitate; he bolted from the room, armor clanking with urgency.

“Maester,” Ormund barked, turning next to the old man in grey. “Send ravens to King’s Landing, tell them Oldtown stands under siege. And send word to my son at Tumbleton. Every sword will be needed.”

The maester bowed hurriedly and rushed away. Knights moved like shadows, gathering their cloaks, buckling swords, giving orders to squires. The room was alive with tension.

Then, silence fell. The council had cleared, and it was just me and Ormund.

He looked at me, his face lined with years of rule and war. “You,” he said quietly, gravely. “You must mount Tessarion. You must defend the city.”

I swallowed hard, but my legs wouldn’t move. A moment ago, adrenaline had flooded me, carried me here on wings of urgency. Now it drained away, leaving only ice. I felt it, the weight of expectation, the unbearable pressure of legacy. I couldn’t do it.

“I said go,” Ormund commanded again, sharper this time.

I shook my head slowly, the words small and fragile in my throat. “I… I can’t.” Gods forgive me, I couldn’t.

His eyes narrowed. “You what?”

“I can’t!” I cried, the words breaking loose like a dam bursting. Tears welled, and before I could stop them, they spilled freely down my cheeks. “I’m not ready, I can’t do this, I’m not him, I’m not my Brother, I’m not Rhaegar, I don’t want to die on dragonback! I don’t want to die at all!” My voice cracked and trembled as the flood overtook me.

I crumpled beneath the weight of my failure, my fists clenched uselessly at my sides.

Ormund’s face twisted into disgust. “Coward,” he hissed.

Before I could flinch, his fist lashed out. It connected hard with my cheek, sending me sprawling onto the cold stone floor. The sting of the blow bloomed across my face, sharp and humiliating. My lip split, the copper taste of blood mingling with my shame.

Above me, he sneered. “Worthless,” he spat. “Why couldn’t the gods have sent me a brother with steel in his spine? A dragonrider worthy of the name Targaryen?” His words were daggers, each sharper than the last.

He turned away, his cloak swirling behind him. “Fine. Stay here. Cower with the women, with the maids and babes. Watch from the tower as Daemon burns this city to ash.” His voice dripped with contempt as he strode toward the door.

He didn’t look back.

And I lay there, trembling on the cold stones, the weight of failure crushing me, the echoes of his footsteps growing fainter, leaving only silence, and the distant toll of the bells ringing the alarm.

I lay there, unmoving, staring at the flagstones beneath me as the chamber doors closed behind Ormund’s retreating figure. The bells continued to toll outside, their solemn peals shaking the air, announcing Oldtown’s doom.

And still I didn’t move.

My cheek throbbed where his fist had struck me. My tears had slowed, but the ache inside me remained, hollow and raw. I hated myself for it. Hated that I hadn’t been braver. Hated that I wasn’t the man he wanted me to be.

“Daeron?”

Her voice was soft, barely above a whisper, but it cut through the silence like a lantern in the dark. I turned my head slowly. Bethany stood in the doorway, her gown trailing behind her, her golden hair loose over her shoulders. Her eyes were wide with worry.

She crossed the room quickly, skirts whispering across the stone. Without hesitation, she knelt beside me. “Oh, Daeron…” she murmured, brushing her fingers gently over my bruised cheek, careful not to press the swelling. “What happened?”

I closed my eyes, swallowing the lump rising in my throat. “He thinks I’m a coward,” I whispered hoarsely. “And… maybe he’s right.”

Bethany’s brow furrowed, and she took my hand in hers, squeezing it tightly. “You’re not a coward,” she said firmly. “You’re kind. You’re thoughtful. You’re gentle.” Her voice trembled a little. “Those aren’t weaknesses, Daeron. They’re strength.”

I shook my head bitterly. “Not here. Not now. They want a warrior. A dragonrider. A killer.”

Bethany’s grip tightened. “And you’d rather be a healer. A protector. You want peace, not war.” She leaned closer, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “That doesn’t make you lesser. It makes you better.”

I looked at her then, really looked, and for the first time that day, the crushing weight on my chest felt a little lighter.

She smiled faintly through her own sadness. “Come,” she urged softly, slipping an arm beneath my shoulder. “Let me help you up.”

I hesitated, but let her guide me. Her warmth steadied me as she pulled me to my feet. She led me gently toward a bench near the window, where the bells tolled ever louder, and the smoke of distant fires curled against the evening sky.

“I’m scared, Bethany,” I admitted quietly, ashamed. “I’m so scared.”

“I know,” she said, resting her head against my shoulder. “So am I.”

And for a while, we sat like that together, in the fading light, two trembling souls bracing against the storm.

I sat there beside her, watching the smoke unfurl like dark banners across the horizon. The bells rang their relentless dirge, a cry of desperation echoing through Oldtown’s spires.

Bethany was quiet beside me, her hand still wrapped around mine. But then she stirred, lifting her head from my shoulder. Her voice, when she spoke, was soft but steady.

“Daeron… you can’t stay here.”

I turned to her, surprised. “Bethany, ”

“You’re afraid. I know. I am too, ” she said quickly, her gaze unwavering. “But you have Tessarion. You have the blood of dragons in you. You were born for this, whether you want it or not.”

I looked down at my hands, ashamed. “I’m not like them. I’m not brave like Ormund. I don’t have fire in me.”

Bethany placed her hands on either side of my face, forcing me to meet her eyes. “That’s not true,” she whispered fiercely. “You’ve always had fire. Just not the kind they see.”

She leaned closer, her forehead touching mine. “But right now, they need you. Oldtown needs you. I need you.” Her breath caught. “If you don’t rise now, who will?”

My throat tightened. “What if I fail?”

Bethany smiled faintly, a tear slipping down her cheek. “Then fail. But do it trying. Do it with honor. Do it fighting for us . ”

For a long moment, I sat frozen beneath her gaze. Then, slowly, uncertainly, I nodded.

Bethany exhaled a trembling sigh of relief, brushing my hair from my face. “That’s my prince,” she murmured.

I stood, shaky at first, but growing steadier with each breath. I wiped the last trace of tears from my cheeks. “Help me with my armor.”

Bethany rose with me, her eyes shining with fierce pride. “Of course.”

Together we crossed the chamber, the bells still tolling, the city still burning. But for the first time, I felt the stirrings of courage kindle inside me, a quiet flame fanned by love, by hope, and by the certainty that I would not face this darkness alone.

Bethany worked quickly, fastening the clasps of my breastplate, securing the vambraces over my arms. Her hands trembled, but her face was set with determination.

“Your cloak,” she said, draping the blue and silver across my shoulders, the dragon embroidered on its folds catching the firelight.

I turned to her one last time. “Stay safe.”

“You too,” she whispered. Then, surprising me, she rose on her toes and pressed a swift kiss to my lips. “Come back.”

I left her standing there, watching me as I strode through the doors and into the night.

The world outside was chaos. Smoke curled into the heavens; flames licked rooftops. The great sept bells clanged over the city’s screams. From above, Caraxes soared, a serpent of shadow and flame, Daemon Targaryen astride him, his sword raised high as he directed fire upon the streets.

At her spire, Tessarion waited. She tossed her gleaming blue head, her bronze crest flaring as she saw me approach. I ran to her, heart pounding, every step filling me with a strange, electric resolve.

“Up, girl,” I called, vaulting into the saddle. “Fly!”

With a powerful beat of her wings, Tessarion launched us skyward, rising into the smoke-filled air. Below us, Oldtown burned. Above us, Caraxes circled, Daemon’s voice a distant war cry over the roaring inferno.

I urged Tessarion higher, keeping beneath the cover of the rising smoke, watching as Daemon turned his dragon in another deadly arc over the harbor.

“Not yet,” I whispered. “Not yet…”

Caraxes banked again, his wings folding slightly as he prepared to dive, fire glinting in his throat. Daemon raised Darksister, directing the dragon’s fury.

Now .

“Tessarion GO!”

We surged upward, bursting from the clouds beneath Caraxes like an arrow loosed from a bow. Tessarion’s jaws opened wide, her teeth flashing in the firelight as we sped straight toward them.

Daemon barely had time to turn. His eyes widened, then Tessarion struck.

Her jaws closed around Caraxes’s neck, her teeth tearing through scale and sinew. But her jaw was not big enough to hold. No, she thrust upward , tearing flesh from , exposing Daemon’s form atop the saddle.

With a single, brutal shake, Tessarion clamped down, not on Caraxes, but on Daemon himself. Her teeth caught him clean in the jaw, lifting him from his seat as if he were no more than a rag doll.

Daemon’s sword fell from his hand, spinning uselessly into the night. His body hung limp for an instant, his face a mixture of fury and disbelief, before Tessarion’s jaws crushed down.

With a terrible crack, Daemon Targaryen’s head separated from his shoulders, tumbling into the dark. His body followed soon after, falling like a broken doll through the smoke toward the burning streets below.

Caraxes screamed, a howl of agony and fury that echoed over the burning city. Blood poured from the wound in his neck, but the Blood Wyrm did not fall. Riderless now, maddened by pain and the death of his bonded, he lashed out.

Tessarion reared back, her wings lifting us higher as Caraxes spun below, unleashing a torrent of flame that turned the harbor into a storm of fire. Ships lit like kindling. The Hightower fleet, moored and unready, burned beneath his fury. Masts toppled, men dove into the sea, only to be boiled alive by the superheated waters.

I watched from above, helpless to stop it. Tessarion hovered, her breathing heavy from the battle, her blue wings stretched wide as we circled the chaos below.

Then came the horns.

At first faint, then louder. From the western horizon, sails broke through the morning fog. Crimson lions and golden krakens upon the wind. The Lannisters and the Ironborn, together, an alliance forged in desperation or vengeance, I knew not, but their fleets moved with brutal precision.

Ballistae fired. Flamepots burst across Daemon’s remaining ships. The sky was filled with smoke, the sea with shattered hulls. The combined fleet slammed into Daemon’s navy like a hammer to glass. Panic spread. Ships turned. Some burned. Others tried to flee, many were run down or boarded.

Caraxes circled once more above the ruins of his fleet, his roars defiant but no longer vengeful, now grieving. His wings beat heavily, dragging smoke behind him. With a last glare toward the city he could not destroy, he turned and fled east, flying alone toward the shadowed peaks of Dragonstone.

Oldtown still burned in places, but it had not fallen.

Tessarion descended toward the Starry Sept, where the people had gathered. Knights and smallfolk alike stared as we landed in the courtyard, the blue queen folding her wings with a thunderous sigh.

I dismounted, armor scorched, face blackened with soot and blood. For a long moment, there was only silence. Then, from the steps of the sept, came a voice:

“Daeron Targaryen, Savior of Oldtown!”

A roar rose from the crowd, louder than any dragon’s cry. I stood stunned as the cheers swallowed the pain and the fear. The people knelt. Soldiers saluted. The bells tolled not in warning, but in victory.

Bethany was there, pushing through the crowd, tears streaming down her face. She reached me, threw her arms around me without a word. I held her tightly, my heart still racing with what had passed.

I had done it. I had defeated the Rogue Prince. And I had lived.

The fires had died to embers by nightfall. Oldtown stood bruised, but unbowed.

At the top of the Hightower, beneath the flickering torches and the starry sky, a procession climbed the great steps. Knights in scorched armor. Maesters with scrolls. Bethany walked beside me, her hand clutching mine tightly, as if afraid I might vanish.

At the summit, waiting beside the beacon flame, stood Lord Ormund Hightower, his white hair streaked with soot, yet his presence as solid as stone. Before him stood two guards bearing a grisly prize between them.

Daemon’s head.

The rogue prince’s silver hair was matted with blood. His expression, locked in fury and disbelief, stared out into nothing. Mounted on an iron spike, his death was both a warning and a symbol: the realm had changed.

Beside it, another knight stepped forward and presented a sword. Long, thin, curved like a predator’s fang. Darksister. Forged in Valyria, carried by Visenya herself… and now, it seemed, offered to me.

The blade shimmered in the torchlight. I looked to Ormund, confused, overwhelmed.

“You killed the Prince of the City,” he said solemnly, his voice loud enough for all gathered to hear. “You defended the realm when all others faltered. The smallfolk call you savior. The lords call you warrior. I call you, knight.”

He drew his own sword, the steel whispering from its scabbard.

“Kneel, Daeron Targaryen,” he said.

I obeyed, my heart hammering. The stone beneath my knees was still warm from the day’s heat.

“In the name of the Seven, I dub thee Ser Daeron of House Targaryen. Warrior of Oldtown, Defender of the South. Rise now, and bear your honors with strength.”

The sword touched each shoulder. The crowd behind us erupted in cheers, but I barely heard them. I stood, and Ormund offered me Darksister.

I took the blade with reverence, its grip cool in my hand. The weapon seemed to hum, as if recognizing a new master.

Bethany smiled through tears. “You did it,” she whispered.

I looked out over the city, the sea beyond still littered with wreckage. Smoke drifted over the rooftops, and the bells still rang low in the distance.

But for now, Oldtown stood. And I stood with it.

The raven came at dusk, wings black as sorrow, cutting through the smoke-stained skies above Oldtown. Its arrival brought silence to the hall, even as men celebrated below, drunk on victory.

Ormund read the scroll with grave stillness. His lips tightened as his eyes moved across the page. When he looked up, his voice was not triumphant, but somber.

“The King is dead,” he said.

At first, no one understood. Then he said it again, this time softer, almost reverent.

“Aegon… my king… your brother, Daeron. Slain at Rook’s Rest. By Baelon Targaryen.”

The world dropped out from beneath me.

I stumbled backward, breath caught in my throat. “No… no. It is not possible Aemond would not have allowed it, Aegon would never have.”

Ormund only looked at me with pity.

Bethany reached for me, but I stepped away, fists clenched.

“He was my brother,” I said, barely above a whisper. “He was cruel, yes. He was wrong. But he was still… mine.”

Aegon, the brother I once knew, full of wild laughter, golden hair dancing in the wind. Aegon who used to sneak me sweetcakes from the kitchens, who dared me to climb the Dragonpit walls. The man he became was twisted, a king by crown but not by heart, but he had once been my Aegon.

And now he was gone.

Tears burned in my eyes. I tried to hide them. I failed.

“Why did it have to end this way…” I breathed.

Ormund approached me with a heavy step and laid a hand on my shoulder.

“I will not pretend your brother was blameless. But neither will I deny your right to mourn him.”

I nodded, hollow. A silence lingered until Ormund turned to the others.

“Let us give the prince a moment.”

As the room emptied, Bethany stayed. She knelt beside me where I sat now, head in my hands, Darksister lying across my knees.

“He was your blood,” she said gently. “And you do not have to become stone just because the world expects you to.”

I looked up at her. “He died screaming, Bethany. Baelon took his head. I… I can’t even imagine what that looked like.”

She placed her hand over mine.

“Then imagine this instead,” she said. “A realm without fire and blood. One where no brother must kill another. That’s the world he never gave you, but maybe it’s the one you can give others.”

That struck me like steel.

I stood slowly, wiping my face. My eyes turned eastward, toward King’s Landing.

“We fly not for vengeance,” I said. “But to end the bloodshed. I will carry Darksister not as a tyrant’s sword, but as a promise.”

Bethany nodded, proud and quiet.

And then, in the dark of early dawn, I walked toward Tessarion, the wind whispering the names of the fallen, and the future burning on the horizon.

The next morning dawned bleak and grey, as if the gods themselves mourned Aegon’s death. Daeron stood at the highest balcony of Hightower, Darksister strapped across his back, the weight of it more than steel. His brother’s death weighed heavier than the blade. Ormund entered, his boots echoing softly against the stone.

“They’ve begun to ready the sails,” Ormund said.

Daeron did not respond at first. His eyes lingered on the harbor where ships bobbed on the water like leaves in the wind. The Lannister banners flapped red and gold beside the black sails of the Ironborn. The fleets were massive—nearly three hundred ships in total—but not enough to erase the ache in his chest.

“I should have been there,” Daeron whispered. “He was my brother.”

“He died as a king and a warrior,” Ormund replied gently. “And because of him, the throne is not yet lost. But this war is not yet won.”

Daeron turned, his jaw set. “We will break the Stepstones first. Shatter Daemon’s hold there. That was Aegon’s design all along, wasn’t it?”

Ormund gave a firm nod. “Strike at their base, and the sea lanes open. Then we turn the full strength of the fleets on King’s Landing and end this madness.”

Daeron looked again at the harbor. “Then I go. I will not sit idle in Oldtown while others fight to avenge him. Tessarion will fly above our banners, and the world will know that House Targaryen still holds the skies.”

He descended the tower steps without another word, cloak billowing behind him. On the battlements, commonfolk and knights alike watched in silence as he mounted Tessarion. The Blue Queen spread her wings and gave a war cry that sent flocks of birds scattering from the rooftops.

The sky trembled with her ascent as Daeron took to the air, flying above the sails of the great fleets assembling below. Horns blared, sails unfurled, and the armada set out—across the Reach, toward the Stepstones, toward vengeance.

The last sight of Oldtown for Daeron was the proud spire of the Hightower and the glint of the sun against its beacon. A city saved. A king to avenge. And a war to win.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5 - Lorcan I. 133AC

The small council chamber was cloaked in silence, save for the soft sounds of mourning. Queen Alicent sat pale and hollow-eyed, her fingers clenched around a handkerchief already soaked through with tears. Across from her, Queen Cerelle held her two young sons close, her own cheeks wet with quiet grief. The loss of King Aegon II had struck like a thunderclap, swift, shattering, and terrifying in its implications.

Standing at the head of the table, stoic and unmoved, was Ser Criston Cole, the Hand of the King. His face was carved from stone, betraying no emotion as he watched the court unravel before him.

“With the King dead,” Criston said quietly, his voice a cold anchor in the storm of sorrow, “we must settle our affairs. The realm will not wait for its grief to pass.”

The chamber stirred. Prince Aemond was the first to speak, rising from his seat like a blade drawn from its sheath.

“It should be me,” he said firmly, his eye blazing with ambition. “I am the eldest brother. Aegon’s sons are children, unfit to rule in a time of war. Let them be passed over. I should wear the crown.”

Queen Cerelle recoiled as if struck. Her arms wrapped tighter around Maelor and Aemon, her lips trembling with unspoken dread. And she had reason to fear, Aemond had never masked the disdain he bore for his brother’s children, nor his capacity for cruelty.

“No,” said Gaemon, rising across from him. His tone was calm but resolute, his hands pressed to the edge of the war table. “Our strength against Rhaegar lies in our claim of tradition and legitimacy. To bypass Maelor would be to spit on that ideal. It would be treason, not against a king, but against the very principle we defend.”

Aemond’s brow twitched, his eye narrowing.

“And it should not be you who is crowned, or even named regent,” Gaemon continued. “You are a dragonrider. We need you in the field, not behind a desk.”

Aemond growled low in his throat, his fists clenching at his sides. “Precisely. I have a dragon. I am the sword we wield, and that is why I should be regent.”

Gaemon snapped back, voice rising. “You, who let our brother die? You, who returned from battle with your tail tucked and no vengeance claimed? What kind of regent begins his rule with failure?”

“Enough!” Ser Criston slammed a gauntlet against the table, the clang ringing through the chamber like a bell of judgment. “If we quarrel like children, we lose what little remains. The King is dead. Sunfyre is dead. The Reds hold the Crownlands. We have but Vhagar and Tessarion remaining. If we do not stand united, we will fall.”

“Tessarion is useless,” Aemond spat, sneering. “A blue mare fit for pageantry.”

“He’s done more with her than you’ve done with Vhagar,” Gaemon muttered. “At least he fights.”

Criston cut through the bickering with a raised hand. “The council will vote. The regency must be decided now. Before we fracture.”

A tense silence fell. Then, Aemond stepped forward. “Put it to a vote.”

Criston turned to the table. “All in favor of naming Gaemon as regent?”

Queen Alicent slowly raised her hand, followed by Queen Cerelle, still clutching her sons, and me. Three.

“And Aemond?” Criston asked.

He raised his own hand, along with Tyland Lannister, Jasper Wylde, and Maester Orwyle. Four.

“Four to three,” Criston announced grimly. “Aemond will serve as Regent of the Realm.”

Aemond smiled faintly, stepping toward the head of the table. He sat in the king’s chair with the familiarity of one who had always expected it.

“Good,” he said. “Now we make ready. Rhaegar marches. His banners have already reclaimed Rosby, Stokeworth, and Duskendale. King’s Landing is a stone’s throw away, and our sealanes are strangled by the blockade.”

Queen Alicent leaned over the map, pointing with a trembling hand. “Daeron sails with the Lannister and Iron Fleets, but they will not reach us for weeks, perhaps longer.”

Aemond nodded. “Which is why we must break the blockade now . We need open waters. If the city falls, we must have a route of escape, and we must prepare for siege from land and sea.”

He turned, locking eyes with Gaemon. “You will take what ships we have left and shatter the Red blockade.”

Gaemon stiffened. So did I.

“You’re sending him to die,” I said quietly. Aemond looked to me next.

“You will accompany him, Commander Loran. Your knowledge of the coast will be valuable.”

The room seemed to fall away. I wanted to argue, to shout that it was madness, suicide, but I saw in Aemond’s eye the cold satisfaction of a move already played. He wanted us gone.

And Gaemon, who would normally rage, said nothing. He gave a curt nod.

“As you command,” he said.

Aemond smiled, and the war council continued. But even then, I knew the city’s fate was not just in steel or fire, but in which brother would be left standing when the smoke cleared. The war council continued without us, the voices of lords and commanders already raised in new arguments as Gaemon and I stepped out of the chamber like condemned men leaving a courtroom.

We made our way down the winding corridors of the Red Keep. The light of torches danced on ancient stone. I fell into step beside him, tension curling in my gut.

“This is a death wish, Gaemon,” I said at last, unable to bite my tongue any longer. “We can’t do this. Not with what we have.”

He didn’t slow his pace. “We must. The alternative is starvation. Surrender. Or Aemond burning the city down around us. The only path forward is through fire, and water.”

I frowned. “Aemond wants you dead. That much is plain. You know that.”

“I do,” Gaemon said without hesitation. “But let him think he’s won. Let him believe I’m his pawn. While he tightens the noose around the capital, we’ll be opening the gates.”

We stepped out into the cool night air above the harbor. The wind off the Blackwater carried the stink of tar, salt, and faintly, smoke. In the distance, a line of lights glittered unnaturally across the horizon, lanterns from the Red fleet’s blockade. They sat like a silent crescent of sharks in the bay, sealing us in, waiting for us to rot.

“A hundred ships?” Gaemon asked.

“Close to a hundred twenty,” I replied. “The Crown’s fleet. Some merchantmen outfitted for war. The rest are Riverlander auxiliaries, Stormlander cogs, and a few Ironborn reavers who remained after the war first broke out, and of course the remainder of the Triarchy fleet. Not pretty, but she’ll sail.”

He nodded. “Good. Better than what they think we have. Most of Rhaegar’s captains think our fleet is nothing more than what it was when it entered the bay.”

“That lie won’t hold once we’re in the water,” I muttered. “They’ll see us coming.”

“Let them.”

We moved down the stone ramp that led to the docks. Lanterns swayed in the wind. The harbor was a hive of activity: carpenters hammering final boards into hulls, blacksmiths sharpening pikes on whetstones, men hauling crates of dried meat and water aboard creaking vessels. Officers barked orders. Sails were being unfurled and rigged.

Gaemon climbed up onto a crate and shouted. “Sailors of the Crown! Listen to me!”

The docks quieted, some hesitated mid-step, others turned outright. I stepped back and let his voice carry.

“The Reds think us broken. They believe our fleet is ash. They believe the sea belongs to them. But the Blackwater is ours! The Crownlands are ours! And if they want to choke this city, then they must choke on us!”

A cheer rose up, uneven at first, then swelling like a wave.

“We sail before first light,” he continued. “Every mast, every hull, every man with an oar or blade is a weapon! We’ll cut a hole straight through their line and send the Red fleet crawling back to Driftmark!”

The crowd roared again. I stepped up beside Gaemon, lowering my voice. “You speak like a king.”

He glanced at me, a flicker of something behind his eyes. “Not yet.”

We walked down the docks together. The Ironclad was being prepared for war, her scarred hull patched with fresh tar, ballistae fixed to the rails. She’d seen battle before. She would again.

Ser Vymond Kess, my grizzled lieutenant, approached us at a jog. “Seventy-three ships seaworthy, fifty more ready within the hour. Two storm galleys from Massey’s Hook volunteered for the front line. One of them’s flying the Bar Emmon banner.”

“Good,” I said. “Have the reavers take the flank. If they’re going to be wolves, let them do it where it counts. Give the big-masted vessels to the center, slow but strong. Gaemon and I will break the line at its thickest point.”

Kess raised a brow. “You’re leading from the front?”

I nodded. “That’s the only way this works.”

Gaemon looked toward the mouth of the bay. “Rhaegar’s men will have archers. Scorpions too. They’ll anchor tight, try to create a wall.”

“Then we hit like a hammer. Fast and hard,” I said. “And pray the gods are watching.”

“If they are, they’ve done us no favors lately,” Gaemon muttered. “ All we need is a break in their line. One tear in the net. Then the rest of our fleet can surge through.”

“And if we fail?”

“Then we drown.”

The wind shifted, stronger now. Banners snapped and sails flared. I looked back up at the Red Keep, its towers glowing orange in the night, the heart of a dying kingdom. Somewhere within, Aemond watched from a balcony, no doubt satisfied to see us ride off into the jaws of death. Let him smile. The gods might yet favor fools.

I turned back to the fleet. Men were boarding. War drums sounded in the distance, slow, steady, like a heartbeat.

Gaemon extended his hand to me, calloused and firm. “We may not return.”

I gripped it. “Then let them remember that we sailed.”

I stood at the edge of the ship, gazing out at the dark expanse of the waters. The night air was thick with the scent of salt, the hum of the crew as they prepared the vessel stilling the restless energy in my chest. I could feel the weight of everything pressing down on me, the fleet, the coming battle, the uncertainty of it all. But it wasn’t fear that weighed the heaviest on me; it was the silence between Gaemon and me. We had come together for this war, but the tension between us had only grown since the council.

I was about to turn back toward the deck when I heard the soft sound of footsteps behind me. They were deliberate, hesitant. I didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

“Gaemon’s already aboard?” Queen Alicent’s voice was softer than I had ever heard it, laced with something I couldn’t place. I couldn’t help but freeze, my attention snapping toward her as she came closer.

She had come to see him off. No surprise there. But as I kept my position by the railing, a part of me lingered in the shadows, trying to keep a respectful distance. There were things I wasn’t meant to hear, things that were none of my business. But the moment her voice reached me again, I couldn’t pull away.

Alicent’s words drifted through the night air.

“I never wanted this for you, Gaemon,” she said quietly, her voice breaking slightly. “But now it’s too late.”

I looked back over my shoulder, just enough to catch a glimpse of her standing a few paces away. She was close to him, too close. Gaemon, usually so controlled, was stiff as a board, his back rigid under her touch. He didn't speak at first, but I could see his jaw clench, his fists ball at his sides as if he was bracing for something terrible. A heavy silence followed.

“You always looked so different from the others,” Alicent murmured. “My plain-haired boy among silver and gold.”

I felt an inexplicable surge of curiosity. There was something more behind her words, something she was holding back.

Gaemon’s voice broke the stillness. “You’ve never told me, Mother. Not really. What’s the truth?”

Her breath hitched, and she stepped closer to him, lowering her voice even further, as if afraid to be overheard. It was at that moment I realized, she wasn’t speaking to him like a queen, but like a mother, desperate to impart a secret.

“You need to know,” she began softly, almost sorrowfully. “After Viserys got old, I was alone. I found comfort where I could.” She hesitated, her gaze dropping to the floor for a moment before lifting again, locking with Gaemon’s. “I think you might be Criston’s son.”

The words hit me like a cold wave. Criston Cole? The Hand of the King? It didn’t make sense. How could that be true? But as the truth sank in, I understood why Gaemon had always felt different from the rest of his family. The dark brown hair, the sharp features that didn't quite fit into the Targaryen mold.

The reason he had never truly rode a dragon, he wasn’t a Targaryen, he wasn’t a prince. He was a bastard.

She looked torn, as if confessing this was the hardest thing she had ever done. “I don’t know for certain, Gaemon. I can’t. But how else could you have inherited his hair, his strength, his, ” Her voice faltered again, but she seemed determined to finish. “His spirit?”

Gaemon was silent, unmoving. I could feel the tension in the air, thick enough to choke on. His mother’s words hung between them, unspoken revelations that he hadn’t been ready to hear.

I watched as he finally took a breath, long and steady. "Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

She reached for him then, her hand trembling as she gently cupped his cheek, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. “I never meant to keep this from you. I just… I wanted to protect you. From the truth. From the pain.”

Gaemon stared at her for a long time, his face unreadable. But then, he gave a quiet nod. “You didn’t protect me, Mother. But I understand now.”

I could tell that her words had affected him deeply, but the war was too close. There was no time for more, no room for mourning in the face of what lay ahead. Gaemon turned away from her, his expression hardening. “I’ll keep moving forward. For this family. For what’s left of it.”

As he walked past me, I could feel the weight of the unspoken burden he carried. I stayed silent, watching him disappear into the shadows of the ship.

Queen Alicent stayed behind for a moment, looking out at the dark sea, her hand trembling as it gripped the railing. She turned toward me then, as if she had forgotten I was there. Her eyes were red, her makeup smudged from crying.

“You heard it, didn’t you?” Her voice was softer now, resigned.

I nodded, unsure of what to say, my mind still racing.

“I don’t know if I did the right thing,” she whispered, almost to herself. “But it’s done now. And if he’s to be a part of the war, if he’s to have a chance to be more than just a pawn in this game, then the truth had to come out.”

I sighed. I placed a hand on the railing, letting the waves crash against the side of the ship, the cold wind biting at my face. I had heard more than I’d ever expected to. “It is never easy to tell your children your demons, every child’s first god is there parents, but it is a unnecessary distraction, we have a war to win, whether he is a waters or a Targaryen, he will lead us in it” I said to her.

“Do you have children?” she asked,

“I am sure I do” I said, reminiscing on all the whores and pillow houses I have visited over the years.

“Ahh, so you would have found this much easier than me” she said, 

“I wouldn’t have told him at all” I said, standing up and leaving the queen to her own thoughts.

Chapter Text

Chapter 6 - Baelon III. 133AC

The Silk sheets that surrounded me were warm with the morning son that bled through my window. I moved to kiss Helaena lightly on her cheek. She moaned as I stirred her slightly from sleep.

I stood and moved towards the cradle in the room, Aelyria lay, she had the eyes of her aunt Sheira, she was only a few months old but her eyes shone Violet and Brown, to stark contrasts to each other.

Helaena finally got up from bed, walking up from behind and kissing me on the cheek, “Going to the crownlands today?” she asked, as she moved to call for her handmaidens, most likely to get her dressed.

“Yes, Father needs me to help him prepare for the invasion of King’s Landing” I said to her, Kissing her once again on the forehead

Helaena gave me a soft smile, though there was worry in her eyes. "You'll be careful?"

"As always," I said, brushing a golden lock behind her ear. "The realm will need stability when the fires die down. We must make sure the right people are left standing."

She nodded but said nothing more. Her hand lingered on my arm a moment longer before I pulled away gently, turning back to Aelyria. I stroked her tiny head, whispering a Valyrian lullaby under my breath.

The clatter of boots on stone echoed faintly as I left our chambers, the sun now fully risen and bathing Dragonstone in molten gold. The servants bowed low as I passed, but my mind was elsewhere ,  on war, on blood, on duty.

I found Viserys in the training yard, a small wooden sword in hand, swinging wildly at an imaginary foe while his septa tried half-heartedly to guide him through his drills. His white hair was a tangled mess, shining like moonlight in the sun, and his little face scrunched in fierce concentration.

"Valyrio!" he shouted, swinging again. "Dracarys!"

"Wrong command, little dragon," I called out, and he turned, bright-eyed and smiling.

“Father!” he cried, dropping his sword and running to me. I knelt to meet him, wrapping him in my arms.

“Careful,” I said. “One day you’ll have a real blade, and enemies that bite back.”

He pulled back slightly, frowning. “Are you going to war?”

I hesitated, brushing his silver hair back. “I’m going to help your grandsire. There are battles to be fought ,  not just with swords, but with words, with dragons. You’ll understand someday.”

He looked at me with those wide, wandering eyes. “Will you fly?”

“Yes,” I said. “Silverwing will carry me. And I’ll be back before long.”

“Promise?”

I smiled sadly and kissed his brow. “I promise. Watch over your mother while I’m gone. Protect Aelyria.”

He nodded, puffing up with pride as only a boy could. “I will.”

I ruffled his hair one last time, then stood and turned toward the dragonpit. The wind had picked up, a chill warning, perhaps, or a summons. The war in King’s Landing waited for no man, not even a prince.

Silverwing stood restless, wings half-unfurled, sensing what was to come. Her old eyes ,  wiser than any maester ,  regarded me with quiet understanding.

I mounted her with practiced ease, gripping the saddle as the handlers released the chains. With a mighty shriek, she leapt into the sky, the world falling away beneath her wings.

We rose higher, and I turned her south, toward the Crownlands, toward the smoke of war, and the blood of dragons.

Toward Father.

The Crownlands spread beneath us like a quilt scorched by fire, fields once golden now trampled by armies, villages abandoned or razed, and thin tendrils of smoke rising where smallfolk still resisted or rebelled. Silverwing flew with surprising grace for a dragon her age, riding the warm currents with practiced ease.

I saw the host before we reached it, a sprawling camp nestled along the Blackwater, where banners of red and black flapped in the wind. Bronze and copper scales gleaming like armor in the sun.

Vermithor.

Father was near.

I guided Silverwing into a slow descent, her wings beating the air with thunderous rhythm. Soldiers scattered, shouting in awe or fear as we landed outside the command tent. The Dragonkeepers rushed forward, offering ropes and meat, Silverwing happily obliged them.

The guards at the tent drew aside the flaps without challenge. 

Inside, a map lay spread across the table, held down by daggers and stones. Father stood over it, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, the other tracing the river’s path with a dark-stained gauntlet. He looked up as I entered, his violet eyes unreadable.

“Baelon,” he said simply.

“My King.” I said,

We regarded each other for a moment. He had changed. There was more Darkness in him now, not just in armor, but in bearing. His silver-blond hair was damp with sweat, pulled back into a knot, and his cloak was scorched near the hem. The dragonblood burned hotter in him than most, he was certainly a different man then the one I had grown up knowing.

“You took your time,” he said. “The lords grow restless.”

“Let them.” I approached the table. “Have you seen what’s brewing near the Mud Gate?”

He nodded. “Hightowers. Lannisters. Sellswords. It won’t matter. Not when we fly.”

I leaned over the map. “It will matter if they stall us. If they burn the grain. If they turn the smallfolk against us. This war isn’t only fire and steel. It's a memory. If we salt the land, we lose more than thrones.”

Father studied me for a long moment. “You sound like Viserys. The First.”

“I sound like someone who plans to live.” I said back to him

He gave a faint smile, thin, humorless. “Then let us begin.”

He gestured to a steward and wine was poured. We toasted with a little ceremony, then turned back to the map. Strategy, dragon deployments, the siege lines tightening around King’s Landing, the city that once crowned our House, now defiant and crawling with fools and pretenders .

The map before us was inked in familiar lines: the fingers of the Blackwater Bay curling around the city’s bloated body, the jagged spine of the Red Keep watching it all like a vulture. I’d stared at King’s Landing a hundred times before. But tonight, it looked smaller. More fragile.

“They’ll be watching the skies,” I said quietly. “They expect us to come on dragonback, to turn their walls to molten stone and ash.”

Father nodded, his eyes never leaving the map. “That’s why we won’t.”

I raised a brow. 

He gestured to the parchment, tapping the outskirts of the city. “We wait two weeks. Let the rats grow confident in their tunnels. Then we strike, not with fire, not at first. We send in men. Loyalists inside the city. Smugglers. Goldcloaks still wearing our colors beneath their cloaks.”

I folded my arms. “You want a quiet coup in the most paranoid city in the realm?”

“I want the city to fall before we light a single torch,” he said. “We sow unrest. Rumors. Aemond is paranoid and irrational, much like my father. Let the people rise against him before we do.”

I stared down at the figurine of Silverwing, her wings spread wide across the parchment. She had grown restless lately, sensing the tension, the fire in the blood. We both had.

“They’ll expect dragons,” I said again. “And when we don’t come with them, they’ll prepare for something worse. Poison. Assassins. They’ll tighten their grip.”

Father’s mouth twitched, not a smile, but close. “And when the grip tightens, it snaps.”

I sighed and leaned over the table. “So we wait. Two weeks. Then we send the rats in first, and hope they open the gates before the city eats them alive.”

“And if they don’t,” Father said, “then we bring the dragons.”

He looked at me then, really looked. There was fire in his gaze, yes, but something colder beneath it. Strategy. Patience. The kind of chill that didn’t belong in a Targaryen soul.

I turned away and reached for my gloves. “I’ll begin the rotations. Silverwing needs to be seen, just enough to keep the city nervous.”

“Good,” Father said. “Fear is worth more than fire.”

“The Stepstone-Arbor fleet is back to the Stepstones,” I said, pointing with a gloved finger. “That means” I said, “They are the last line of defense between Lord Corlys blockade”

Father traced a line along the sea route with two fingers. “If they break the blockade, we lose the chokehold. King’s Landing gets fed, reinforced, emboldened.”

“Which we can’t allow,” I added. 

He nodded once. “The fleet must hold.”

“They will,” I said, but I couldn’t hide the doubt behind my tone. “But if the Green Fleet throws itself fully at the Stepstones we may bleed saltwater.”

Father leaned back, arms folded. “Then we bleed. Just not here. The war is a hydra, Baelon, we sever one head, two sprout elsewhere. But that’s only if we chase all of them. We keep their eyes here. The throne. The city.”

I looked down again at the realm. We were dragons, yes, but even dragons need scaffolding. Fleets to cage the sea. Spies to rot cities from within. And time, precious, sharp-edged time, to bring it all together.

“Two weeks,” I said, almost to myself. “Two weeks, and the realm breaks or bends.”

Father clapped a hand on my shoulder. “Then let’s see what cracks first.”

As I stepped outside, the cold night air wrapped around me like a cloak. Silverwing loomed above the hill, her silver-blue scales shimmering in the moonlight. She raised her head as I approached, eyes glinting like molten steel.

“We wait,” I murmured, resting a hand on her warm side. “But when the time comes, we’ll give them the storm they never saw coming.”

Her nostrils flared, a low growl rumbling in her throat.

Silverwing’s wings cut through the air like a sword through silk.

The wind howled past my ears as I guided her over the Crownlands, the land falling away behind us like a discarded cloak. King's Landing rose ahead, a tumor of smoke, stone, and stubborn defiance. Even from this distance, I could see the Red Keep perched like a spider atop its hill.

My gauntlets tightened on the reins.

"Let them see," I murmured. "Let them tremble."

Silverwing roared, a deep, thunderous bellow that rolled across the city like a herald of doom. Peasants in the streets below scattered like ants. Smoke from their cookfires curled up in confusion, mingling with the shouts of alarm rising from the walls.

Then the first bolt came.

A great steel-headed scorpion shot screamed past my left flank, close enough that I felt the wind shear. Silverwing banked hard, wings folding slightly, and we dipped low above the River Gate. Archers fired from the towers, arrows like angry insects whistling past. One splintered harmlessly against her scales. Another struck near the saddle and clattered off.

"Missed," I spat. “Try again, cowards.”

Another scorpion fired from the city wall. This one came closer, far closer, Silverwing jolted, veering sideways, her growl rising into a snarl. I pulled hard, feeling the deep, sinewy resistance in her neck as we rose, spiraling high above the city.

From above, they looked like ants scrambling for spears.

Panicked formations. Shields clashing in disarray. Men shouting orders louder than they could be obeyed. The Gold Cloaks moved like they’d trained in peace, not war. And the banners on the walls, the false king’s black dragon, seemed to wilt a little under our shadow.

“Good,” I hissed. “Let them waste bolts. Let them fear the sky.”

Silverwing let out a burst of flame, not at the city, but high above it, a warning flare. A promise.

I kept us circling once more, not too close. I wanted them to fire again. Burn their powder. Show me their angles. When the time came, I would thread them like a needle.

A lucky shot arced from the Gate of the Gods, almost blindly, it missed us by a dozen feet, but it meant one thing.

They're desperate.

I tugged the reins and whispered, “That’s enough.”

Silverwing turned sharply, her wings catching the sun just as it broke through the clouds. We rose over the city and banked west, toward the horizon, but I glanced over my shoulder one last time.

The Red keep stood tall, my home. My families home, the throne which I would one day sit, I would not let these cowards keep it any longer than they already had.

The skies were darkening by the time I saw Dragonstone rising from the sea mist, black stone and jagged towers, like the spine of a slumbering dragon. Familiar. Foreboding. Home.

Silverwing gave a low rumble beneath me as we descended. I eased her down onto the terrace of the Stone Drum, letting the wind roll off her wings one last time before they tucked tight against her ribs.

The guards saluted, but I barely acknowledged them. My boots hit the stone and I moved fast, passing through archways lit with oil-lamps and crimson banners, brushing past maesters and servants who dared not speak. The scent of ash and sea salt filled the halls.

I found them in the dining chamber, where the fire burned low and the food sat waiting. My mother turned as I entered, and though she didn't rise, something in her spine straightened.

“Baelon,” she said, and for a heartbeat, the weight of war and blood vanished from her voice.

I bowed my head. “Mother.”

Helaena was already at the table, humming to herself, peeling apart bread and feeding crumbs to a little spider crawling over her sleeve. Sheira sat beside her, stiff-backed and silent. They both looked at me, but said nothing.

“You’re late,” Sheira murmured.

“I flew in from King's Landing,” I replied, pulling off my gloves and setting them on the table. “Did a flyover of the city.”

That was all it took to silence what little conversation there was. I sat down, and a servant brought me a plate, cold duck, grapes, and a goblet of strongwine. I ate slowly, but my mind was elsewhere.

“The Hightowers and Lannisters have arrived to bustler the Baratheons” I said after a few bites. “Fully. They're using it as a staging ground.”

Mother’s jaw clenched, and she sipped from her goblet. “Why would you do that?” she asked angrily.

“Being dumb,” Sheira said under her breath.

“Father’s command, we need to keep the city on edge.” I said as I looked at my mother.

It was Helaena who broke the silence. She reached into her robe and handed me a sealed letter. “Jaehaerys wrote. You were in the sky. Queen Rhaenyra didn’t want it opened without you.”

I cracked the seal with stained fingers, eyes flicking over the lines. Then I smiled, faintly.

“Baela’s given birth,” I said. “A son. Rhaegor.”

My mother blinked. Her mouth twitched. For a moment, she looked younger.

“What wonderful news” she said.

“Strong lungs, healthy weight. Born under a waxing moon.” I said, reading off the parchment.

Dinner turned pleasant after that, no more talk of war but talk of the child.

The air was cool, salty, and soothing as it swept across the beach at Dragonstone. The waves crashed softly against the rocks, a calming rhythm to the endless horizon. The sun was sinking low, painting the sky in hues of gold and pink, and for a fleeting moment, it felt as if the world itself was taking a breath.

Helaena and I sat on the sand, close but not too close, her fingers idly tracing the shells we had collected earlier in the day. Her smile was soft, the kind she reserved for these rare quiet moments when the weight of the world didn't press down on our shoulders.

“Do you think it will ever stop?” she asked suddenly, her voice barely rising above the sound of the sea. I knew she wasn’t talking about the waves.

I shifted my gaze to her, sensing the burden in her question. "What do you mean?"

“The fighting. The unrest. Will it ever truly end?” Her fingers stopped moving over the shell, and I could feel her worry in the stillness of the air around us.

I sighed, a deep, exhausted sound that came from the very bones of me. "No. But we endure."

She looked out at the horizon, her eyes distant. I couldn’t help but admire her for that quiet strength, even in the face of everything that had happened.

Suddenly, I felt a coldness, a shift in the air that made me glance around. The guards were supposed to be watching over the children, and the castle behind us was still, dark, and far too quiet for my liking.

"Where's Viserys?" I asked, frowning slightly as I glanced back toward the keep.

Helaena looked up quickly, her expression turning from one of contemplation to concern. "He was right here," she murmured, standing up. "I thought he was playing by the rocks."

I rose to my feet too, scanning the beach. "Viserys!" I called, my voice rising with urgency.

There was no answer.

I turned to the guards who had been stationed further up the beach. "Find him!" I commanded, my voice firm, and they scattered, their boots thudding against the sand as they began searching.

Helaena was beside me, her face pale as she stepped closer to the rocks. “Where could he have gone?”

I stepped forward, my eyes darting over every possible hiding place, the large, jagged rocks near the water, the pools where crabs and fish were caught in the ebbing tide.

And then, there he was.

A small figure, barely visible in the growing shadows, crouching down near the water’s edge. 

And standing in front of him, crouched low with eyes glowing like fire, was a dragon. My hand swam through the possibilities, at that size the only one not in the Dragonmount could have been Seasmoke.

The dragon’s sleek form was half-hidden behind a large outcrop of rock, but its head was lowered to the ground, staring at my son with a strange, curious gaze. Its long, sinuous tail flicked back and forth in the shallows.

Viserys was laughing, his small hands holding a bit of driftwood. He tossed it in the air, and Seasmoke batted it back toward him, almost playfully. The dragon’s movements were careful, as though it was humoring the child, not toying with him.

I froze.

For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. My heart stilled in my chest, and I looked to Helaena, whose expression mirrored my own: both of us caught between awe and fear.

"Viserys," I called softly, taking a step forward. "What are you doing, little one?"

Viserys turned to look at me, his face lighting up with a wide grin. “Papa! Look! The Dragon likes me!” His voice was full of wonder, and I saw no fear in his eyes, only excitement. "He’s playing with me!"

Seasmoke, as if understanding the importance of the moment, lowered his head even closer to the boy, and with slow, deliberate movements, he nudged Viserys gently, as if to offer his approval.

The guards arrived behind me, but I held up a hand to stop them from coming any closer. I knew the risks, Seasmoke was no small creature. But I also knew that something magical was happening before us. A bond. A rare bond between dragon and rider that could not be easily explained.

Helaena stepped up beside me, her breath caught in her throat as she gazed at their interaction. "He's… he’s not afraid of Seasmoke," she whispered.

"No," I said quietly, watching as Seasmoke snorted, his breath forming a light mist in the cool evening air. "Neither of them are."

Viserys, still unaware of the weight of what had just happened, turned back to his new companion. “He’s my friend now, Papa!” He was beaming, full of joy.

And for the first time in a long while, I allowed myself to smile. The future was uncertain, the war far from over. But in this moment, my son had found something pure, a dragon’s affection, a bond built on innocence and wonder.

I stepped forward, my hand gently resting on his shoulder. "You’ll need to be careful with him," I said, my voice a little gruffer than I intended. "Seasmoke is a dragon. Not a plaything."

Viserys looked up at me, his eyes wide and trusting. "I know, Papa. I’ll be careful."

And I believed him. For now.

Chapter Text

Chapter 7 - Lorcan II. 133AC

The waves crashed around us, the only sound in my mind as we raced further from the Blackwater bay, The men on the ship were quiet, while they had once been full of piss and vinegar to go get their blood up, now they had time to think, time to think on this impossible task that lay before us. 

I was in the captain's office of the ship, Prince Gaemon stood in front of me, the table between us contained something massive wrapped in a sheet, 

“What is it?” I finally asked, he drew the sheet away,

A sword, one made from Valyrian steel

The blade is massive, nearly six feet in length and a foot wide, an impossible slab of sharpened death. Unlike ordinary Valyrian steel blades, which are elegant and etched with swirling patterns, it looks brutal and raw. Yet, beneath its harsh edges, dark veins of smoky ripples twist along the surface like frozen shadows, a sign of its true Valyrian make. The metal gleams not with silver light but a deep, oily black, as if it were hewn from a starless night.

The edges are razor-sharp despite the sheer size of the weapon, capable of cleaving through armored knights, war horses, or even dragonbone.

“Where did you get this?” I asked him,

“My Uncle Rhaegar had it made for me while I was in the Stepstones, my giant iron blade had grown dull and chipped. This was a gift from him for my valor, I took it with me on the night I betrayed him. I have not had to use it since” he said,

“Does it have a name” I asked,

He shook his head, “No But I am hoping to give it one after this battle” he said,

The wind was with us.

The sails above barely stirred, and yet we moved, gliding ghostlike across the black mirror of the sea. Dozens of warships, lean, low, and painted dark, cut through the night, their hulls silent, oars dipped only enough to keep us steady.

No words. No torches. No banners.

I stood at the prow beside Gaemon, and even he was still, save for the faint gleam of his green armor beneath a damp cloak. His eyes were fixed ahead, watching the silver-glow lights of ships flicker behind the thin veil of morning fog. The enemy fleet lay anchored, quiet, unaware.

“Which ship is his?” Gaemon asked, voice low, the kind that curled under the skin.

“ The SeaSnake ,” I said. “The largest. Mid-harbor, toward the east . You’ll know it by the hull, pearl-white and trimmed in blue.”

He didn’t nod, didn’t speak. Just flexed the gauntlet on his sword hand and stared forward.

Behind us, the low groan of his sword being drawn free of its sheath whispered across the deck. A dozen men turned to look, and their faces tightened. That sword wasn’t just a weapon. It was a promise.

A flicker. A glint.

A sailor ahead raised his hand in a quick gesture. A ship. No, ships. Masts. Anchored in clustered ranks just past the fog line, their silhouettes barely visible. Sailors moved on decks, oblivious.

Gaemon spoke two words: “Row faster.”

The oars dipped. A heartbeat. Another. Our speed increased, not by much, but enough .

The fog broke like silk before us. Then came the first impact.

CRACK.

The Drunken Giant slammed full into the side of a Velaryon ship, wood splintering, men tumbling across decks, startled shouts rising into screams. Grappling hooks flew before the alarm even finished sounding.

I leapt with the others, boots thudding down on soaked wood, sword in hand. Gaemon landed beside me like a hammer thrown by a god, already in motion. His blade swung once, just once, and a man in fine armor was torn in half like parchment. The massive sword whistled through the air, too wide to be parried, too heavy to block. He moved like a man half his size, with twice the fury.

“To the Sea Snake!” he roared, voice shaking the deck.

The men surged forward, lighting pitch pots, dragging oil across the sails, setting them alight.

More Velaryon ships stirred awake, their bells ringing now, sailors rushing, archers firing wild into the dark. But it was too late. Half the fleet was aflame, half still sleeping. And Gaemon, Gaemon was already aboard a second ship, cutting his way toward the white-hulled prize.

I followed, blade bloodied, lungs burning. 

“Push!” someone shouted. “Push to the Sea Snake ! He’s dead if we reach her!”

A glance over the rails showed her, the flagship herself, gleaming with bronze detailing and high white sails bearing House Velaryon’s silver seahorse. Even now, she was circling behind Gaemon’s main line, trying to flank and split the attack.

“She’s not running,” I said.

“No,” Gaemon growled. “Old men with names like Sea Snake don’t run. He’ll come to die with his ship.”

The wind caught our sail as we leapt back to our own ship. Gaemon’s fleet pressed forward, ships shoving past shattered hulks. Arrows darkened the sky. Ballista bolts screamed overhead, one slamming into the mast behind me and splitting it in half.

A sailor screamed as it fell, catching his arm beneath the spar. He was still screaming as I ran past.

We were close now. The Sea Snake loomed ahead like a predator, her crew already bracing, armored knights forming a spear wall across her main deck. Lord Corlys was said to be aboard, wrapped in silver plate and coral-encrusted mail.

Beside me, Gaemon swung his sword lazily in a circle, a massive arc of shadowed steel.

“Will you kill the old man yourself?” I asked.

“If he stands,” Gaemon said, “I’ll put him down.”

Then the wind shifted. A sudden, high shriek rolled down from above. Not wind, not steel, not man. Something older.

Men froze. Even Gaemon paused, his eyes lifting skyward. A shadow passed over the Sea Snake’s sail. It was not the clouds.

It was wings.

The shape emerged from the fog like a nightmare painted in crimson and coal. Maelys, the Red Queen, her wings vast as siege towers, her body wreathed in smoke and the rising sun. Her scales caught the morning light and turned it to blood. Each beat of her wings stirred the sea below, rippling waves and tipping ships.

Atop her, calm as a statue of wrath, rode Princess Rhaenys. Her silver hair streamed behind her, her armor pale and gleaming, eyes locked on the battle below. In her hand was no weapon, for she needed none.

Panic rippled through Gaemon’s men. Archers froze, sailors dropped their lines, officers shouted orders too late to matter.

Maelys opened her jaws.

The fire came not in a burst, but in a wave, slow and rising, orange light blooming inside her throat before it exploded forward in a stream of molten death. One of the lead ships, a light frigate called The Widow’s Mercy , vanished in an instant, sails turning to ash, men howling and leaping into the sea, their skin alight. Another was caught along the stern, and flame climbed the rigging like a living thing, hungry and fast.

“Fire! Gods save us, the dragon’s come!”

Gaemon did not flinch. He only turned, gave a sharp gesture, and the oarsmen redoubled their pace. He moved like a man walking into storm winds, pushing forward across the deck toward the prow, the sword dragging sparks where it scraped the planks.

“Keep going!” he roared. “To the Sea Snake!”

The Sea Snake herself had come fully alive now. Her ballistae were cranking, her archers loosing in volleys, her sides bristling with steel and oars. Lord Corlys’s command ship turned like a beast sensing blood, aiming to intercept Gaemon’s flagship mid-charge.

Maelys wheeled overhead again, a living storm. Her fire trailed behind her, turning the sky a shade of burning gold. Rhaenys leaned into her saddle, guiding her mount with hard tugs and subtle shifts. Each pass scorched another ship. Not all were sunk, but all were maimed — sails blackened, decks cracked, crews in chaos.

The water churned with men, screaming and swimming, some on fire, some clawing at debris. Still, Gaemon pressed on.

We rammed another ship broadside. Grapples flew again, and this time the Velaryon knights were ready. Their deck was slick with sea and blood when I leapt aboard, parried a thrust, and drove my blade through a man’s throat.

Gaemon came behind me, a force of nature. He swung his sword low, and a shield split in two, the man behind it folded inward like wet cloth. Two more came at him with spears. He caught one mid-lunge and lifted the man off the deck on the point of his sword, hurling him overboard with a heave of his arm.

Maelys screamed again above us, flame trailing her passage, and this time her fire caught a munitions ship. It exploded, the blast loud enough to shake the deck beneath my feet. A rain of fire and shattered timber came down, peppering us, cutting through cloth, flesh, and rigging alike.

Gaemon did not look up. He was staring ahead.

The Sea Snake was close now.

We charged down the main deck, cut across another cluster of Velaryon sailors trying to regroup. Gaemon’s blade split a man from shoulder to hip. The rest turned to flee, and he cut them down without a word. The deck beneath us was slick with blood, the groan of wood and the distant clash of steel echoing in all directions.

The Sea Snake was still pulling back, trying to put space between herself and the burning wrecks. She loosed a volley of scorpions, bolts whistling through the air. One embedded itself in the foremast of our stolen ship, another punched through the helm of the man to my left.

Then came the thud of claws again.

Maelys landed.

The impact rocked the nearest ship. Her tail smashed the aft deck, sending planks and bodies into the sea. She crouched low, wings outstretched, head snaking toward us, jaws dripping fire and smoke.

Rhaenys pointed.

Gaemon didn’t hesitate. He charged.

The deck shuddered beneath our feet as the dragon roared, fire welling in its throat again. We dove behind the forecastle rail as another wave of fire slammed down, washing the top deck in ruin. The timbers groaned, blackened and buckling. Gaemon kicked open a fallen hatch, dropped through, and I followed.

We moved through the underdeck, the air thick with smoke, heat pressing in from above. The screams above had become one long, continuous sound, broken only by the crack of wood and the distant roar of battle.

“We’ll come up near the bow,” Gaemon said, breathing hard. “If Maelys takes the deck, we take the Sea Snake.”

“What if she burns it?” I asked.

“She won’t,” he said, with the faintest grin. “Not while her husband is aboard.”

We burst through another hatch, this time into the open air. The bow was clear for a moment, Maelys focused on another ship farther back in the line, fire chasing Gaemon’s flagship now. Her fleet was burning. His fleet was burning.

And still he pressed forward.

The Sea Snake was just a leap away now, her starboard hull scraping ours. Sailors on both decks exchanged volleys with bows and crossbows. One of Gaemon’s men threw a grappling hook, it caught on the rail. Another followed. They pulled the ships tight.

Gaemon grabbed a coil of rope and leapt, swinging across, sword drawn.

He landed like thunder, and the deck exploded into motion. Knights of Velaryon colors surged to meet him. His blade rose, fell, rose again, each stroke shattering shield and bone alike. I scrambled after, sword drawn, heart pounding.

We were aboard the Sea Snake now.

And the old man himself, Lord Corlys Velaryon, was waiting at the far end of the deck, silver helm gleaming in the firelight, blade in hand, cloak smoking from Maelys’s fury.

The air was thick with blood and the stench of death. Gaemon had become something more than a man, a force of nature cutting down the Velaryon knights and men-at-arms with every swing of his blade. Each stroke was brutal, fast, and unforgiving. I could see the terror in their eyes before they died, and the way their bodies crumpled beneath his strikes, helpless against his fury.

I stood at the far end of the ship, far enough away that the heat of the battle didn't scorch me, but close enough that I could hear the screams, the clash of steel, the wet sound of a blade sinking into flesh. I had always known Gaemon was a weapon, but this... this was something else entirely. His rage was a storm that no one could withstand.

Then, there was a sound that made everything else fade into a sickening silence—a deafening roar that rattled the very bones of the ship. I looked up, instinctively shielding my eyes from the spray of salt and blood in the air.

Maelys had landed.

The great beast was like a shadow, its wings blocking out the sun, its massive claws scraping against the wood of the ship. The air stank of smoke and sulfur, and I could feel the heat from its breath even from this distance. For a moment, everything seemed to slow, and my heart pounded in my chest, realizing what was about to unfold.

Gaemon.

He had just finished cleaving through another knight, and for a brief moment, he turned, his eyes locking onto Corlys. He didn't even flinch when Maelys landed on the deck. It was as though the dragon was nothing but another obstacle, another thing to be destroyed.

The dragon’s massive jaws opened, unleashing another deafening roar, but Gaemon was already moving. His greatsword was raised, his body coiling like a serpent ready to strike. There was no hesitation, no second thoughts. He moved with the precision of a predator, cutting through the chaos, never breaking his focus.

I barely had time to react, to even think, as Gaemon dashed toward the dragon, weaving around the bodies of the fallen. I could hardly believe what I was seeing. No one challenged a dragon and survived.

But Gaemon wasn’t like anyone else.

He reached the beast in an instant, his sword flashing in the sunlight as he plunged it into the dragon’s side. Maelys let out a screech that rattled my bones, thrashing wildly, but Gaemon didn’t back down. He was a blur of motion, striking over and over again, each blow landing with the force of a thunderclap.

I could see the blood pooling beneath the dragon, dark and slick, as Gaemon danced around its fury. The dragon’s massive form twisted and roared, trying to swipe at him with its claws, but Gaemon was faster, always just out of reach.

The deck shook with the force of the dragon’s last desperate thrash, but Gaemon was there, his sword plunging into the beast's jaw from below. With a final roar of defiance, Maelys crumpled to the deck, its body twitching as the life drained from it.

Gaemon stood above the fallen dragon, breathing heavily, the tip of his sword still embedded in its chin. He didn’t look victorious. He looked cold, detached, like the death of a dragon was nothing more than another task to cross off his list.

I stood there, frozen, my heart pounding in my ears. I’d never seen anything like it.

For all his power, Gaemon was still a man, and yet in that moment, he had killed something that had been thought untouchable. I didn’t know whether to feel awe, terror, or a creeping sense of doom. Either way, I knew one thing for certain.

The men surged onto the deck, their faces painted with a feverish mix of awe and bloodlust. The sight of Gaemon slaying Maelys had ignited something in them, a hunger, a thirst for power, and they could taste it now. Our forces swarmed the SeaSnake like ants over a carcass, and in mere moments, we had seized control of the ship.

The once-proud vessel, the SeaSnake, was ours. The Velaryon knights who had fought valiantly moments before now lay crumpled, blood staining the planks beneath them, while our men stood tall, their weapons slick with victory. It was a sight I could hardly comprehend, the same ship that had once been the pride of House Velaryon was now the stage of our triumph.

“Take Lord Corlys, and Princess Rhaenys prisoner,” Gaemon's voice cut through the chaos, harsh and commanding. His gaze swept over the men, cold and calculating, like he’d already forgotten the battle that had just unfolded. “This is our fleet now.”

I felt a tremor run through me, but I swallowed it down, the weight of Gaemon’s words settling in. Our victory wasn’t just over the dragon, it was over the entire Velaryon house. I didn’t have the time to dwell on the magnitude of it, though. We had work to do.

As our men moved to seize Corlys and Rhaenys, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of disbelief. We had taken their ship, their pride, their very legacy, and in one swift stroke, the Velaryons were no longer untouchable.

Chapter Text

Chapter 8 - Daeron III. 133AC

I sat around the command table of the White Widow , my capital ship, freshly docked in Sunspear. The gleaming black steel of her hull shimmered faintly under the Dornish sun, a quiet reminder of the power I commanded. But today, power alone would not be enough. I was here to parley with Prince Qoren Martell.

As I descended the gangplank, the dry heat of the Dornish sands hit me like a wall. The air clung to my skin, parched, weightless, and suffocating in its own way. Ser Tyric and Lord Rodrick stepped off behind me. My mouth was already dry, not from nerves, for I had met with lords and kings and faced down dragons, but from the sheer lack of water in the air. A group of guards stood waiting, their orange and red robes billowing slightly in the desert breeze, ready to escort us through the narrow, sunbaked streets of Sunspear to the Prince's solar.

The guards did not speak as we began the walk through the city. Sunspear was unlike any place in the Seven Kingdoms. Its buildings were pale sandstone, weathered smooth by centuries of wind, rising in sharp angles and narrow spires. Cloth awnings stretched between rooftops to shield the winding alleys from the worst of the sun, casting shifting patterns of gold and red across the cobbled paths.

Children darted between doorways and merchants called out spice prices, their voices rising above the low hum of the streets. The air smelled of sun-warmed spices, citrus, and salt blown in from the sea. I passed a fountain shaped like a coiled viper, its water glinting as it spilled into a shallow pool. A trio of women sat nearby, their dresses light and flowing, their eyes following me with veiled curiosity.

It was a different world here. Where the Reach offered lush gardens and well-ordered fields, and King’s Landing groaned beneath the weight of ambition and smoke, Sunspear breathed with age and defiance. Even the heat seemed proud. Every stone, every gaze, reminded me that Dorne had never been conquered by force. I was not here as a victor, but as a guest.

At last, we reached the Palace. It was not a grand castle in the northern style, but a collection of towers and courtyards, open to the sun and sea, layered with breezeways and shaded gardens. A servant approached and beckoned me through an arched doorway, carved with a sun-and-spear motif.

The hall within was cool, the walls covered in fine tapestries of red and gold, showing scenes of Dorne's long resistance against House Targaryen. Prince Qoren awaited me there, seated beneath a latticed window where shafts of sunlight filtered in, catching in his dark hair. He did not rise, but inclined his head with deliberate calm.

“Prince Daeron, Lord Rodrick, Ser Tyric” he said. “You come to Sunspear not with dragons, but with words. Let us hear them.”

I met his gaze and stepped forward.

“I come not to take, but to bind. To offer peace, not ash. Let us speak plainly, Prince of Dorne.”

“Yes, I am sure you do not wish me any harm, but there certainly would be those who would if I were to ally with you” he said, cutting straight to the point.

“We are a strong fleet my Lord, Iron and Gold, united underneath a dragon” Ser Tyric said, trying to sway the man.

“I am not sure Iron and Gold can protect me from King Rhaegar,” he said, making a slight jape.

“Yes King Rhaegar would not like it, but he is preoccupied, he has Kings Landing cut off his gaze will look no where else” I said to him,

“Yes he does have the city surrounded  and blockaded, but even if I did want to throw my weight behind a losing side, why are you certain his gaze will not turn elsewhere?” he asked,

“I killed his father, took his sword and paraded his head through the streets, surely if that was not enough to distract him you will not be” I said, slightly insulting the man.

“You know I have seen King Rhaegar in battle before?” he asked me, 

“Yes I have heard many times how impressive he was” I said, a bit of bile in my words, I hated to hear of the glory of a man who would ruin my nation, my house, my family.

“Impressive is a understatement Prince Daeron, I watched him burn men without a care, watched him jump from his dragons back to cut down thirty men all on his own, I watched him punch a whole in my son who was leading my armies in the Stepstones, so forgive me for not trusting you at your word” he said to me,

“We are stronger now, Prince Aemond leads the Kingdom now, he is strong and we will take the stepstones” Rodrick said,

“Prince Aemond, he has seen nothing of war, and you have seen nothing, yes you have raided but war is different little Kraken” Qoren said,

“His mind is not on you” I said trying to convince him,

“Dorne has felt Vhaegar’s rath before has it not” Tyric asked, slighting the prince who simply looked at him.

“Yes Vhaegar is fierce, but she has not grown in twenty years, but Vermithor and Silverwing I hear have been growing at unheard of rates, if that is true perhaps they will surpass the Dread soon, then what. I have seen what that man can do, maybe he is distracted for now, but when this war is over if he wins then Dorne will burn, We have danced with Dragons before, I would rather sleep with scorpions” he yelled at me,

“Then help us win the throne, then you are protected” I said to him

“Your King lies dead, Your city is surrounded, your fleet is cut off, I cannot save you, Dorne will remain neutral, my advice is take your ships sell them in one of the free cities and buy yourself a nice life” he said to me, my first clenched in anger. This old man would be no help.

“Well, I thank you for the audience and for letting my ships harbor here” I said to him,

“Of course, Prince Daeron, please enjoy sunspear for the rest of the day, but you must leave in the morning” he said to me,

I nodded and left my two companions to say their goodbyes, they had not helped at all. If anything their pride and slights had managed to push Qoren away.

I did not return to the White Widow immediately. If Prince Qoren would not support my cause, I would at least take what peace I could from this place before war found me again.

Sunspear in the evening shimmered with a quiet energy. The sun dipped low behind the western mountains, painting the sky in streaks of orange and violet. The sandstone buildings caught the last of the light and seemed to glow with warmth. The streets were alive with voices, music, and the clatter of dishes. The city did not sleep early.

I walked the alleys without an escort, my cloak drawn low, though my features likely gave me away. A silver-haired foreigner in black and red did not blend well, but no one stopped me. Merchants still called from their stalls, offering fruits, spices, and delicate fabrics dyed in hues I had never seen in the Crownlands. I passed a baker selling flatbread cooked over open flame and dusted with powdered cinnamon and sugar. I took one, handed him a few copper stars, and ate as I walked.

Children darted between carts chasing one another, laughing with the ease of those who had not yet seen war. Women sat beneath awnings drinking wine and watching the world go by. They looked at me curiously but not unkindly. A boy offered to shine my boots with a mixture of sand and oil. I let him try, then gave him twice what he asked and moved on.

By the time I returned to the harbor, the White Widow's lanterns burned low and steady. The ship rested like a beast asleep, sleek and ready to wake at my call. I climbed aboard and went straight to the command room, where maps of the Stepstones and the southern seas were already laid out across the long table.

The others gathered not long after. My captains were men of experience, though none born of the Stepstones or Dorne, they would help me carve a path through what remained of Rhaegar’s southern grip.

I pointed at the islands scattered between Dorne and the Stormlands, each one a jagged thorn in the sea lanes.

“The Stepstones are held by what remains of the Arbor’s fleet and Rhaegar’s fleet,” I said. “He is too focused on King’s Landing to reinforce them properly.”

Ser Andros crossed his arms. “The Arbor’s ships are still fast and dangerous. They may run before we can pin them.”

“Then we burn what we cannot take. Blockade their harbors, torch their storehouses. If they flee, let them run home to tell Rhaegar his southern reach is broken.”

I looked around the table. The men were silent, but their eyes burned with purpose. We all knew the cost of failure, but this was a chance to draw blood without facing a dragon in the sky.

“Prepare the ships,” I said. “We sail at dawn.”

As they filed out, I remained behind and looked once more at the map. The islands were just ink on parchment, but soon they would be soaked in blood. If I could not win allies in palaces, I would win them with fire and iron.

The sea stretched out in all directions, calm and gray beneath a pale sky. Three days had passed since we left Sunspear. The wind had been kind, and the fleet held formation as well as could be expected. The White Widow cut through the waves at the front, her sails full and her decks bustling with purpose.

Below the quarterdeck, in the cramped war room that stank of salt and tar, I stood over the map of the Stepstones once again. Bloodstone Isle loomed at the center. We were two days from it, if the winds held.

Rodrick Greyjoy leaned on the table with one hand, a silver ring glinting on his thick finger. His other hand held a cup of wine that sloshed dangerously each time the ship rocked.

“You want to land straight on Bloodstone,” he said, his voice rough with salt and disdain. “That’s the worst idea I’ve heard since a man tried to trade me a prayer book for a ship.”

Across from him, Ser Tyric Lannister, one of Lord Jason’s younger sons, copper-haired and as polished as a new coin, snorted. “It’s the only target that matters. You cut off the head, the rest scatters. Take Bloodstone fast and the rest of the isles will surrender.”

Rodrick laughed, loud and sharp. “That’s not how pirates think, boy. You take Bloodstone and the others don’t fall. They vanish. Into the rocks, into the sea. You lose men on one rock while the rest sail off and torch your supply ships. You’ll be chasing ghosts for months.”

“Better that than sitting here debating like old men at court,” Tyric shot back.

I held up a hand. “Enough.”

They fell silent, though Rodrick’s glare could have split a mast.

“We are not storming Bloodstone blindly,” I said. “We strike a smaller island first. Grey Gallows or Two Crowns. We test their response, see how fast they move, how many ships they bring. Then we decide how to take the heart.”

Rodrick pointed with his cup. “That’s sense.”

Tyric folded his arms. “And if they reinforce Bloodstone in the meantime? If we waste time and let the Arbor’s fleet slip through our fingers?”

“Then we adapt,” I said. “We are not here to blunder in like hounds chasing a scent. This is not a duel. It is a siege. And sieges are won with patience.”

Rodrick gave a grunt that might have been approval.

Tyric frowned, but said nothing more.

I turned back to the map, tracing the sea routes between the islands. The invasion would begin soon, but if we were not united in purpose, it could end before it ever truly began.

“We sail for Grey Gallows,” I said. “Prepare the men. No more arguments.”

Outside, the wind shifted slightly eastward, and the White Widow turned with it. The Stepstones waited.

That evening, I stood alone on the aft deck, staring out at the endless gray of the Narrow Sea. The waves whispered beneath the hull, and the creak of ropes above was the only sound besides the low murmur of sailors at work. The sky had begun to darken, stained in streaks of orange and violet where the sun sank behind the sea.

Ser Andros approached quietly, his boots soft on the worn deckboards. He waited at my side, hands clasped behind his back, saying nothing until I chose to speak.

“They’ll tear each other apart before we ever reach the shore,” I said finally, my voice low.

Andros tilted his head. “Rodrick and Tyric?”

I gave a bitter laugh. “Like dogs fighting over a bone they haven’t even found yet. Rodrick treats every council like it’s a saltborn mutiny, and Tyric, Seven help me. thinks war is just another joust to win his father’s favor.”

“They're proud men,” Andros offered. “Rodrick has led fleets for longer than Tyric’s held a sword. And Tyric’s never had to fight for respect until now.”

“That’s exactly the problem,” I said. “I need commanders, not squabbling boys playing at war. Every decision becomes a contest. Every suggestion turns into a damned argument.”

Andros gave a soft hum. “You’re the only one who can shut them up. And they know it.”

“I shouldn’t have to,” I muttered. “Rodrick wants to pillage every isle like it’s Pyke’s reaving season, and Tyric wants to win a song. Neither sees the larger war.”

Andros finally looked at me, his gray eyes steady. “Then show them. Make them see it. Remind them they’re not here to make names, they’re here to make a future. Yours.”

I was silent for a moment, then gave a faint nod.

“You’re right,” I said. “I’ll remind them tomorrow. One way or another, this army marches as one.”

Andros clapped a hand on my shoulder. “That’s the Daeron I serve.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 9 - Baelon IV. 133 AC

"The blockade still holds," Ser Baldwin announced as he read from the letter. His voice was steady, but I saw the satisfaction in his eyes. The Greens had attempted to break it, mustering what ships they had left in the gullet. The sortie failed. Our fleet, reinforced by Driftmark and commanded with precision, had crushed the attempt.

Reports from our agents in Dorne confirmed the rumors. Prince Qoren had received Daeron Targaryen, Rodrik Greyjoy, and Tyric Lannister with civility but sent them away empty-handed. Dorne would not ride to war for the dying cause of a dead king.

"Good," said Father. He stood before the table where our battle plans were spread, the candlelight dancing in his silver hair. "Let them starve a little longer."

The city still held, but barely. King’s Landing was cut off from the sea, its river routes blocked, its storehouses dwindling. The Greens had amassed what strength they could outside the city gates, drawing together Hightower bannermen, Baratheon, and Lannisters. They were desperate, and desperate men made mistakes.

"We will strike soon," Father said. "We engage the field army first. Hightower and Baratheon will come forward thinking they have the advantage. We crush them. Then we turn to the city."

I leaned forward and placed a mailed hand on the plan. "The main gate?"

Father nodded. "The Dragon Gate is well defended. The Iron Gate is too narrow. But the King's Gate is their weakness. If we press the siege and push through there, the city will fall from within."

"What of the people?" asked Ser Mervyn. "They have been rioting for food and Aemond has suppressed them brutally"

"Good, we want them Angry with the Greens," Father said. "It will keep them loyal to us."

Silence fell over the chamber, broken only by the rustle of parchment and the creak of armor. Outside, the wind carried the smell of woodsmoke and the distant rumble of marching feet. The war was reaching its end, and the dragon had come to claim his throne.

Ser Skorian spoke next “Our Forces will push in a full out assault, no tricks, nothing held back. We need to draw out Vhaegar, force Aemond to defend the city from Dragonback” he said placing the wooden dragon of Vhaegar on the table, 

“Vermithor, Silverwing, Syrax, and Dreamfyre” he said, placing the four figurines around Vhaegar. I was skeptical at first about using mother and Helaena for the battle, I thought me and father would be enough but father wanted them there just in case, four would be unbeatable. 

“The plan is settled, we attack at dawn” Father said, 

Me and Helaena did not sleep well that night, we had talked briefly of the battle tomorrow, I knew she and I were worried about how the next day would go. I had to accept that it was what it was.

I woke the next morning, the chill of the morning breeze sent shivers down my spine as I headed to Silverwing, she was already saddled and ready to go, I patted her gently and mounted her. 

The army started its march within the hour, I flew overhead watching for Vhaegar, finally our men came to a stop as we had reached the fields outside the gates, staring down our enemies.

A horn sounded.

Not one, but three, their low notes rolling across the fields like a call to judgment. Soldiers tightened their grips on spears and shields as the command passed down the line. Siege towers lurched forward on groaning wheels, pushed by sweating men and dragged by teams of oxen. Banners snapped in the wind, crimson and gold and black, while dust rose like smoke from the earth.

Silverwing’s body tensed beneath me, her wings spread wide. I gave the signal. She leapt into the air, claws tearing trenches in the soil as we rose above the host. The sky opened before us, cloudless and blue, but below it churned a world of steel and fire.

The enemy waited outside the King's Gate. Hightower levies stood shoulder to shoulder behind rows of sharpened stakes, with Baratheon knights massed in shining plate behind them. Siege fire arced from their catapults, flaming stones hurtling through the air. One struck a tower to our left and it crumpled like a dying animal, screams piercing through the roar.

I circled high above the first wave. Our lines crashed into theirs with the sound of thunder. Shields splintered. Men were trampled. The field turned to mud under the weight of blood. I watched a group of our footmen break through a line of Hightower spearmen, only to be cut down by a Baratheon charge that tore through them like a scythe through wheat.

Silverwing roared. I felt her fury pulse through the saddle, her muscles coiled and eager. I leaned forward and pointed to the tower on the flank. We dove, wind shrieking past my ears, the ground rushing up to meet us. At the last moment I pulled her up and she exhaled, a torrent of flame pouring over the barricade. Men scattered like leaves in a storm, their screams sharp and brief before they were lost in the inferno.

I hovered there for a moment, the heat rising from the scorched earth licking at my boots, the smell of burning flesh filling the air. All around me, the battle unfolded like a nightmare. Horses screamed as they fell. Steel clanged against steel. Arrows soared upward but fell short of Silverwing's wings.

There was no glory in it. Only death. This was the Stepstones, maybe not as horrific but its till brought me back, the men screaming for their fathers, mothers, brothers, wives and children, all united in fear of death by steel or fire.

Silverwing wheeled higher as the smoke thickened below us. I scanned the field for the signal. A single crimson flag lifted near the siege towers told me what I needed to know. The breach was beginning.

I turned her toward the city walls.

The defenders saw us coming. Archers scrambled to loose arrows, their points glinting like sparks in the sunlight. A few struck Silverwing’s flanks, but she barely noticed them. Her hide was thick, her fury thicker.

We passed over the first tower, then came down hard on the battlements. Stone cracked beneath her weight. A group of spearmen rushed us with panicked shouts, their weapons raised. Silverwing opened her jaws and bathed the wall in flame. The front line vanished beneath it. Those behind screamed and fell back, some tumbling from the parapets like burning dolls.

She moved along the wall like a storm. I let her work, guiding her with knees and reins. Every few yards, she stopped to unleash fire into the murder holes and arrow slits. Barracks and watch stations along the wall caught fire. Smoke billowed upward in black columns. The defenders were trying to hold, but they had never seen this kind of wrath.

At a signal from below, I turned Silverwing toward the main gate. The rams were almost in position. If the fire could thin the walls and panic the men holding it, the gate would fall faster.

We made another pass, this time close to the battlements. A captain in green armor raised his shield and tried to rally his men. I saw his mouth move, shouting something I couldn’t hear. Silverwing landed beside him, her claws cracking the stones beneath her. I drew my sword, leaned down, and cut him from his feet as she incinerated the rest.

The gatehouse was ahead now. Its wooden beams, wrapped in iron, would take time to break. But the defenders on top were already fleeing. We gave them a final gift. Fire poured from Silverwing’s mouth, turning the upper level into a furnace. Arrows from below zipped past us as she took off again, but none found their mark.

From above, I saw the chaos spilling through the field. Our men had breached the outer defenses in several places. The enemy was being pushed back toward the gate, trapped between the walls and our fury.

A sound like thunder cracked across the sky.

But it was no dragon.

A siege tower had exploded, its frame shattered by a lucky bolt, or perhaps it collapsed under its own weight. Splinters the size of spears whirled into the air, impaling men where they stood. Limbs flew. Blood sprayed in arcs across blackened stone. Screams split the morning haze.

Silverwing circled above, and I took in the full horror below.

Bodies churned in the mire. Men screamed not from wounds but from fire, burning alive in pits of dragonflame or trapped beneath broken machines. I saw a Hightower knight crawling from beneath a smoking cart, his legs gone, his steel melting into his flesh. A footman stumbled into the path of a retreating oxen team and vanished under the hooves. This was not war. It was butchery.

To our left, the leftmost flank of our infantry surged forward, inspired by the dragons above. Their banners, heavy with ash and blood, advanced inch by inch through a rain of arrows and oil. The enemy tried to hold, but fire had broken their lines and their courage. A sally of Baratheon cavalry thundered forth from a side gate, but Dreamfyre dropped from the clouds and swept low. Her flames split the charge, the horses panicking, riders thrown in all directions. What remained turned and fled.

I tugged Silverwing to the right, toward a stretch of wall where defenders still fired from behind iron mantlets. Catapults rumbled below, dragging forward new loads. A signal flare burst in red smoke from one of our command posts. Another target.

"Burn it," I said through gritted teeth.

Silverwing obeyed. Her wings folded inward and we dropped like a stone. Arrows filled the sky, some catching on her scales, none penetrating. She roared, a deafening, blood-curdling scream that shook the very air, and loosed fire. It washed over the tower and its crew. One man jumped from the parapet, his armor aflame. He screamed the whole way down.

The walls of King’s Landing were crumbling, not from engines or brute force, but from the terror that flew above them.

We made another pass, strafing the defenses, watching archers abandon their posts. Some turned and ran, throwing down their bows, diving into alleys and yards behind the curtain wall. Others froze where they stood, too stunned or proud or terrified to move. They died the same.

From the ground, our siege towers groaned into place. Men climbed rapidly, shields slung on their backs, spears in hand. Some fell, hit by stones or oil, but more climbed still. The gatehouse was under pressure now. The ram, iron-bound and shaped like a dragon’s head, swung forward with a crash, striking the great oaken doors.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Each strike shook the street, sending cracks through the surrounding stone.

The defenders atop the gate tried to resist, crossbows firing down, boiling sand poured from murder holes, but the dragons had thinned their numbers. Vermithor, father’s great mount, tore through the western wall walk, collapsing an entire tower with his weight. Men fled. Some leapt rather than face the flame. One plummeted past us, screaming, until he struck a stone outcropping and burst apart.

I glanced behind me and caught a glimpse of Syrax, her golden wings catching the morning light as she wheeled above the central plaza. Mother's saddle gleamed against her scaled neck. They hovered above a barracks roof now aflame, watching, waiting, guarding.

Then a cry went up from below.

"The gates! The gates!"

The ram struck once more, and the right door cracked. A cheer rippled through our front lines. The infantry surged, roaring like a wave. More battering rams were being dragged into position, faster now, as if the city sensed it was about to lose its last breath.

I guided Silverwing lower, ready for another run along the wall, but a plume of fire from Dreamfyre signaled success on the southern breach. The outer district burned now, wooden roofs collapsing, smoke choking every street. The defenders were retreating inward, toward the Hill of Rhaenys and the Red Keep beyond.

The air was thick with ash. Fires burned without wind to guide them. Beneath Silverwing’s wings, the battle churned on, but the tide was ours.

We had not yet taken the city, but we had broken it.

A sound like thunder cracked across the sky.

Chapter Text

Chapter 10 - Lorcan III. 133AC

We sailed through calm waters, the ocean like glass as The Sea Snake cut a clean path forward, her hull slicing the waves with barely a sound. Behind her came the rest, three hundred strong, the full might of our stolen fleet, flying banners they no longer had a right to bear.

Dragonstone loomed in the distance, half-swallowed by mist. The sky above was the color of old iron, and the jagged silhouette of the island rose like a fortress of teeth. The stone dragons carved into the keep watched from their high perches, silent and blind, unmoved by the return of the fleet.

There were no sails in the harbor. No bells. No horn from the watchtower.

We showed the Velaryon colors. The silver seahorse still meant something here. Maybe they believed Lord Corlys had returned to reclaim his island. Maybe they thought the King had sent him. Or maybe they saw our number and chose silence.

Either way, no one stopped us.

We rowed ashore before dawn, the boats heavy with men and steel. Gaemon went first, the men at the docks looked confused. Gaemon was not wearing his signature green armor so I doubted the men could recognize him save the massive sword he had named Dragonslayer on his back.

One of the remaining seamen wearing the colors of House Targaryen turned to him “What is the fleet doing back here, where is Lord Corlys?” he asked, clearly realizing now something was wrong.

In one quick swing Gaemon had drawn Dragonslayer and cleaved the man in half, the other men on the docks stared in shock before trying to draw steel.

“Put down your weapons and submit or die” Gaemon commanded, his voice was steel. 

One man tried to flee down the dock, but an arrow found his spine before he reached the end. Another raised a horn to his lips, but Gaemon hurled a knife, it struck clean through the man's throat, silencing the alarm forever.

The rest looked at Dragonslayer. Then at us. And dropped their blades.

“Onto the main village, and then to the gates of the castle” Gaemon barked the orders.

We moved quickly, wasting no time. The main road twisted up from the docks through the village, black stone underfoot, the air thick with mist and salt. Gaemon walked at the front, Dragonslayer dragging a furrow in the stone behind him.

The villagers stirred as we passed, doors creaking open, half-asleep eyes blinking against the dawn.

A baker stood frozen in his doorway, flour dusting his hands. A woman clutched her babe close and pulled her shutter shut. No one spoke. No one dared.

The castle loomed above us, each carved dragon seeming to watch. The mist clung to its towers like shrouds. It felt like we were marching into a tomb.

A few tried to run. We let them. This was not their war.

At the castle gates, the sentries called down. Their voices were tinged with confusion, but there was a hardened edge of suspicion.

“Who commands?” one of them shouted, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword.

Gaemon did not answer with words. His eyes locked onto the men above, a cold fire burning in his gaze. He stepped forward, his boots echoing in the silence. The Sea Snake's banner fluttered behind us, and the silver seahorse glinted under the pale light of the dawn.

One of the sentries called out again, a hint of authority creeping into his voice. “State your business! Where is Lord Corlys? What is this madness?”

Gaemon didn’t pause. With a single, swift motion, he unsheathed Dragonslayer, the massive blade gleaming like moonlight on blackened steel.

Before anyone could react, he swung the sword with brutal precision, its edge biting into the base of the gate. The sound of steel against stone rang out, sharp and deafening. The sentries above shouted in alarm, but it was too late. Gaemon’s sword cleaved through the wooden frame of the gate like paper.

There was a moment of stunned silence before the men on the walls yelled in panic, scrambling for their weapons. But it was already too late. Gaemon stepped back, his sword dripping with splinters, and with a single violent push, the massive gate crashed open.

“On your knees!” one of the sentries shouted, and a few of them hesitated, their hands trembling on their blades. They were too late to draw steel, too late to defend.

The next moments unfolded in a blur. As the gate split open, we surged forward, a wave of blackened steel and vengeance. Gaemon stood at the front, Dragonslayer held high. The sentries, too slow to form a line of defense, began to retreat, but Gaemon’s sword swept across them like a storm. A slash here, a blow there. Men fell in droves, their screams muffled by the sound of boots pounding against stone.

“Put down your weapons and submit, or die,” Gaemon’s voice rang out, low and thunderous.

Ever man save a few dropped their weapons the ones who did not, Loyal men no one could deny were quickly put to the sword, the price was their loyalty.

No one came at all.

We pushed deeper, into the inner keep, our boots echoing off the walls. Gaemon gave no orders now. He only walked. Room by room we cleared the castle, but there were no signs of the Queen. No shouts. No sobbing children. No dragons.

Only ash in the hearths, and stale air.

Gaemon stood before the carved black doors of the audience chamber, hands clenched into fists.

“She’ll be inside,” he said to no one.

We pushed them open. The chamber beyond was dark. The high seat sat in shadow, its dragon’s maw open wide.

Empty.

Gaemon stepped forward, slow at first, then faster. He climbed the steps and stood before it. His breath echoed in the stillness.

Gone.

He did not rage. He did not curse. He only stared. I could not read his face.

I turned to one of the men. “Search the solar, the Queen’s chambers, the rookery. Find the girl. Find any of them.”

But we already knew.

They had abandoned Dragonstone.

And we had arrived too late.

I turned to leave the chamber when a breathless cry echoed down the corridor. Steel rang as blades came free, men fanning out like fire through dry grass.

“They’re in the Queen’s Tower!” someone shouted.

Gaemon was already moving, two steps at a time as he ascended the stair, his fury held on a tight leash. I followed close, blood pounding in my ears.

We found her in a solar thick with the scent of lavender and old parchment.

Princess Sheira stood tall despite her age at five and ten, wrapped in a dark gown stitched with the Red of House Targaryen. She held Princess Aelyria close, the girl couldn’t have been more than a few months old, her silver-gold hair tangled, violet eyes hidden beneath a white swaddle.

Sheira did not flinch. “It has been so long cousin”

She gave a half-smile, sharp as broken glass. “Do you remember the last time you were here? I had just turned one and ten, and my parents had thrown a feast in my name.”

“You insulted the cooks for overboiling the crabs.”

“And you told me you’d marry me when the war in the stepstones was over,” she said. “Strange how promises sound like truths when you’re drunk on wine.”

Gaemon’s face did not change. “The war is not over.”

“No,” Sheira said, her voice cracking slightly. 

“It has been too long, I wish it was on better terms” Gaemon said, his voice sounded soft for the first time in forever, I knew they had spent a few years together but I wondered if there was something more to them.

“Well are you going to cut us down?” she asked, more serious than the earlier jape.

“No,” he said at last. “Just here to end the war”

Sheira’s eyes flicked past him, toward the open balcony beyond. “Then you’re too late.”

That was when we heard the roar, distant but rising, a dragon’s voice splitting the sky.

Men cursed. I ran to the window.

Seasmoke , I had first encountered the beast in the stepstones, when it had a different rider, Ser Laenor.

The pale-gray beast was already aloft, his wings kicking up the surf below as he rose from the far side of the cliffs, circling once over the rookery tower. A small shape clung to his back, arms too small to hold tight, but holding all the same.

“Prince Viserys,” I breathed.

He was only five so small but he was riding. Not soaring, not mastering. Fleeing. There was no saddle. No armor. Just a boy clinging to the last shred of hope.

Gaemon stepped onto the balcony beside me. His jaw clenched as Seasmoke banked east, flying low and fast, wings shearing the fog like parchment.

“We could shoot him down,” someone muttered behind us.

“No,” Gaemon said, coldly. “It is too late.”

“But”

“It is beyond our hands now, we have secured the castle”

We watched the dragon vanish into the sun.

“Did you expect to find your dear Sisters?” she said. “You’ll find no queens here. Only Princess’s.”

Gaemon turned away. “Take them to their chambers. Treat them with respect. Keep them under lock and guard.”

As the guards moved in, Aelyria began to cry, silent tears tracking down her cheeks.

I could feel the weight of the day in the air, an oppressive silence that had settled over the war room as we sat together. Gaemon had been silent for a long while, staring out the window with an unreadable expression. I knew that look well. It wasn’t just the exhaustion of battle; it was something deeper, something he was trying to keep hidden beneath the surface. I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw tightened every time his thoughts wandered too far.

I didn’t break the silence immediately. Gaemon had his demons, ones I couldn’t always reach, but I knew he’d speak when he was ready. But today, it felt like he was on the edge of something, so I leaned forward, trying to steady myself as I watched him.

“You’re quiet,” I said, my voice light but knowing. “Not like you.”

His lips twisted into a thin smile, but it wasn’t the same smile I was used to, the one that made me believe everything would be fine. This one was bitter. “Not much to say, Lorcan.”

That’s when I understood. This wasn’t just the battle. This was something more personal.

“I never thought we’d be here,” he said, almost as if to himself, his eyes distant. “Not after everything that’s happened. But here we are.”

I didn’t reply immediately. What could I say? I’d seen his struggles, his internal wars, and now it felt like he was fighting something inside that was far harder to face than any enemy we’d fought on the battlefield. And yet, here he was, still standing.

“Sometimes, the path we walk isn’t one we choose, Gaemon,” I said quietly. “You’re where you need to be.”

“I never thought we would survive the Battle at the blockade, I never thought we would do this, I had betrayed my brothers command, he wanted us to bring the men to defend the city and I have abandoned him, I do not feel bad but I fear his wrath” he said,

“Your brother may yet thank you for this, and who is to say he will survive, with Rhaenyra and Helaena missing I would guess they went to help with the assault, he would be lucky to survive four dragons” I said to him.

Gaemon didn’t meet my gaze. His fingers drummed absently on the wooden table. “I wish I could believe that,” he muttered. There it was, the doubt, the nagging feeling that had haunted him since we first crossed into this castle. He wasn’t unsure of our cause; he was unsure of this place, or maybe someone in it.

I shifted in my seat, considering how best to approach him. He wasn’t the kind of man who needed reassuring words or empty comforts. He needed honesty, even when it hurt. “What’s on your mind? I can tell it’s more than just the battle today.”

“It is nothing, my friend,” he said, swallowing another mouthful of wine.

“Is it Princess Sheira?” I asked, his eyes moved frantically as I said it and I knew I had hit the nail on the head.

“Ahh girl trouble’s huh? Sometimes I forget you are still a boy, only five and ten I suppose it is very like boys your age to struggle with girls” I said to him, 

His finger drumming stopped, “It is more complicated than that” he said, “And I am a man not a boy, I have fought in war, I have killed many men, slain a dragon even, I am no boy” he continued defiantly.

“Yes but have you ever lay with a woman?” I asked, 

“Yes” he answered quietly, I had a hard time believing this was the same boy who had been barking orders and killing in the yard earlier.

“My cousin Baelon arranged it, during the war in the Stepstones he set me up with a whore, and said I should do it before I died. Twas the night before we took Tyrosh” he said to me,

“You feel guilty?” I asked, this had to be a jest.

He nodded solemnly.

“Gaemon my boy, there is nothing to feel guilty about, men lie with women all the time during war, and you were not promised to Sheira, it might have been proposed but never promised, you did not betray her” I said to him, trying to console him.

Chapter Text

Chapter 11 - Baelon V. 133AC

Vhagar rose.

She came from behind the Red Keep, immense wings splitting the air, her roar drowning the screams below. Even from afar, I felt the force of it in my chest. Aemond sat atop her, his armor black and silver, his sapphire eye gleaming like a cold flame.

Silverwing growled low in her throat, wings pulling tight against the wind. She felt it too. Vhagar was older, larger, stronger, but we had numbers.

One by one, the others rose.

Vermithor came first, Father seated steady on his back. The Bronze Fury was a mountain in flight, his wings beating slow and deep as thunder. Then Syrax soared past the rooftops, golden and sleek, Mother holding firm, her white hair trailing behind her in the wind. Last came Dreamfyre, Helaena clutching her saddle, her dragon spiraling upward in a graceful arc before leveling off toward the field.

The sky became a battlefield.

Vhagar struck first. Fire lanced toward Syrax, who veered away with a shriek, smoke trailing her tail. Vermithor answered with a blast of bronze flame, catching Vhagar along the flank. She twisted, wings folding, then dove to avoid a second gout. Dreamfyre swooped beneath her, jaws snapping, missing her leg by a breath.

The dragons circled, dove, and clashed.

Above the smoke and death of the field, the sky was alive with fury. Dragonfire lit the clouds. I saw Vermithor and Vhagar lock talons, claws tearing at scales, wings beating like war drums. They broke apart midair, spiraling in opposite directions, roars echoing between the spires of the city.

Silverwing kept her distance at first, letting the larger beasts draw Vhagar’s fury. Then we struck.

We climbed high and came down like a hammer. I raised my sword and screamed as we dove. Silverwing opened her jaws and fire streaked toward Vhagar’s exposed side. Aemond turned just in time, pulling her into a roll. The flame struck her wingtip. She roared, and her claws lashed wildly in our direction.

I barely pulled Silverwing up in time.

The battle dragged on. No one could gain the upper hand. Syrax's tail bled. Dreamfyre’s left wing limped with every beat. Vhagar had cuts across her chest and a burnt patch near her eye. Even Vermithor was tiring, his flame slower, his roars less fierce.

But the gate was breaking.

Below, the assault had turned. One of the great iron rams struck true, again and again, until wood cracked and splinters flew. The outer beams gave. Then the gatehouse wall shook. Our soldiers flooded forward. The defenders were retreating, broken, desperate to escape the crush.

Aemond saw it atop Vhaegar.

Aemond looked down, then back to the sky, where the four dragons still hovered, circling like wolves around a wounded stag.

He made his choice.

With one final roar, Vhagar beat her wings and turned south. She rose sharply, flames still burning in her throat, then vanished into the smoke. The sky opened behind her.

I watched him go, my breath heaving in my chest, sword still raised.

Vhagar’s retreat marked the beginning of the end. The great dragon—once an emblem of unstoppable power, had turned tail, fleeing south into the clouds, leaving a storm of smoke and ruin in her wake. Aemond had made his choice. His pride had driven him to abandon the city rather than face the inevitable, and I could not help but feel the weight of that decision.

The sky, once a battleground, was now eerily quiet, save for the occasional shriek of a wounded dragon or the distant rumble of falling stone. Below, the city, King’s Landing, once a fortress of power, was now a broken, crumbling thing.

I stood at the head of our forces, my heart pounding as the city gates, battered and scarred, finally gave way to our assault. The Iron Rams struck again and again, each blow bringing us closer to the prize. The gates shuddered, cracked, and then splintered open like the walls of a tomb, spilling the first wave of Targaryen soldiers into the streets.

But it was the city’s defenders who now crumbled. The Gold Cloaks, who had once sworn loyalty to Aegon, seemed to evaporate into the wind. The green banners fell, and the once-proud City Watch sworn to defend the crown betrayed their oaths. Many had been supporters of Aegon, but now they scrambled, some attempting to flee with their treasures, others turning their weapons on the people they had sworn to protect.

I could hear the clamor of their flight, their footsteps hastening as they fled the city, abandoning their posts. It was the end of their allegiances. Some sought refuge with the Baratheons or the Lannisters, others with the Hightowers. But there was no safety for them now.

Lord Borros Baratheon, once so resolute in his support of the greens, was among the first to retreat. His soldiers, once proud in their black and gold livery, had already begun to break ranks, running from the battlefield as fast as their legs could carry them. The Baratheon banners, now torn and frayed, fluttered weakly in the wind as their forces dissolved into the streets.

And the Lannisters, those prideful lions, had also seen the writing on the wall. They made their exit swiftly, scattering into the darkness of the forest following the Baratheons, leaving behind their King’s City and their supposed loyalty. 

The Hightowers, too, were fleeing. The most staunch of Aegon’s supporters in the beginning, but with the battle lost, His family, once so entrenched in the politics of the capital, would now regroup, licking their wounds and planning their next move. I had little doubt they would return, but for now, King’s Landing belonged to us.

I stood there, watching the scene unfold with a detached sense of satisfaction. The city was ours. The gates had fallen, and with it, so had the last defense of Aegon’s faction.

But as our forces surged through the gates, I couldn’t help but feel a weight settle in my chest. My mind raced as I thought of what came next. The victory was complete, but not without its cost. The city was shattered, its heart torn open. The casualties had been heavy on both sides, and the wounds ran deep.

I turned to look toward the Red Keep, its looming silhouette cutting a dark figure against the smoke-filled sky. The iron doors of the Keep were open now, our forces flooding in. But the true prize was not the castle or the wealth of the city, it was the throne.

Father.

He would claim what had long been denied, almost two years this war had raged and now finally it would be in its closing act.

I moved through the halls of the Red Keep, following the path my father had taken, my steps echoing in the quiet aftermath of the fight. There was no music, no applause, only the sound of heavy boots and the quiet murmur of soldiers carrying out their duties.

At last, I reached the throne room, and there he was. Rhaegar Targaryen, seated upon the Iron Throne.

The throne was a monstrous thing twisted iron, jagged edges that seemed to reflect the blood spilled in the name of the crown. Rhaegar sat tall, his back straight, his face unreadable. The battle had been won, but it had left its mark on him. His eyes, once full of youthful ambition, now held a coldness that reflected the weight of what he had just claimed.

His gaze met mine as I approached, and for a moment, there was silence.

“We have done it, Baelon,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “We’ve won.”

I nodded, though words seemed to fail me at that moment. The city had fallen, the greens had fled, and now my father sat on the throne that had long been out of his reach.

That night we sat in the council chamber, men had been searching the entirety of it for spies, or the remainder of the Green council but nothing.

No sign of them at all, The council room was full, the entirety of my fathers personal advisors. Septwyn, Ser Myros, Ser Loramund, Lord Tyro, Ser Skorian pike, all standing around the room. 

“Still nothing” my father asked a man I had not yet met before but was apparently a trusted informant, Vaemion. 

“Your grace, it seems the King’s Guard along with Queen Dowager Alicent and what remains of the green council has fled with the children by sea” he said,

“They will sail straight into our blockade?” he asked angrily, not understanding, I had to admit my confusion as well.

“There is word my King, from Dragonstone” Septwyn said, taking parchment from a maester and handing it to my father.

Father opened it and read it, his face grew red with fury. 

“What is it?” I asked, 

“Prince Gaemon hold Dragonstone, he has broken the Blockade and now commands the Velaryon fleet, he has captured Sheira and Aelyria, He also captured Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys during the breaking of the Blockade, and managed to Kill Maelys. it seems we have been played” he said, his anger had not left. 

I was shocked, Gaemon had managed to not only break the blockade with only half the forces of Lord Corlys but managed to kill a dragon, and Maelys of all creatures certainly one of the most ferocious.

“He did not mention Viserys?” I asked,

“No, he must have managed to escape somehow,” he said. 

“It seems the war is far from over, and this council has much work to do. Septwyn I name you hand of the King, Tyro Master of coin, Ser Myros you are to be the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Loramund you will take control of the city watch, Vaemion you will be my master of Whispers, Ser Skorian I name you master of ships, Lord Gormon, you will serve as my master of laws” he completed his accounting of the positions, and they all took seats at the table,

“The stepstones must hold, they are the only thing that separates the Greens at current, Baelon my son, you have proved yourself in this war. You will head south with the remainder of the forces I took from the Stepstones, about ten thousand men and five thousand riverlanders and valemen, you will get in contact with Malvaro commander of the Red Company, you will squeeze the remainder of the Retreating green forces, back to storm's end where you will take it.” he said to me, 

“Father, I thought I might lead the assault on Dragonstone, perhaps search for Viserys…Please they are my children” I begged, trying not to sound as desperate as I was.

“They will be alright, we cannot afford a assault on Dragonstone at the moment and Viserys could be anywhere, I need you to do this for me, the quicker this war ends the quicker they are safe” he said, it sounded cold and uncaring. I wonder, is this how he felt about me when he went off to war, as if nothing else mattered.

I nodded, I did not want to leave Helaena again, I did not want to leave my home so soon after I had regained it, especially with my daughter and sister in Gaemon’s hands on Dragonstone, my son missing, but I had no choice.

I found Helaena in our solar, seated by the high window, the light of the sinking sun painting her in molten gold. The sound of the city, its cries, its fires, its rebuilding, rose faintly through the glass, a constant hum that would not end for days. She had not changed from the armor she had worn into battle. Dreamfyre’s blood stained the hem of her sleeve. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap, knuckles white.

She didn’t look up as I entered.

“The city is ours,” I said quietly.

“I know,” she murmured. “I felt it when Dreamfyre landed. She stopped singing.”

I crossed the room and knelt before her, resting my hand over hers. She was trembling. I did not think she would be, not Helaena, she had always been strong in quiet ways, but war steals something from all of us. I had thought winning would bring peace. Instead, it only brought the next weight to carry.

“There is more,” I said.

Her eyes rose to meet mine, pale and haunted. “Who?”

“Sheira and Aelyria… they’ve been taken. Gaemon commands the Velaryon fleet now. He broke the blockade and seized Dragonstone. He has them.”

She didn’t speak. Didn’t weep. Her lips parted slightly, but no sound came. I saw her blink once, slowly.

“And Viserys?” she asked at last.

I hesitated. “He was with them. But he fled. We’ve had no word since.”

She stood suddenly. “No. No, Baelon, not him too.”

I rose with her, but she stepped away, crossing the room to stare out the window. Her hand braced on the stone sill.

“I should have stayed. I should have”

“You would have died or been captured,” I said. “Dreamfyre might have died. Gaemon had the fleet.”

“But they’re our children.” Her voice cracked. “Our children, Baelon.”

I closed the distance between us and wrapped my arms around her. She didn’t resist, but she didn’t melt into the embrace either. She stood stiffly, jaw clenched, staring through the glass as if her will alone might summon our daughters back from the sea.

“I must leave again,” I said after a long silence. “Father has tasked me with pursuing the Greens south. The remnants are fleeing toward Storm’s End. I am to crush them there and take the castle.”

“Does his greed ever stop, what we have sacrificed for this war, and he will not allow you to look for your children, will the commands ever stop?” she asked angrily, I knew she had felt this way about him, since the stepstones.

“I’ll return,” I promised. “With our daughters. With Viserys.”

Still nothing.

Then, a sound tore through the sky. A dragon’s roar—sharp, defiant, impossibly near.

We both turned.

From the window, we saw the pale white-blue shape sweeping low over the rooftops, trailing sea mist in its wake. The sails on the harbor below snapped in the wind it brought with it.

Seasmoke.

I didn’t wait for her to speak.

I was already running.

Down the tower steps, through the torchlit corridors of the Red Keep, my boots pounding against the stone. Every turn I took brought me closer to the Dragonpit. Guards and servants stepped aside as I passed, calling after me, but I didn’t hear them.

I took the fastest horse from the stables, and rushed through the streets, which were still in anarchy, Gold Cloaks rushed around trying to establish order, but none of it mattered at the moment, nothing besides Viserys mattered.

I reached the gates and burst through just as Seasmoke was descending, wings folding tightly to its flanks. The dragon’s talons hit stone with a grinding crunch. His neck craned, nostrils flaring as he lowered his body carefully to the ground.

And there clinging to the back of Seasmoke, pale-faced, cloak torn, blood smeared across his brow.

“Viserys!” I shouted.

He looked up.

Hair tangled by the wind, but his eyes, gods, his eyes were clear and fierce.

I ran to him as Seasmoke knelt. He slid down the dragon’s side and stumbled into my arms.

“I tried,” he rasped. “They took them. I couldn’t stop them.”

“You did enough,” I said fiercely, holding him tight. “You came back.”

His chest heaved as he buried his face into my shoulder. “I’ll go back,” he whispered. “I’ll help bring them home.”

“You have done enough, you have escaped” I said to him, I held him tighter in that moment then I ever had before, even when I had first met him. I felt the tears, wet and hot against my face, I had always been ashamed of them. Right now though I did not care.

“Sheira told me to go, to escape, I begged her to come with me but she said she couldn’t” he said crying into my shoulder.

“It is going to be alright son, I promise, we are going to get them back but what matters right now is you are safe” I said,