Daenerys

Daenerys found herself reminiscing again.

The vast library of Harrenhal was an oppressive, silent place, filled with the weight of centuries of knowledge. The flickering light from the fire only served to highlight the dark corners, where shadows seemed to stretch endlessly. It was here, amid the towering shelves filled with ancient scrolls and dust, thatDaenerysandJonfound themselves alone.

Jon sat at a large table, the scattered pages of a scroll before him. His eyes were focused, but there was a tension in his posture, as though the words on the page were far from his mind. Daenerys watched him, noting the way his brow furrowed slightly in concentration, but his gaze was distant, lost in some thought she couldn't quite reach.

She stepped closer, watching him, her heart aching at the sight of him so burdened. She knew, even before he spoke, what he was thinking. It was always the same: the looming presence of the Others, the prophecy, and the certainty that something terrible was coming. His fear was as much a part of him as the fire in his eyes.

"Jon," she began, her voice quiet, breaking the heavy silence that had fallen between them. She hesitated, unsure if she should voice the thought that had been growing in her mind. But the words spilled out before she could stop them. "You remind me of Rhaegar."

At first, there was no response. Jon didn't lift his gaze, but Daenerys could feel him shift ever so slightly, as though the mention of Rhaegar's name had stirred something inside him. She had known he carried the weight of the past, the weight of his bloodline, but now, more than ever, it seemed as if he was walking the same shadowed path Rhaegar had once walked.

"He believed," she continued, stepping a little closer, "that theDoomwould come for us all. That it was inevitable. Like he could see the future, see the storm on the horizon. And you..." Daenerys trailed off, unsure how to finish, but she knew he would understand. She didn't need to explain it any further. "You carry that same sense of doom. Like the end is always just ahead."

Jon finally looked up at her, his expression unreadable, but his eyes—those eyes—spoke more than words ever could. His gaze held a mix of sorrow and resignation, as though the truth of her words was something he had long known, something he could not escape.

His voice was low when he spoke, barely a whisper. "I have dreams," he confessed, as though it was a secret he had long carried in the dark corners of his mind. "Dreams of the Others. Their ice. Their blue eyes of death."

Daenerys could see how deeply it affected him. His grip on the scroll tightened as if he were holding onto something to keep himself grounded. She felt a rush of sympathy for him, and the desire to ease his torment bloomed in her chest.

"They follow me, Dany," Jon continued, his voice strained, his eyes far away. "Even when I sleep. I can't escape them."

The weight of his words settled heavily in the room, and Daenerys felt a chill creeping into her own bones. She could see the burden in his face, in the tightness of his jaw, the way his body seemed to carry the weight of the world.

The Others haunted him, as they had haunted Rhaegar. But now, they were something more—an ever-present shadow that no light could dispel.

"I've seen it, Dany," Jon said, his eyes distant, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the edge of the scroll in front of him. "The Others are not something we can ignore. They will come for us, for everyone. And when they do, there will be nothing left. Nothing but ice and death."

Daenerys stood in silence, watching him, the weight of his words settling into her chest like an iron weight. His eyes were haunted, and she could see the depth of his belief—the sheer terror in his words was enough to send a chill through even the warmest of rooms. The looming darkness was something he couldn't shake, something he couldn't stop thinking about.

"I need to be King," Jon continued, his voice low and intense, a fierce determination burning in his purple eyes. "Not Aegon. He's not the right person to lead. None of them are. His family... they are not close to being sensible enough to lead Westeros when the Others arrive."

Daenerys blinked, taken aback. She hadn't expected him to say it so plainly, so bluntly. She knew Jon had his doubts about Aegon, about the other factions vying for power, but she had never heard him speak of it so definitively. He spoke with the confidence of a man who understood the gravity of what was coming—something far greater than political ambitions or petty power struggles.

But then, she noticed it.

The flicker in his eyes—the brief, fleeting shadow of regret, almost imperceptible, but unmistakable to her. For all the certainty in his words, there was something softer, more fragile beneath the surface. It wasn't just the Others she feared. It was the weight of what he was saying—what it meant to claim the throne for himself, to take it from Aegon, his older brother, even if that brother had no love for him.

Without thinking, Daenerys reached out, placing her hand gently on his elbow. The warmth of her touch seemed to cut through the coldness in the air, a simple gesture of reassurance. She knew it would not solve his fears, but she couldn't bear to see him so lost in them.

Jon stiffened slightly at her touch, but he did not pull away. His eyes flickered down to her hand on his elbow, lingering for a moment longer than necessary before meeting her gaze. There was something in his eyes—something raw, something vulnerable. For the briefest of moments, it felt as though the world outside the library disappeared, and there were only the two of them.

Daenerys felt her breath catch in her throat. There was warmth in her belly, an unfamiliar flutter that stirred something deep within her. She wasn't sure if it was the intensity of the moment or something more, but it was there—something undeniable.

"I will be here, Jon," Daenerys said softly, her voice steady despite the emotions swirling inside her. "No matter what happens. If I am here, I will make sure your path is easier."

Jon didn't speak immediately. He just stared at her, his eyes searching hers, as if weighing the truth in her words. She could see the hesitation in him, the doubts that plagued him. He was not one to rely on others, not in the way she wished. But he didn't pull away. His gaze softened, and for a fleeting moment, it seemed as though the walls he had built around himself were crumbling, just a little.

Jon finally spoke, his voice low and measured. "I have to do what I must, Dany. If I don't, I risk losing everything I care about."

Daenerys snapped back to the present.

I couldn't keep my word, Jon. I said I would always be there for you...but they killed you, and I couldn't save you.

Melisandre entered the dim tent, her red cloak flowing behind her like the very flames she invoked. Her steps were measured, and purposeful, her dark eyes fixed on Daenerys. She stood at the brazier, the flickering fire casting erratic shadows across her face as if reflecting the tumultuous emotions in her heart.

"Rhaenys is essential, Daenerys," Melisandre said quietly, almost reverently, her voice carrying a weight that could not be ignored. "She is the key to bringing Jon back. But you must see it yourself, in the flames."

Daenerys hesitated, her eyes drifting to the flames that danced in the brazier, an unsettling warmth brushing her face. The visions in the fire had always been cryptic, clouded with uncertainty. But after Jon's death, after everything she had lost, she knew she could no longer afford to ignore the possibility of what might be.

Melisandre's words held her captive. Rhaenys—she had known Rhaenys was important, but hearing it from Melisandre sent a sharp pang of dread through her chest. To bring Jon back... there would be a price. A price she wasn't sure she was willing to pay.

"You must look, Daenerys," Melisandre urged again, her voice growing more insistent. "The flames will show you what you need to do. To save him."

Daenerys took a deep breath and slowly approached the brazier. She didn't want to see it. She didn't want to face the reality of what she might need to sacrifice, but she knew she had no choice. For Jon. For their future. For the child, they had created together. She had to do this.

Stepping closer, Daenerys looked into the flames.

At first, there was nothing but the crackle and hiss of the fire, its heat licking at her skin. But then, the flames began to twist and writhe, taking shape. The heat turned colder, and Daenerys found herself drawn deeper into the vision, her pulse quickening.

The flames parted like a veil, revealing a scene of darkness. Snow, heavy and unyielding, blanketed the land as dark shapes moved beneath it—shapes that should not exist. Daenerys's heart thudded painfully in her chest as the figures grew clearer. They were the White Walkers—creatures of death, their cold, blue eyes burning like ice in the dark of night. The figures moved in eerie, unrelenting silence, their forms dark against the pale snow.

A feeling of dread swept over Daenerys as the vision sharpened, the fire revealing what the White Walkers were destined to bring: a winter so deep, a death so complete, it would swallow everything in its path.

The vision shifted, swallowed by the encroaching darkness.

Daenerys pulled away from the brazier, gasping for breath, her eyes wide with horror. The weight of what she had seen hit her like a tidal wave. The White Walkers were coming. And Rhaenys—Rhaenys was the key to Jon's return. But in order to bring him back, she would have to sacrifice the one person who could save him.

"Do you understand now?" Melisandre's voice cut through the haze of Daenerys's thoughts. "Rhaenys must be sacrificed. She is the key to Jon's resurrection. Unless...we have to go to a different option."

Daenerys closed her eyes, her heart heavy with the guilt of the choice she knew she would have to make. She could feel the weight of Rhaenys's life in her hands, and the burden of what it would mean for her. Rhaenys—her brother's daughter—would have to die for Jon to rise. The thought made her sick, but the fire had shown her the truth.

Jon was the father of her child. He was the man she loved. She couldn't bear the thought of living without him. The world needed him. She needed him. She would do anything to bring him back.

And yet... Rhaenys. Her heart clenched at the thought of her death. To take that life... it felt impossible. But the flames had spoken, and Daenerys knew that sacrifices must be made. For Jon. For the future. For their family.

"I will do it," Daenerys whispered, the words feeling like a promise she had made to herself, to Jon, to the child growing within her. "I will bring him back, no matter the cost."

The fire flickered in response, as though acknowledging her resolve. Melisandre's smile was knowing, almost approving. She had seen this before, had witnessed the moment when a woman's heart hardened for the sake of the one she loved.

Daenerys turned away from the brazier, her mind set. She would bring Jon back. And when she did, they would be a family. Together, they would face the coming darkness. But in the process, Rhaenys—her niece—would have to die.

And Daenerys knew, without a doubt, that she would do it.

Rhaenys

"I will do anything to bring Jon back. And it's either going to take you... or me."

Those words, sharp and unforgiving, reverberated in Rhaenys's mind as the Silent Flames moved silently through the Riverlands, their path leading to a destination unknown—one that no one dared to speak of. The venom in Daenerys's and Arya's glares was nothing compared to the image of Daenerys, her hand resting softly over her stomach, her smile both wistful and grim.

Just like me...The thought twisted in Rhaenys's gut, growing more revolting with each passing moment. To know that Jon had shared himself with another woman, that he had given her his seed, set her blood on fire.

He fucked another woman, Rhaenys thought, the words slow and deliberate, as if savoring the weight of each syllable. Her grip on the reins tightened until her knuckles blanched, the rage surging through her veins, sharp as a blade. How dare he? How fucking dare he?

But then, just as the fury reached its peak, a dark whisper curled through her mind—Daenerys didn't betray him. You killed him.

The thought, sudden and treacherous, silenced her wrath, leaving only a cold, sickening reality in its wake.

"Are you ok, Princess?"

The words came from Edric Dayne—the Lord of Starfall, now condemned as a traitor to the crown. He was the nephew of Arthur Dayne, the man who now clutched Dawn so tightly he couldn't bear to meet the gaze of the Sword of the Morning, and Jon's former squire, whose loyalty to the White Wolf had never wavered.

"More loyal to Jon than you ever were," the dark voice sneered again, its tone dripping with betrayal. "How can you ever be ok?"

Rhaenys stared steadfastly ahead, her resolve unbroken. She refused to answer Edric or even cast him a glance.

Edric kept his horse steady beside hers, undeterred by her stony silence. "I'm glad you weren't forced to walk."

A scoff escaped Rhaenys's lips. "If Daenerys could, she'd have me trailing behind her with a rope wound tight around my neck."

"And why is that?"

Rhaenys didn't answer.

"Princess Daenerys and Lady Melisandre want to bring Jon back to life."

"It's not working so far, is it?" Rhaenys asked slowly.

"Melisandre has her fires. Brandon Stark has his dreams. They both say Cannibal took Jon to Old Valyria – the only place Jon can be resurrected. Theon Greyjoy will get us ships when we reach the Iron Islands."

A rueful laugh escaped her. "So you're telling me this band of zealots is waging a crusade—burning people alive—just so a bunch of fools can die meaninglessly in that godforsaken city?"

Edric's face paled. "The burnings are cruel, a direct outgrowth of Princess Daenerys's grief. But the Red Woman promised Jon's return, and with it, salvation. Even the criminal allies of Aegon deserve a share of that promise."

"Daenerys's father burned criminals too—until he moved on to fathers, mothers, sons, daughters. Innocents who did nothing but exist. Even now, the memory of my grandfather leaves a bitter taste."

"She's not mad," Edric insisted, eyes narrowing. "She believes. We all do. Perhaps it was too much to expect that same belief from the woman who stood with Aegon after Jon's death."

Rhaenys's chest tightened as she snapped, "Then tell me—why go to such lengths to bring him back? Are you all so bitter that, because my brother Aegon won, you're willing to resurrect a dead prince just to prolong this rivalry, extend the war, and cause even more needless deaths? This isn't what Jon wanted. It seems you merely pretended to love him."

"Jon is the Prince That Was Promised—to defeat the darkness gathering in the North."

"The Others?" Rhaenys scoffed, blinking in disbelief. "All this for some phantoms? Do you jest?"

"I do not."

"My father believed in prophecies. Arthur, his best friend, shared that belief—and look where that got him now, bound and gagged by your companions because he dared see things differently from your mad queen. You hold Dawn, yet you can't even meet his gaze. Impressive—you did what Darkstar couldn't."

Edric's eyes flared. "I'm not stealing it!" He forced himself to calm before adding, "Dawn is rightfully his. I seized it during the trial by combat to keep it from Aegon and his allies. The princess bid me hold it until Arthur could understand her reasoning."

"And she bid you all to keep hold of me until her reasonings can be put into action," Rhaenys murmured, dread coiling in her stomach at the thought of her own child. She bit her tongue, recalling the chilling words:

"I will do anything to bring Jon back. And it's either going to take you... or me," Daenerys had said with that grim, unyielding smile.

What in the seven hells did she mean by that?

Edric cast her a wary glance, and for a long while, silence reigned. Finally, Edric broke it again.

"Lady Arya Stark loathes you—simply because you're Aegon's sister."

Rhaenys nearly smiled at the bluntness. The king of fools could have figured that out long ago. She often caught the hatred in Arya's grey eyes, the lingering, icy stare in Nymeria's golden gaze during nighttime camps. That thought compelled her to ask, "Is there any other reason why she might despise me so?"

Instantly, trepidation tightened Edric's features. "Is there another reason?" he asked quietly.

You foolish girl. Dany and her Red Woman want to keep me alive for their sick fantasies. If Arya knew what I did, she would've had her wolf rip out my throat the first night.

"No," Rhaenys replied softly, "not at all."

Bran

"What do you see little wolf?" Melisandre's voice purred, "what do you see?"

Bran warged into a raven, and in an instant, his mind became one with the dark-winged creature as it soared high above the shattered lands of Westeros. From this lofty vantage, the world below unfolded like a living tapestry of ruin and despair—a realm scarred by war, fire, and the unrelenting passage of time. His vision, unclouded by mortal limitations, took in every detail of a devastated kingdom, from the roiling Blackwater to the broken remains of King's Landing, and beyond to the ancient castles that now served as reluctant markers of a dying age.

Below the raven's flight, Bran's eyes fell upon the once-great river known as the Blackwater—a serpentine ribbon of dark, churning water winding its way through the heart of the realm. Now, however, the Blackwater was transformed into a battlefield, its surface marred by the scars of war and the lingering echoes of destruction. Along its banks, jagged cliffs and rocky outcrops had been exploited by enemy forces, forming a natural barrier and choke point that the mercenaries of the Golden Company had turned into a deathtrap for any who dared approach.

The water itself, thick with silt and the detritus of countless battles, bore the stain of charred remains and spilled blood. On the river's surface, the flickering reflections of scattered fires danced—a macabre ballet set against the backdrop of smoke and ash. Every ripple seemed to whisper tales of devastation, hinting at the horrors that had transpired along these once-sacred banks.

Farther downstream, the shattered silhouette of King's Landing emerged from the haze of smoke and ruin. Cannibal, the notorious dragon whose wrath had razed the city to the ground, had left behind a wasteland where once-stately walls and proud spires had stood. Now, only smoldering ruins and twisted metal remained, with the remnants of the Red Keep barely discernible through the swirling dust. The city was no longer a symbol of regal power but a graveyard of memories—a monument to the fury of fire and the cruelty of fate.

Amidst the ruins, Bran's vision captured a mass of idly wandering people. These survivors, broken by loss and shock, shuffled through the debris like ghosts in a forsaken land. They were the lost souls of a kingdom without a ruler, their eyes vacant and their expressions haunted by the memories of a home that was no more. Mothers cradled their children in trembling arms, while men and women alike wandered in search of shelter or salvation, their voices reduced to whispered prayers and desperate cries carried away on the wind.

Everywhere, the devastation was palpable. The streets, once bustling with life, were now choked with rubble and ash. Tattered banners of noble houses hung limply from ruined walls, and the echoes of laughter and song had been replaced by the mournful sounds of mourning and despair. In this hellish landscape, the Blackwater flowed on, indifferent to the suffering it had witnessed—a dark mirror reflecting the shattered soul of Westeros.

As the raven carrying Bran circled above the desolation of King's Landing, his consciousness began to shift. Recognizing that the distance between the ruined capital and the distant strongholds of the realm was too great for one solitary raven to span, Bran relinquished his hold on that particular sightline and shifted his essence into another raven. This new mount carried him toward the north, where the ancient castles still stood—each a relic of a bygone era, now repurposed as battlefronts and strategic outposts in the war that had ravaged the land.

The first stop on this new journey was Hayfield Castle—a once-proud fortress nestled in a rugged valley where the natural contours of the land had long provided protection for its inhabitants. From the vantage of the raven, Hayfield Castle appeared as a stark silhouette against the dim light of an overcast sky. Its towering stone walls, worn by centuries of exposure to wind and rain, still held the patina of ancient grandeur, though now they were marred by the scars of siege and strife.

Bran's vision zoomed in, revealing the grim details of the assault. A massive force, driven by cold, calculated aggression, surged toward the castle. The attackers moved with a relentless precision, their banners fluttering in the bitter wind as they converged upon the ancient stronghold. The castle's defenders, though brave and resolute, were overwhelmed by the sheer ferocity of the assault. Stone by stone, the walls of Hayfield Castle buckled beneath the weight of the attackers' siege engines and the battering of relentless infantry.

The scene was both tragic and mesmerizing. Bran saw the heavy wooden gates splintering under the impact of a warhammer, as ladders were raised against the outer walls. Flames licked at the mortar and stone, igniting patches of ancient timber and sending plumes of black smoke swirling into the sky. In the courtyard, defenders fought desperately to repel the invaders, their faces etched with determination and despair. Yet the tide of battle was inexorable—the attackers breached the inner sanctum, and soon the proud banners of Hayfield were replaced by the grim insignia of the Golden Company.

Every detail was etched into Bran's mind: the clatter of weapons, the cries of men, and the sound of stone crumbling under the relentless assault. As the castle fell, its storied halls echoed with the final, agonizing cries of its last defenders. The once-imposing walls of Hayfield Castle were now nothing more than a ruin—a symbol of the fall of an age and the brutal cost of ambition.

No sooner had Bran's vision of Hayfield faded than his essence transferred to yet another raven. This new raven carried him to the rugged hills of the south, where Rosby Castle stood resolute against the passage of time. Unlike the battered ruins of King's Landing or the newly fallen Hayfield, Rosby Castle exuded an aura of ancient stoicism—a fortress built to last, its massive stone walls rising proudly against the horizon.

However, even Rosby could not escape the relentless advance of the Golden Company. Bran watched as a determined contingent of mercenaries, seasoned and merciless, began the siege of Rosby. The attackers employed a methodical approach, surrounding the castle and systematically breaching its defenses. Siege towers were constructed at the base of the towering walls, and the clamor of war—of wooden beams crashing, arrows whistling through the air, and the repeated pounding of battering rams—filled the space between the ramparts.

The castle's defenders, well-drilled and resolute, mounted a fierce resistance. They poured boiling oil from its parapets, their shouts echoing through the night, and launched counterattacks with spears and swords. For hours, the siege raged with a fury that seemed almost otherworldly. Yet despite their best efforts, the defenders could not hold back the inexorable pressure. Brick by brick, mortar by mortar, the walls of Rosby began to yield. A breach formed in the outer rampart, and the attackers poured in, overwhelming the remaining defenders in a torrent of violence and despair.

Bran's eyes, unclouded by mortal grief, took in every detail of the scene: the splintering of ancient oak doors, the desperate scramble of men along the slippery stone corridors, and the slow, agonizing collapse of a fortress that had withstood the tests of time. In that moment, Rosby Castle was no longer a symbol of unyielding strength—it was a testament to the unstoppable might of those who would reshape the world through fire and blood.

As the siege of Rosby reached its inevitable conclusion, Bran sensed that the true culmination of this grim tapestry lay ahead. With a silent command, he shifted his essence once more to a third raven—one that would carry him far to the east, to a place whispered about in both legend and fear. This raven took him to Duskendale, a castle that loomed large against a sky darkened by storm clouds and the promise of final reckoning.

Duskendale was a formidable fortress—a massive, foreboding structure built into the very bones of the earth. Its towering walls, hewn from black stone and weathered by countless sieges, rose like the ramparts of a colossus, dominating the surrounding landscape. In the distance, jagged peaks cut across the horizon, their silhouettes etched in stark relief against the turbulent sky. Here, nature itself seemed to conspire with the builders of Duskendale, its harsh terrain and bitter winds shaping a bastion that was as much a natural fortress as it was a man-made marvel.

Now, the siege of Duskendale was underway, but it was not one of chaotic assault or indiscriminate destruction. Instead, Bran's vision revealed a calculated advance. At the head of the Golden Company, clad in gleaming armor and crowned with a circlet of gold, stood Viserys Targaryen. His face was impassive, and his eyes burned with a cold determination as he surveyed the approaching castle.

Bran's consciousness stirred as he shifted from one raven to another—a silent, spectral migration between the dark-winged messengers that carried his mind across the war-torn expanse of Westeros. In an instant, he found himself aloft over the bustling region near Lannisport. From this new vantage, the massive Lannister army unfurled across the plains like a living tide of polished steel and crimson banners, a force both majestic and foreboding.

Below, Lannisport lay sprawled against the backdrop of the western coast, its ancient stone walls and busy docks bearing the scars of relentless conflict. The port city, once a thriving center of commerce and culture, now hummed with the cautious energy of survival. The familiar scent of salt and sea air mixed with the acrid tang of smoke from nearby skirmishes, and the cries of market vendors had been replaced by the clamor of soldiers and the steady cadence of marching boots. Even the harbor, where ships bobbed restlessly among the docks, seemed subdued—a silent witness to the inexorable march of power toward the heart of the Westerlands.

In the distance, the road from Lannisport, wide and well-trodden by generations of soldiers and traders, became a great avenue upon which the Lannister host advanced. The army moved with a measured determination, a testament to the discipline that the House Lannister was known for. The rhythmic pounding of hooves echoed in Bran's mind as he observed row upon row of soldiers clad in gleaming armor. Their shields, emblazoned with the golden lion, caught the light of the mid-morning sun, sending sparks of brilliance across the horizon. It was a procession of martial might, meticulously arranged and unyielding in its purpose.

At the head of the column rode a trio of figures whose presence lent the march an air of both regal authority and bitter inevitability. Leading was Tywin Lannister, the iron-willed patriarch, astride a magnificent black stallion that seemed to drink in the sunlight with every measured stride. Tywin's face was as hard and unsmiling as the polished metal of his armor; his eyes, cool and calculating, scanned the road ahead as if weighing every possibility. His mere presence was enough to silence murmurs among the ranks—an unspoken command that no one would dare question the orders of a man who had ruled with absolute authority.

Close beside him rode Kevan Lannister, whose features, though sharing the proud bearing of his kin, held a gentler, yet no less determined, expression.

Not far behind, yet unmistakably prominent in the procession, rode the Kingslayer. His presence was tinged with a quiet, somber gravity—an unspoken reminder of battles past. Jaime's armor, though still resplendent, now seemed slightly less complete; his right hand, once the instrument of both daring swordplay and gallant feats, had been lost to a brutal clash of fate. The empty space where his hand should have been was concealed beneath a heavy, ornate gauntlet and the sweep of his cloak, yet his eyes told a story of lingering pain and reluctant acceptance. Jaime's posture, though proud, was subtly altered by the absence of his former strength, and the soldiers around him appeared to instinctively lower their gaze in deference and sympathy.

At the rear of this trio, like a spectral echo of royalty reborn, rode Myrcella Targaryen. Her presence in the parade was as enigmatic as it was striking. Clad in dark, regal attire trimmed with subtle hints of gold, Myrcella's ride was measured and dignified. But it was her eyes—those vivid, penetrating green eyes—that captured Bran's attention most profoundly. Once, those eyes had brimmed with warmth and a spark of mischievous hope; now, however, they shone with an unsettling chill, a coldness that seemed to distance her from the passion and vulnerability he remembered. It was as if the trials of recent days had frozen a part of her soul, leaving behind a gaze that was both magnificent and forbidding.

As the caravan of Lannister nobility and their retinue pressed onward, Bran's mind absorbed every detail with an intensity that belied the silent calm of his current state. The roads were flanked by fields once lush with barley and vineyards, now trampled and scarred by the ceaseless march of armies. Dust rose in swirling eddies behind the hooves of countless horses, mingling with the faint odor of leather and sweat, and the golden banners of the Lannisters rippled in the breeze as though proclaiming eternal dominion over the lands they traversed.

Bran's consciousness shifted once more as he let go of the previous raven and merged with the spirit of another, darker bird that soared over the southern reaches of Westeros. This new raven carried him far to the rolling, fertile lands of the Reach—a realm known for its bountiful fields and gentle hills now transformed into a battlefield of ambition and retribution. From high above, Bran beheld a massive army marching in disciplined unison along a broad, ancient road that wound its way out of the Reach lands.

The army was a living tapestry of vibrant colors and determined purpose. Rows upon rows of soldiers, their armor polished to a bright sheen, advanced with unwavering resolve. The standard-bearers carried the proud sigils of House Tyrell, their golden roses and verdant greens shimmering in the pale morning light. At the head of this imposing force rode two figures whose expressions betrayed the simmering fury behind their calm exteriors. Mace Tyrell, his thick jaw set in a grim line of anger, led the column with an authoritative stride. Beside him rode Loras Tyrell, the gallant knight whose eyes flashed with equal parts indignation and determination. Both men wore expressions that suggested the burden of a heavy responsibility—a responsibility to exact vengeance, to reclaim lost honor, or perhaps to upend the balance of power in a realm already steeped in strife.

As the Tyrell-led host marched steadily forward, the lush rolling hills of the Reach receded behind them, giving way to a rugged landscape marked by ancient stone walls, scattered farmsteads, and the occasional solitary oak. The soldiers moved in tightly packed formations along the broad, dusty road. Their horses' hooves kicked up plumes of red earth and straw, the sound a relentless, rhythmic pounding that echoed across the fields. Banners fluttered in the breeze—rich, deep greens interwoven with gold—that proclaimed the might of the Reach and the enduring legacy of its ruling house.

In the distance, the road opened onto a vast plain where the army's advance seemed to merge with the very horizon. The disciplined cadence of thousands of feet resonated like the beating of a colossal drum. The air, heavy with anticipation and the faint tang of sweat and steel, vibrated with the silent promise of retribution. Bran's ancient eyes noted the subtle details: the way the soldiers' armor caught the light of the rising sun, the crisp, confident set of their shoulders, and the occasional grimace that flashed across a young recruit's face—a mixture of resolve and trepidation at the enormity of what lay ahead.

The march was not a mindless movement but a calculated progression, a force driven by the ambition to reshape the political landscape of Westeros. The Reach army, assembled under the banners of the Tyrells, was a formidable force—one that promised both beauty and brutality in equal measure. Every step, every breath of wind, and every glimmer of sunlight on polished steel painted a picture of an impending storm, a tempest borne not of nature but of human ambition and deep-seated grudges.

After hours of relentless marching, as the sun began its slow descent toward the horizon, the massive army reached a broad, open clearing near the edge of the Reach. Here, the soldiers were ordered to make camp. The clearing, ringed by copse after copse of ancient oaks and bordered by a slow-moving stream, offered a temporary respite from the arduous journey. Tents of deep green and gold were erected with precision, their fabric flapping gently in the cooling breeze. Fires were kindled in a carefully controlled manner, sending thin ribbons of smoke spiraling upward to meet the darkening sky.

It was in the quiet murmur of the encampment, under the velvet cloak of night, that the true undercurrents of treachery and doubt began to surface. In one of the many tents pitched at the edge of the camp, voices rose in hushed but urgent tones—a conversation that would soon ripple through the ranks with dangerous implications.

Bran, ever the silent observer, shifted his consciousness once again. This time, he warged into a small, unassuming rat that scurried near the base of a canvas shelter. The rat's beady eyes darted about, unaware that it now served as the vessel for Bran's ancient mind. From this lowly vantage point, the sounds of whispered conversation grew distinct in the cool night air. The tent was dimly lit by a single guttering lantern, its light casting wavering shadows across the rough-hewn wooden floor.

Within the cramped confines of the tent, two figures whose faces were partly obscured by the flickering light were engaged in a tense discussion. Their voices were low but sharp, carrying the weight of secrecy and apprehension.

"Well, what does the damn paper say?"

A voice demanded, its tone edged with impatience and an undercurrent of anger. The speaker's words cut through the stillness like a blade.

A second voice, equally hushed but more measured, replied, "He said he will give us the signal, and that we will have to keep him updated on the army's movements until then."

There was a brief pause, as if the weight of those words had settled between them. The first voice responded with a curt, "Good."

Then the second voice, its tone growing more cautious and uncertain, continued, "You sure about this? This is a betrayal of our liege lord, and everything can easily go wrong."

The first voice's reply was resolute, laced with an eerie certainty that belied the danger of the situation. "I'm very sure. The signs are on the wall that it is better to ditch King Aegon while it is not too late—the Silent Flames in the Riverlands, Viserys's invasion in the Crownlands, and the destruction of damn King's Landing! And did you hear... that Edmure Tully died in Harrenhal in his cell and no one knows why – just like with Willas Tyrell. The River lords are rising in outrage, and there are no captives to keep them down again. Aegon is fucked. This is called Maegor's vengeance—his spirit lives on, and it wants revenge for the blood betrayal at the trial by combat."

"What did you see, Bran?"

Daenerys's gentle voice cut through his trance, pulling him back to the present. Bran's breath caught as he struggled to form the words. "I saw war… death… and the deaths yet to come," he gasped, his voice heavy with the weight of the countless souls he had witnessed marching to their doom. "Every corner of the realm is preparing for battle."

Before he could steady himself, Melisandre pressed, "And where is Aegon Targaryen? His location is crucial."

Bran closed his eyes and let his consciousness meld with the dark wings of another raven. In an instant, he was borne aloft over the scarred expanse of Westeros, the world below unfolding like a tapestry of war and ruin. This time, his silent flight took him in the general direction of Harrenhal. As the raven soared over dense, ancient forests and open battlefields, Bran's mind became a window into a conflict that played out like a grim dance upon the land.

Below, deep within the woods bordering the Harrenhal domain, Bran's vision sharpened on a scene of ruthless efficiency. There, amidst the towering trees and tangled undergrowth, Blackfish and his outriders were engaged in a fierce skirmish with Aegon's own cavalry. The clash was both brutal and artful: Blackfish's men, seasoned by countless battles, moved with the precision of a well-rehearsed symphony. Swords flashed and arrows sliced through the humid air as they expertly fell upon Aegon's outriders. Each soldier in Blackfish's unit fought with a desperate determination, their strikes methodical and unyielding, reducing enemy forces to chaos and ruin in the dappled light of the forest.

Once the chaotic melee in the trees had subsided into a grim tableau of fallen foes and smoldering embers, Bran's vision shifted, carried by the raven's steady flight. Soon, the forest opened into a clearing where a second, more chilling scene emerged. There, at the forefront of an imposing column, rode Aegon Targaryen himself. His figure was both regal and foreboding.

Aegon rode with a measured stride, his eyes fixed upwards, as though communing with the heavens for silent guidance. At his hip hung the sheath of Blackfyre—Jon's former sword—its presence a bitter reminder of lost legacies and fractured loyalties. Beside him, almost reluctantly, rode Sansa. Her face was downcast, a picture of sorrow and resignation, a stark contrast to the grim determination etched into Aegon's features.

The sight tore through Bran's inner calm. Conflicting emotions roiled within him—anger at the audacity of Aegon wielding Jon's sacred sword, relief and joy that Sansa was still among the living, and a deep, primal fear for his dear Uncle Blackfish, whose fate now intertwined with these unfolding events. The shock was overwhelming, and before Bran could fully process it, the intensity of his emotions yanked him abruptly back to the present.

He found himself among his companions in the encampment—a place where the weight of war pressed heavily on every soul. With raw, trembling anger, Bran stammered, "Uncle, Aegon, Sansa!" His voice was a torrent of conflicting emotions, the words tumbling out in a chaotic mix of fury and grief. He was torn between the searing anger that Aegon had claimed Jon's legendary sword, the bittersweet relief that Sansa was still alive, and a terror for his Uncle Blackfish, whose valiant efforts now stood as the only bulwark against their enemies.

In that charged moment, Bran's eyes darted to the other side of the tent where Beric and Thoros had already taken shelter. Their presence—a blend of wisdom and battle-worn resignation—lent the camp an air of grim certainty amidst the storm of his revelations. Daenerys, ever the calming force amid chaos, stepped forward. Her gentle yet insistent tone cut through the tumult in Bran's mind. "Bran, calm down," she urged softly, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Tell us what you saw."

Bran's voice trembled as he recounted his vision, each word laden with urgency and dread. "I saw Aegon… and I saw that Sansa is alive, but… she is his captive," he declared, his tone a mix of disbelief and sorrow. The implications of his words hung heavy in the air—a prisoner in the hands of an enemy, a sign of the deep divisions that cleaved through their ranks.

Daenerys's eyes narrowed, and her voice took on a sharp, commanding edge. "Is Aegon aware of our location?" she asked.

Bran shook his head slowly, his gaze distant as he drew upon the lingering images of his vision. "No," he replied, his voice low and measured. "Uncle Blackfish is doing an excellent job of throwing them off our trail."

Before the conversation could settle, Beric's voice broke in from the edge of the tent. "And what of our path to Stoney Sept? Is it blocked?" he demanded, his tone brisk and matter-of-fact.

Bran paused, sifting through the residual images that still danced behind his eyes. "No, the path remains clear," he said at last, the words carrying a tentative reassurance born of his keen observation.

Beric's weathered face broke into a nod of grim satisfaction. "Then it's best we restock our supplies at Stoney Sept," he said firmly. "After that, we'll travel northward along the Blue Fork. It's our best chance to avoid the converging armies."

"What about Sansa? We must rescue her!" Bran cried, his voice a raw plea that echoed in the cramped tent.

"Poor wolf," Melisandre replied softly, though her tone carried an undercurrent of fatalism. "I'm afraid that's impossible."

"She's nothing but bait," Beric interjected, his words heavy with reluctant truth. "There's no way Aegon would bring your sister here unless it were solely to lure us into a slaughter. It's an obvious trap. I'm sorry, Lord Stark."

Thoros nodded in silent agreement, pity gleaming in his eyes as he surveyed Bran's conflicted face.

Bran's chest tightened with a mixture of seething anger and deep, unspoken sorrow. He didn't know which hurt more—being unable to save Sansa or being saddled with the title of Lord Stark. With his father's fate lost beyond the Wall and Aegon Targaryen reducing the rest of his family to ash, it had become all too easy for others to drape him in the mantle of House Stark, always with a tinge of condescension in their gaze. Even now, in the close confines of the tent, he felt the weight of their pity—as though he were fragile, needing constant coddling to avoid shattering. Bran had never asked for this burden, and every beat of his heart resounded with the hatred he felt for it all.

Anger and sorrow warred within him until hot tears threatened to spill over. Even Summer's low growl in his chest seemed to echo his inner tumult.

"None of that," Daenerys said abruptly, appearing at his side as if conjured by his distress. She placed a firm, warm hand on his cheek. "Just because Sansa is beyond your grasp doesn't mean she's lost to us. It may feel as though the world is crumbling around you—that the enemy is slowly suffocating the life from our very souls—but they will not win. We will breathe again."

Her touch, both gentle and commanding, stirred in Bran a bittersweet memory of Myrcella—a fleeting warmth amid the pervasive chill of loss. In that single moment, he was overwhelmed by the ghosts of his past: his mother, his father, Rickon, Robb, and Jon—their faces flickering in the emptiness that now defined his days.

Before he could process these feelings further, the tent's entrance burst open as Arya stormed in, Nymeria padding silently at her heels. Arya's grey eyes, sharp and unyielding, swept over the scene. "Bran, what's wrong? And why are you touching him?" she demanded, her gaze flitting between him and Daenerys, suspicion mingling in her tone.

Daenerys, undeterred by Arya's brusque intrusion, continued in a gentle cadence meant to soothe the frayed nerves. "I know how you feel, Bran. I fight an uphill battle every day. There are moments when the darkness seems poised to swallow me whole. But I have something—a light, a strength—that keeps me from falling. And I want... no, I need to share that strength with you."

Without warning, Daenerys reached out and took Bran's hand, guiding it softly to rest on her stomach. For an instant, the world seemed to still. Arya's eyes widened in shock and disbelief, while Bran's mind spun in a whirl of confusion.

"Uh—why am I feeling your stomach?" he stammered, a note of bewilderment threading his words.

"You lie," Arya snapped, her voice harsh with disbelief and a deep-seated distrust that had long festered between them.

Daenerys shook her head firmly, her tone low and conspiratorial. "Not about this," she replied. "I didn't wish to reveal this in public. Our cause is righteous, but there are those within our ranks who would seize upon our secrets and use them to bring us down."

"No, no, no," Arya burst out, her anger flaring as she shook her head violently. "You know how much I despise you—I can never fully trust you. You want us to let our guard down. You're Aegon's aunt, after all. How long will you keep up this charade of fighting for Jon before you switch sides and betray us to that fucker Aegon? So he can kill me and Bran just like he did Robb and Jon!"

A charged silence fell over the tent, heavy with the weight of accusations and old wounds. Daenerys's eyes, purple and unyielding, flashed with a sudden, fierce intensity. "That is not true! You take that back right now!" she roared, her voice reverberating off the canvas walls. "I loved Jon! When Rhaegar first announced his existence, I welcomed him with open arms, even as the rest of the family scorned him. I was there when he needed someone to lean on, when everyone else turned away. I was... I was there when he died! I wept over his body, and when those vultures came for his Valyrian armor, I impaled them on stakes and sent them to the Seven Hells to dine with the Stranger. You saw me, Arya—you saw me!"

For a moment, the raw intensity of Daenerys's words hung in the air, mingling with the shared pain and anger of all present.

"Our family died because your kin led Jon to believe he was nothing without a proper Targaryen name," Arya said slowly, her voice edged with bitter accusation. "You fed him lies—empty promises. Why should I trust a single word from you?"

Bran's eyes widened in confusion as he tried to untangle the web of deceit. "What are you talking about, Princess? Please, explain what's happening."

Daenerys fixed Arya with an unyielding stare, her tone resolute. "I am pregnant with Jon's child. That is the truth."

The words hit Bran like a gale, leaving him momentarily breathless. "Really?" he managed, his voice a mix of incredulity and a spark of excitement.

"No, you idiot—she's lying!" Arya snapped, her tone seething with contempt.

Bran frowned, struggling to reconcile the conflicting voices. "Lying? I thought they were betrothed…" His question trailed off as Daenerys allowed a faint smile to play on her lips, while Arya's glare burned with unspoken fury.

Suddenly, Ghost prowled into the tent, and an expectant hush fell over the gathered voices. The albino direwolf—majestic and silent by nature—glided over to Daenerys, his cool nose brushing against her stomach. In that rare moment, he broke his usual silence with a mournful whine that sliced through the still air like a lament for lost days. Daenerys's eyes softened as she reached out to stroke his snowy fur. With a wistful, sorrowful smile, she whispered, "I know, boy. Me too."

Arya stood frozen, her eyes wide with shock and a deep, unspoken pain that cut through the tense air.

"I will bring Jon back. Arya, I promise you, Jon will return—and we will be family," Daenerys declared, her voice trembling with raw determination. It was as if she were pleading with the very fabric of fate, every syllable laden with an urgency that left no room for doubt.

Bran, watching the exchange, felt the weight of her desperate promise. He could almost believe that Daenerys was begging, her heart laid bare before them all, desperate to mend what had been shattered.

In that charged moment, a single tear slipped down Arya's cheek before she quickly brushed it away, as though it were an admission of vulnerability she could not afford.

"We are already family," Arya murmured quietly.

Sansa

"The Blackfish has been quite the pain in the arse, Sansa Stark," Aegon said idly as he rode with effortless grace. At the head of the column, resplendent in bright armor and flanked by his new Kingsguard, he exuded the aura of a true king. His purple eyes twinkled with mischief, and his long silver hair shimmered in the sunlight—he looked as perfect as the songs promised.

And Sansa hated it.

She hates him—hates Aegon Targaryen—with every fiber of her being. She hated how impeccably he carried himself, the effortless charm in his voice, the very way he breathed. Most of all, she hated that smile, the one that mocked her memories of loss and betrayal, for it belonged to the man responsible for the death of her family. How is it that evil can look so perfect?

"He's been a saving grace for the Silent Flames—at the very least, they've been able to afford his help—and he's been systematically picking off my outriders to blind my view."

Sansa's inner voice seethed, Good. He needs to kill you all.

Aegon then fixed her with his piercing purple gaze as he continued, "But don't be fooled—he isn't as clever as he fancies himself, nor does he possess the cunning of my uncle Oberyn. The fish is about to be reeled out of the water."

He paused, letting the weight of his words hang in the air before adding, "They say the Silent Flames can control the minds of animals, of beasts—even the very forces of nature itself. I have a sneaking feeling that little Brandon Stark might still be alive after all."

Bran... alive? Sansa's breath hitched. She hadn't dared to hope.

"I see that look in your eyes. Banish it before it betrays you—have you already forgotten Robb Stark? He was quite the rebel, too."

Just like that, the warmth of hope turned to ice-cold hate.

"He was hopeful in the joust. Hopeful during the trial by combat. He wore the same expression you do now—right before I dragged my little brother back down to earth...or perhaps a little deeper," Aegon said.

Aegon

He saw the fire in Sansa's blue eyes. Not as something to snuff out, but something to admire. It stirred something deep inside him, something he hadn't even realized he was missing.

It wasn't the first time he had seen such fury. He couldn't help but compare it to the anger that once blazed in Jon's lilac eyes.

Did you feel that same hate for me, Maegor?

Did you despise me as everything you loved turned to ash by my hand?

Aegon would never know.

Because Jon was gone.

"Tell me, little wolf, when did you first realize you could warg?"Aegon leaned forward."Choose your words wisely—I'll know if you lie to your king."

Sansa met his gaze, unflinching."We often dreamed as wolves," she murmured.

"Had," Aegon corrected coldly.

Her jaw tightened."We had dreams with our direwolves. Jon taught us what he could… with the little time he had. Bran was the best of us."

Aegon scoffed, tilting his head."The Starks always did have a way of becoming the beasts they adore. No surprise Maegor came from such a savage bloodline."

"Yet it was King Rhaegar who named him rightful heir to the Iron Throne,"Sansa snapped.

Aegon stiffened. The words cut deep, dragging him back to that day—the weight of his defeat, the humiliation as Jon and the Kingslayer crushed his forces and forced him to stand trial. He could still hear Samwell Tarly's voice, reading his father's will, proclaiming Jon king. Over him.

His father had chosen Jon—the stranger—over the son he had known his entire life.

Aegon's chest tightened, the old rage stirring like embers reignited.

His gaze flicked to Osmund. The Kingsguard grinned before striking Sansa hard across the face with his gauntleted hand. The blow sent her tumbling from her saddle, crashing onto the ground with a pained cry.

Aegon watched her sprawled in the dirt, for a moment seeing not Sansa but Jon—writhing, poisoned, helpless.

His lip curled."Daemon, get her back on the fucking saddle."

Aegon turned his eyes back to the sky.

Sansa

Late into the night, as the camp settled into uneasy silence, Sansa sat alone in her tent, her mouth still numb from the blow, forced to endure the sycophants outside singing Aegon's praises. Despite Barristan's protests and the Kingsguard's pleas, Aegon had ridden out himself—no Mystic in sight—leading a sortie against her uncle Blackfish's outriders. He had cut down a handful of Silent Flames with Blackfyre in hand, forcing the so-called traitors to flee. A foolish risk, yet they hailed him as a conqueror.

Jon was better. Robb was better. The thought burned within her, sharp and relentless. Every hour, she had prayed to the Seven for her uncle to rescue her, to drive a blade across Aegon's throat just as Black Walder had butchered her mother and Rickon. Even in this hunt for the Silent Flames—Jon's memory—Black Walder never let her forget his presence. He sneered at her every chance he got, Shaggydog's black pelt draped over his shoulders like a twisted trophy. Aegon's monster.

As if summoned, the Stranger came himself. Aegon swept through the flaps of her pavilion, his violet eyes gleaming. Sansa hated those eyes—too bright, too perfect. No one else seemed to see the malice lurking behind them. They belonged to a creature from the Seven Hells.

He stood there, watching her expectantly. Sansa swallowed her hatred, if only for a moment, and bowed carefully. "Your Grace."

His gaze flicked to her split lip. "Most of my family are women, and I hold them dear," he said smoothly. "Show me the proper respect in public, and you won't be punished in public."

Respect? I have nothing but hatred for killed my family. Sansa's lip trembled, but she forced herself to respond. "I understand, Your Grace."

Aegon exhaled heavily and dropped into a chair. "Today was eventful, little wolf. The Blackfish is doing an admirable job screening the Silent Flames' movements, but he's getting sloppy in his old age. My uncle Oberyn managed to get his hands on one of his riders—made him squeal." His lips curled into a smile, beautiful and revoking at once. "They do have my sister. The group split in half after the Red Woman made another sacrifice for her foreign god. The other half has Rhaenys, and I now know where they are."

"I hope you retrieve her, my king."If Arya is lost to me, then let Rhaenys be lost to you.

Aegon's expression flickered—just for a moment. A twitch of his jaw, the faintest tightening of his fingers. "Maegor saved you when you went missing."

"He did."

"Maegor rescued his sister when she was a damsel in distress," Aegon said, his voice measured, almost rehearsed.

"And so, I will do the same."

Then he smiled—a gleaming grin, all white teeth and arrogance. But in his eyes, something unreadable lurked.

Benjen

"Wights are not allowed within the city," Eira said coolly, her icy gaze sweeping over him."My father made an exception for you. You're a Stark—a living symbol of what men stole from us."

Benjen tensed at that. He had never thought of himself as a symbol—just a man who had died and been forced into something less than human, yet not entirely gone. The weight of her words pressed against him like the cold that never left his bones.

She studied him for a moment, then smirked."And it's working. Every time the common folk see you, it's as if a storm of ice rumbles through the streets."

"I should feel honored, then."But there was no humor in his voice. Is that all I am now? A walking specter of their hatred?

"My father is no fool. He intends to awaken my younger sister, Sylvara—but I am his eldest, his true heir. The fire took my brothers, leaving only me."She paused, voice sharpening like cracking ice."The only way to make the council break tradition is to remind them of our suffering. And you, Stark, are the perfect weapon."

A weapon. The word stung more than it should have. He had spent his life serving the Watch, protecting the Wall from dangers beyond it. Now, he was just another tool in someone else's war—only this time, it wasn't against the living, but for them.

Benjen frowned."I don't understand."

Eira's expression darkened, frustration flickering behind her pale eyes."Then listen well. I do not want war. My father despises that. He and half the city favor Sylvara because she would burn the world to ice if she could."

Benjen swallowed the unease rising in his chest. This was no simple squabble over succession—this was the fate of an entire civilization, one on the brink of either peace or annihilation.

"I still don't understand."

"If my father blows the Horn of Always Winter, he will die."Her tone was matter-of-fact, as if discussing the weather."The power he once held was stripped away when 'He who must not be named' struck him with his blade. That means I will take his place, with Sylvara as my second."

Her second. Benjen could already see the cracks forming. If Sylvara had her way, she wouldn't remain second for long. And from what little he had seen of the city's people, she wouldn't have to force them—most already wanted her to lead.

Eira stepped closer, voice quiet but firm."There will be no war under my rule—not even with Sylvara awakened. The council clings too tightly to tradition to deny me once I ascend."

Benjen hesitated. The council clung to tradition, yes. But fear and anger had a way of snapping even the oldest customs like dry twigs.

"Tradition is easily cast aside south of the Wall," he said uneasily.

Eira's eyes gleamed like frozen steel."And we are not south of the Wall, Benjen Stark."

Benjen held her gaze but said nothing. It was a good answer—but he wasn't sure he believed it.

Arthur

"Arthur."

Daenerys swept into the room, a vision of silver and amethyst. Her hair, her eyes, the way she carried herself—it was like staring at Rhaegar's ghost. And it hurt.

"Daenerys."

Her lips pressed together."You used to call me 'Little Dany.'"

Arthur's expression remained unreadable, but there was a weight in his voice when he answered."I can hardly see her anymore."

Dany held his gaze, her chin lifting slightly, but Arthur caught the faintest sag in her shoulders. It took all his willpower not to waver.

"You watched me grow up. We are not enemies, Arthur."

He lifted his shackled wrists. The metal bit into his skin, cold and unyielding."Then release me."

She shook her head, not out of cruelty, but something worse—conviction."I can't. Not until I am certain we are fully aligned."

"That will never happen."

"You disapprove of my methods?"

Arthur's jaw tightened."I do. I watched Aerys burn innocents for years. Rhaegar saw it too—that's why he held the tourney at Harrenhal, to lay the groundwork for something better. And yet here you are, walking the same path as your father."

Dany's expression hardened, the plea in her eyes turning to steel."I have been compared to the Mad King too often lately."Her voice was steady, but beneath it, something cracked."I am not mad—I am desperate. My actions are more noble than you think, ser."

Arthur let the silence stretch before answering."Oh?"

Her gaze burned with something between defiance and desperation."I am Rhaegar's sister. And I share his dreams of the prince that was promised. You do too. Jon must return to us—must return to me."

Arthur's fingers curled into had sworn to protect Rhaegar's legacy, but this? This was not what Rhaegar would have wanted.

"He must," Arthur admitted."But Rhaegar would never approve of this."

Daenerys flinched as if struck, her breath hitching."My brother isn't here, Arthur. They killed him! And they killed Jon too—"her voice trembled, thick with grief."They never even let him meet his child."

Her hand drifted to her stomach, fingers trembling. Arthur's throat's blood lived on in her, just like Rhaenys, in the child she carried. He should have found comfort in that—but all he felt was dread.

"Can I not try?" she pleaded, her violet eyes shining."Can I not fight against the darkness that looms over us all? Can I not try to be a family?"

Arthur forced himself to was still the girl he once knew, but that girl was drowning beneath the weight of loss, rage, and prophecy. How much of Daenerys remained? And how much was lost to the fire of vengeance?

He grasped at the one thing that still felt solid."Rhaenys is family too. What do you intend to do with her?"

Just like that, Daenerysturned to ice. "You call her family. I call her a backstabbing traitor who deserves her penance."

Arthur's blood ran cold."What do you mean?"

Tears welled in Dany's eyes, but her fury burned through them, unwavering."Did she feel so ashamed she never told you? Rhaenys is the reason everything fell apart. She betrayed Jon."

Arthur's stomach twisted.No… not Rhaenys. The little girl who once clung to his cloak, who once asked him to braid her hair as Elia laughed. She wouldn't—she couldn't…

"No…" he whispered, though his heart already pounded with dread.

Dany's breath shuddered."She told him she loved him. And then she kissed him—with poisoned lips."

Arthur staggered back a step. His knees felt weak. The Red Viper's teachings. The Dornish poisons. Was it true? Could Rhaenys have truly—?

"No… no, no…" His voice was hoarse, hollow.

Dany's voice cracked, raw with anguish."You know Aegon couldn't beat Jon—everyone knew that, especially Rhaenys. And she chose Aegon. She condemned Jon to a slow, agonizing death."

Arthur could hardly breathe. This is madness. This is grief twisting Daenerys's mind into something unrecognizable. Rhaenys wouldn't have done this. She loved Jon. Didn't she?

Dany's body trembled, her face streaked with tears."I saw him, Arthur. I saw his body. Cold. Lifeless. The viper's venom crawling over his face!"

Arthur closed his eyes, but it did nothing to stop the image from searing into his, dead by Rhaenys's hand.

Aegon

The moment Aegon heard her name, his chest tightened as if a cold hand had wrapped around his heart.

Daenerys.

Once, she had loved him. Once, she had sworn that they would rule together, that they were meant to be. Now, she fought against him, waging war in Jon's memory.

Maegor, who had taken everything from me—even Daenerys.

Aegon clenched his jaw, shoving the thoughts aside. He had no time for ghosts.

His fingers tightened around the reins as another name surfaced in his mind.

Rhaenys.

The thought of his elder sister, a prisoner in the hands of traitors, sent fury coursing through his veins. They dared steal his blood. If Maegor could save his sister without his dragon, then so can I.

Aegon raised his hand, signaling the charge. His host thundered forward, dust rising beneath the hooves of their horses. But the moment they reached the village, everything fell apart.

Steel flashed. Arrows rained from hidden vantage points. The Silent Flames had not fled, had not had been waiting.

Aegon had ridden straight into their trap.

His men fought desperately, but they were outmaneuvered. The village burned, thick smoke curling into the sky. Aegon cut down a cloaked fighter, his gaze snapping to the man standing amidst the chaos, blade drawn.

Brynden Tully.

The Blackfish moved with the surety of a veteran who had lived through more battles than Aegon had years. His sword, though unremarkable, was an extension of his will—swift, precise, merciless.

"You rode into this fight like a boy playing at war," Blackfish called over the din, his voice edged with mockery. "I expected more from the one who outmaneuvered the White Wolf."

"This trap is your death, old man," Aegon mocked back. He surged forward, Blackfyre slashing through the air.

Their swords met with a resounding clash, the force of it rattling through Aegon's bones. He struck first—a diagonal cut toward the old knight's shoulder. Blackfish pivoted, parrying with ease and countering with a thrust. Aegon twisted in time, the blade scraping off his breastplate with a shriek.

He pressed the attack—a flurry of strikes, high, low, then a sudden feint. Blackfish did not fall for it. He stepped in, slammed his pommel into Aegon's through the armor, the impact stole his breath.

Aegon staggered, but he did not fall. His mind wandered to the fight he witnessed between Arthur and Jon, a clash that secretly had Aegon awed.

Jon would have anticipated this. Jon was patient in a fight, watching, waiting. Aegon was stronger, faster, but Blackfish fought like a river—flowing, adapting, never breaking.

Aegon blocked high, ducked low, twisting to avoid a slash aimed at his side. He responded with a brutal horizontal cut, forcing Blackfish back.

The old knight did not yield. Their blades locked in a contest of pushed forward with all his might, armor screeching as they strained against each other.

Then, with a sudden, brutal shift, Blackfish wrenched his sword free and slashed across Aegon's thigh. The Valyrian steel of Blackfyre saved him from a crippling wound, but pain lanced through his leg. His stance faltered.

Blackfish did not hesitate. He struck downward. Aegon barely raised Blackfyre in time, but the impact sent him crashing to one knee. His sword arm trembled.

Blackfish loomed over him, blade at the ready. "Outsmarted like a fool. Beaten by an old man," he sneered, voice smoky. "You killed my family and countless others to get your crown and this is what you have to show for it? And to think—Jon Snow fell to the likes of you. This is how I know the gods are cunts."

Aegon's grip tightened on his sword. Was this how Maegor had felt in his final moments? Cornered. Outmaneuvered. No. No. Aegon was not Jon. He would not fall.

With a roar, he shoved upward, but before he could strike, a flaming beam from a collapsing rooftop crashed between them, sending embers and debris flying.

Blackfish was gone before the fire could part. The Silent Flames vanished into the night.

Strong hands seized Aegon, pulling him back. Barristan Selmy and Daemon Sand hauled him to his feet, their faces grim. Around him, his men lay dead or wounded, the village a ruin.

Aegon clenched his fists, his entire body trembling—not just from pain, but from humiliation.

Blackfish's words echoed in his mind, poisoning him more than any wound.

Outsmarted. Beaten.

By an old man.

And to think, Jon Snow fell to the likes of you.

Aegon exhaled sharply, his knuckles white around Blackfyre's hilt. The fires burned behind him, but he felt their heat inside him, searing into his chest.

Sansa

The camp had lost its luster. The once-roaring fires had burned down to embers, casting only the faintest glow through the heavy canvas of her tent. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and dying flame, wrapping Sansa in a suffocating silence.

Then he entered.

Aegon Targaryen looked every bit the beautiful villain—silver hair in disheveled waves, violet eyes gleaming in the dim light like polished amethysts. But something was different. The cocky bravado she remembered had been stripped away, peeling like gold leaf from a rusting crown.

Sansa had been dozing, but the shift in the air—the presence of him—snapped her upright.

"Your Grace."

He said nothing.

With the tent flap shut behind him, the space was cloaked in darkness, but she could see his eyes. She could always see his eyes. Luminous, purple, piercing. The bane of her existence. She remembered that twinkle in them when he had watched the Freys dump her mother's body into the river. The same eyes. The same man.

But tonight, something was off.

And Sansa did not know whether that made him less dangerous—or more.

Aegon sank into the chair, his movements slow, deliberate.

Sansa sat rigid, her pulse quickening.

The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.

Finally, he spoke."I crossed blades with the Blackfish."

Sansa's heart leapt to her throat. Is my uncle dead? She couldn't bear to lose anyone else.

But something was wrong. Aegon wasn't gloating. He had always reveled in throwing his victories over her family in her face—why not now?

As if reading her thoughts, he exhaled, his voice lower than she had ever heard it."No, little wolf. His legendary reputation is well earned."

He couldn't defeat my uncle. The fish hadn't been reeled in. A flicker of satisfaction sparked in her chest—Aegon still lived, but the joy draining from him makes up for it.

She was grateful for the darkness; it hid the small, satisfied curve of her lips.

"You like this, don't you?"

The question cut through her thoughts. "What?"

Aegon leaned forward, eyes sharpening. Searching."You enjoy this. You like seeing me lose."

She said nothing. Her mouth stayed shut, but her pulse drummed with quiet fury.

He tilted his head, then exhaled, voice edged with amusement."Speak your mind. I didn't bring you here just so you could glare holes into my skull. Speak. Show me your fangs."

Sansa's fingers curled into fists. "I hate you."

She said it slowly, deliberately, like the strike of a blade.

"I hate you for killing Lady. I hate you for pushing Bran. I hate you for killing everyone I loved. I hate that you still stand when they are all gone." Her breath hitched, but she forced the words out. "I wish my uncle had finished what Jon could not."

Aegon did not flinch. "Jon was weak. He had the chance, and he hesitated. That's why he and Robb lost." He smirked."You think I pushed your little brother? That I had a hand in killing your wolf?"

"Who else but you?"Sansa snapped."You used me as bait to kill Jon and pinned it on the Kingslayer. While everyone was distracted, unraveling your schemes, you pushed Bran from that tower and crippled him."

Aegon chuckled."So that's what Jon believed. That explains why he was always so pissy with me. But I did no such thing."

"You're a liar."

"I am." He leaned back lazily, as if her hatred amused him."I killed your brothers. Your mother. Jon. Your little friends, too. But since I'm feeling generous, I'll tell you the truth—this crime isn't mine."

He watched her, waiting for the flicker of doubt.

"Think about it, little wolf. If I could stage your kidnapping, kill your direwolf, and cripple your brother without anyone suspecting, then Jon never stood a chance against me. And besides—if breaking Bran turned him into what he is today, I'd have much preferred him with two good legs."

Sansa shook her head violently."No, I don't believe you. You murdered poor Rhaega—"

"Don't ever say his name."

Aegon's voice was a blade, sharp and immediate. The sheer force of it made Sansa flinch.

"Do not speak of my father again unless you wish to join your mother in the river."

Silence strangled the tent.

Then Aegon's tone shifted, casual now, laced with amusement."You seem so certain of my crimes, yet we have never spoken before. My cousin Arianne always said your head was full of air—I was right to stay away."

Sansa's nails dug into her palms.

"I adored you from afar," she whispered."I thought you were the perfect prince, a living dream from the songs. But I was blind to the shadows behind those violet eyes."

She felt the sting of her own words but refused to stop.

"I heard what you and your family whispered about Jon and his mother. You hated him. You would have done anything to erase him."

Aegon's gaze sharpened, his violet eyes darkening in the dim light. His lips parted slightly—but then he caught himself, his expression hardening. "I had to secure my throne."

"And so you shunned him. Treated him like he was nothing."

For the briefest moment, something flickered across Aegon's face. A shadow of something unspoken. But just as quickly, it was gone.

Memories of Winterfell flooded Sansa's mind—the quiet boy standing at the edges, solemn, alone. A boy who had never been wanted.

Her throat tightened. Poor Jon. Killed by his own brother.

Robb was already the brother he needed. We were the family he already had.

Aegon

Aegon was dreaming.

He was a boy again, no older than eight, flushed with the heat of victory. The training yard had been alive with the clang of steel, the murmurs of knights, and the ever-watchful gaze of Ser Arthur Dayne. Aegon had held his own, just for a few moments, but it had been enough. Enough for the Sword of the Morning to smile, to tell him he was improving. That he was worthy of his name.

The words still rang in his ears as he climbed the steps to his father's solar, heart pounding with excitement. His father had not come to watch the bout, but that was fine—Aegon would tell him, and his father would smile, would place a hand on his shoulder, would call him his son in that soft, distant voice.

Aegon pushed open the door without hesitation.

The room smelled of parchment and ink, of old dust and faded candle wax. Stacks of books towered over the desk, untouched goblets of wine resting beside them. But the first thing Aegon noticed was the flower—small, delicate, spinning slowly between his father's fingers. A blue rose.

Rhaegar sat at his desk, staring at it, his lips barely moving.

"What went wrong?" he whispered, so softly Aegon almost didn't hear it.

Aegon paused in the doorway, momentarily thrown off, but the elation from his match still burned inside him. He stepped forward, determined. "Father," he began, trying to keep the excitement from bursting all at once. "Ser Arthur said I fought well today. I held my stance against him longer than before."

No answer.

Aegon tried again. "He said I am learning fast."

The rose twirled in Rhaegar's hands.

Aegon's excitement wavered. He stepped closer, his voice smaller now. "Father, did you hear me?"

Still, nothing. His father's lips moved again, another whisper, another sigh, but Aegon could not make out the words.

The weight in his chest sank deeper. The lightness, the pride, all of it began to slip away. He had fought so hard today. He had won. Shouldn't that matter?

Aegon's hands curled at his sides. He forced himself to straighten, standing as tall as a boy of eight could manage. "Father."

Rhaegar finally looked at him.

For a moment, Aegon felt relief—until he saw his father's eyes.

They were unfocused, looking through him, past him.

"He would've been your age," Rhaegar murmured.

Aegon blinked. "What?"

Rhaegar's gaze flickered, as if seeing something Aegon could not. "He would've been eight now," his father said, voice distant, dreamlike. "I would have been there. I would have seen him train with Arthur."

The rose spun between his fingers. Rhaegar's expression was soft, sad. And then, quieter, almost reverent—

"My son…"

Aegon could not breathe.

He did not speak. He did not cry. He simply took a step back. Then another. Then another.

The door closed behind him with a soft click.

Aegon stood outside the solar, staring at the cold stone floor, heart hammering against his ribs. He should have walked away. But he lingered, just for a moment, hoping.

When Aegon woke from his dream, his mood was black as pitch. By the time he met with his uncle, the weight of it still clung to him like a second skin.

"I hear the fish bared its teeth to the king," Oberyn mused, lounging back in his chair, feet propped up in careless ease.

Aegon's jaw tightened. "How long can a fish swim before it's caught?" he snapped. "He won't get lucky again."

Oberyn arched a brow. "Was it he who had luck on his side? Or you?"

"Uncle."

Oberyn lifted his hands in mock surrender. "Edmure is dead."

Aegon stilled. His nostrils flared. "How?"

"No one knows. Same as with Willas. Now the Riverlords stir like a nest of vipers. They are rising all around you, and the Freys and the Darrys are not enough to keep you safe. Add to that a hidden assassin in our midst, and our family's position is more precarious than ever."

Aegon's fingers curled. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I intend to have Elia and the rest escorted to Dorne before this war begins in earnest." Oberyn met his gaze, voice turning to steel. "And it's time for you to put an end to this little plaything you have with the Silent Flames."

Aegon said nothing. He only stared.

"No words for once?" Oberyn mused.

Aegon's lips curled. "I didn't think Maegor's memory frightened you so. It was your poison that put him away."

"And it was your schemes that put away those little children." Oberyn rose smoothly, stepping closer. His hand settled on the nape of Aegon's neck, firm but not unkind. "I will not see the same fate befall my own." His voice dropped, quieter now. "Tywin Lannister and Viserys are threats of flesh and blood—greater than the shadow of Jon Snow. You have nothing to prove to a dead man."

Aegon's jaw clenched. He exhaled slowly, then pulled away from Oberyn's touch.

"Oh, but dear uncle," he murmured, stepping toward the tent's exit. "Yes, I do."

Then he was gone, eyes peeled on the sky.

Rhaenys

The journey to the Stoney Sept had begun with cheer and laughter, buoyed by news of the Blackfish's triumphant strikes against her brother Aegon. But joy was fleeting. Word of Edmure's sudden death swept through the camp like a chill wind, freezing smiles and hardening faces. Tension wrapped around every mile of the road as Blackfish's outriders clashed more frequently with Aegon's scouts, the skirmishes growing bloodier by the day. It was vengeance in motion, painted in crimson strokes along the riverbanks.

Rhaenys found no comfort at night. The followers of R'hllor gathered around their fires, whispering prayers to the flames that made her grind her teeth. Their chants wove through the darkness, serpentine and haunting, setting her nerves on edge. Shadows danced on the trees, shifting like ghosts.

But it was not just the shadows that haunted her. Arthur and Ashara were no longer bound by rope and tie—Arthur now wielded Dawn once more, the pale blade gleaming under the moonlight. His gaze was the worst. Those piercing eyes followed her, unwavering, slicing through her defenses with every stolen glance. It was judgment, silent, and unrelenting. She could almost feel the weight of his disappointment pressing against her chest, suffocating.

So Dany told him the truth. Rhaenys's heart clenched, a cold knot tightening in her stomach. She didn't know how to feel—anger, fear, or something more dangerous. Betrayal, perhaps. Or was it shame?

Whatever it was, one thing was clear: Arthur and Dany were on the same side now. And that could mean nothing good for her.

And then there was Ghost. The direwolf lingered at the edge of the firelight, his white fur ghostly against the darkness, his ruby eyes burning with hatred. He watched her with an intensity that made her skin crawl, his lip curling to reveal fangs whenever she moved too close. It was as if he knew, as if he could smell the betrayal on her. Those eyes gleamed like blood-red embers, accusing, vengeful.

She swallowed hard, a familiar ache rising in her chest. It had been days, but she could still taste the poison on her lips, still feel the way Jon's body had pressed against hers. His purple eyes—guarded, flecked with grey—had locked on hers, confusion giving way to happiness when she told of their child's coming.

Rhaenys closed her eyes, fighting the memory, but it came all the same. His dark humor that cut through the weight of their world, his long brown hair that she used to tangle her fingers in—gone. She missed him. Gods, she missed him desperately. Her hand trembled as it drifted to her stomach, the life growing within a cruel reminder of what she'd done. Their child. Jon's child.

But he was going to kill Aegon. She repeated it over and over, her lips moving soundlessly as if the words were a spell to ward off the guilt. He was going to kill her brother. She had to choose. She chose blood, her blood, the blood that would always come first. But no matter how many times she justified it, the guilt clawed at her, relentless and unyielding.

The Silent flames. She heard the whispers, felt the tension whenever Melisandre walked by. The Red Woman's followers were murmuring of resurrection, of bringing him back. It was foolish, she told herself. Impossible. And yet… a terrible feeling gnawed at her, hollowing her out. What if they did? What if Jon came back? How could she face him? How could she tell him how sorry she was, how she never wanted this, how she wished there was another way?

Would he even care? Or would his ruby-eyed direwolf rip her throat out before she ever had the chance?

The fire crackled, and Ghost's eyes gleamed, unblinking and hateful, and Rhaenys felt herself unraveling, her guilt a poison worse than the one she had given him.

The Stoney Sept loomed on the horizon, its ancient walls etched against the sky. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, blending into the overcast afternoon. To any passerby, it would seem like any other town preparing for winter, but Rhaenys felt the tension as they passed through the gates.

The weight of eyes followed them, cautious and untrusting.

Whispered words flitted between crooked doorways, muffled behind shuttered windows. The townsfolk peered from behind worn curtains, faces pale with a mixture of fear and awe. They knew who she was—who they all were. Rhaenys saw it in the wary stares, the hurried bows, the way mothers snatched children off the streets as they passed. Yet, there was curiosity too, a fascination that kept some rooted to the spot, mouths agape, watching the Targaryen princesses ride by.

Daenerys rode just ahead, her silver hair gleaming under the dim sunlight, her face serene and regal.

Walking beside her was Ghost, his massive form a haunting specter against the cobblestones. His fur was a pure, spectral white, unnervingly bright against the gray streets. He moved silently, each step graceful and fluid, his head held low. His eyes were blazing red, sharp and intelligent, a hunter's gaze that chilled the bones.

Gasps rippled through the crowd as they caught sight of him. Whispers grew louder, hisses of fear and disbelief mingling with reverent awe.

"Seven save us… look at the size of him…" a woman breathed, clutching her child to her chest.

"It's the ghost of the Old Gods," an old man muttered, his voice trembling as he made the sign of the Seven. "Eyes of blood… that's no mere beast…"

A butcher stumbled back, his knife clattering to the ground as Ghost's crimson stare flicked his way. Dogs whimpered, tails tucked between their legs as they scurried out of sight. Even men who had seen battle went pale, sweat beading on their foreheads.

Behind them walked Arya, her chin lifted defiantly, grey eyes flashing with fierce pride. Nymeria prowled at her side, sleek and powerful, her golden eyes never still. She moved like a shadow, her muscles rippling beneath her thick fur, every inch the deadly predator.

Beside Arya, Halder carried Bran, his body frail but his spirit unbroken. Summer followed faithfully, his fur a rich russet, eyes warm and watchful. He moved with a quiet dignity, his head high, his steps deliberate and steady.

Gasps of awe mingled with shivers of fear as the direwolves passed. Some whispered prayers, others muttered oaths, but none dared speak too loudly. The sight of the beasts—so enormous, so wild—made the blood run cold. They were legends come to life, myths stalking the streets of Stoney Sept.

But the whispers grew louder when Arthur Dayne rode into view.

He was a figure out of legend. Dawn was strapped to his back, its pale blade gleaming faintly even beneath the clouds, a symbol of House Dayne's ancient honor. He sat tall in his saddle, his posture regal and unyielding, eyes sharp as he scanned the crowd. There was no mistaking him; the Sword of the Morning has arrived at the Stony Sept.

Gasps of awe rippled through the onlookers, jaws dropping, eyes widening as if they were seeing a ghost.

"That's… that's Ser Arthur Dayne…" an old woman whispered, clutching her husband's arm.

Heads bowed, knees buckling as the legend passed by. Some gaped openly, others averted their eyes, crossing themselves in reverence. It was as if they were seeing a hero from the songs come to life, a man who belonged to another age.

Beside him rode Edric and Ashara Dayne, her beauty as striking as ever, untouched by time.

Ghost's ruby eyes flicked toward her, burning with accusation. Rhaenys looked away, her heart twisting as they rode deeper into Stoney Sept, the whispers echoing around them, heavy and unrelenting.

As they rode through the winding streets, Rhaenys found herself glancing upward, a strange unease twisting in her chest. A shadow moved against the clouds, small and distant. She squinted, trying to make out the shape. A bird, she thought, but it flew too steadily, too high. She watched it for a moment longer before it vanished behind the thick grey clouds. An unsettling chill crept down her spine.

The inn they found was modest, worn by years of weather and travelers passing through. The common room was dim, the smell of stale ale lingering in the air. Her room was small, the bed narrow and uninviting, but it was quiet. That was all she needed.

Rhaenys sat on the edge of the bed, her hands instinctively moving to her stomach. The faint curve beneath her fingers grounded her, reminded her why she had done what she did. She had chosen her blood. Her family.

The door creaked open behind her, the hinges groaning. She didn't need to look up to know who it was.

"Ashara," she greeted, forcing her voice to remain steady.

"Rhaenys," came the reply, cold and clipped.

Rhaenys glanced over her shoulder, her mouth curving into a bitter smile. "Not 'princess' anymore?" she remarked, the humor hollow even to her own ears.

Ashara stepped into the room, closing the door behind her with deliberate calm. Her face was stony, violet eyes hard as amethyst. "The princess I knew wouldn't have done what you did," she said evenly. "Wouldn't have thrown the world into war."

Rhaenys felt the sting of the accusation, guilt twisting in her gut, but she refused to show it. "Is that what Dany told you?" she countered, her voice sharper than she intended. "She always did know how to twist a story."

Ashara's lips tightened, her jaw clenching. "You killed Jon," she said, her voice low, shaking with suppressed fury. "The father of the child me and Arthur risked our necks to protect." Her shoulders were taut, trembling. "How could you?"

Rhaenys's chest tightened, but she forced herself to meet Ashara's glare, refusing to flinch. "You judge me from the outside, without standing in my place," she said, her voice trembling with anger. "You have no idea what I had to choose between."

Ashara's eyes flashed, fury flaring bright. "Then tell me. Tell me what could possibly justify murdering him," she demanded, her voice cracking.

Rhaenys's hands curled into fists. "I don't have to explain myself to you," she snapped. "Especially not to someone who was replaced by a trout."

Ashara's face went blank, the insult striking deep. Her mouth twitched, pain flickering before it was buried under cold anger. "You're right," she said quietly, her voice hollow. "I was replaced. And that child in your belly?" Her gaze dropped to Rhaenys's stomach, her eyes hardening. "That child has Stark blood. One day, that child will ask why their father is absent and why his side of the family is so destroyed. Consider that whenever you try to justify yourself – and try not to sound too much like your mother while you're at it."

Rhaenys felt the words hit her like a punch, her breath catching in her throat. She opened her mouth, but no words came.

Ashara didn't wait for a reply. She turned on her heel, her dark hair whipping behind her as she left, the door closing sharply.

Rhaenys sat there, her chest heaving, the room suddenly colder, smaller. Her hands moved to her stomach again, trembling. She bowed her head, eyes squeezed shut, fighting the tears that burned behind them.

Bran

The world blurred as Bran's consciousness drifted, his body left behind in the dim tent at the Stoney Sept. He felt the familiar pull, the sensation of feathers brushing against his skin, as he slipped into the body of a raven soaring high above. The air was cold and crisp, the sky a pale gray, and the wind rustled through his wings. He joined a flock of his kin, their black shapes blending against the clouds as they flew toward the distant campfires.

Aegon's camp sprawled below, a sea of tents and banners fluttering with the colors of Dorne, Frey, and Darry. Men moved about in orderly lines, their armor glinting dully beneath the morning light. Horses were tethered nearby, stamping their hooves impatiently as groomsmen brushed their manes. A cluster of knights sparred in an open circle, swords clashing rhythmically.

Bran's raven eyes scanned the scene, gliding over every detail. Soldiers patrolled the perimeter, vigilant but unaware of his watchful presence. Yet, no matter how many times he circled above, he couldn't find Aegon. There was no silver-haired figure issuing commands, no silver armor that caught the light. Bran's heart quickened, but he forced himself to be thorough, searching every corner of the camp.

Nothing.

He squawked softly in relief. Aegon wasn't here, which meant he hadn't discovered their position at the Stoney Sept. If Aegon had known, he'd be preparing for an attack, not lounging in his encampment. It was safe—safe for now.

Bran's wings beat harder as he pulled away, the camp shrinking beneath him until it was nothing more than specks on the landscape. He followed the current of the wind, his consciousness flowing back to his body. There was a shudder, a moment of coldness, and then he was back, his eyes blinking open to the dimness of the tent.

Blackfish stood nearby, sharpening his blade, his movements methodical and steady. Bran's throat felt dry as he spoke, his voice cracking. "Aegon's camp... they're still at the same spot. They don't know we're here."

Blackfish looked up, his blue eyes narrowing. "You're sure?"

Bran nodded. "They're not preparing for anything."

Blackfish's lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw tightening. "Hmph. Good." He resumed his sharpening, the scraping sound echoing in the small space. "I can't wait to get another shot at that boy... for Edmure." His voice was low, almost a growl.

Bran looked away, his chest tightening.

Rhaenys

Rhaenys locked eyes with Arthur, her chin held high even as her heart raced. She could feel his disappointment like a blade, cutting through the air between them. His face was set in a grim line, eyes heavy with sorrow.

Arthur's shoulders sank, the weight of grief bending him as he exhaled slowly. "Ashara has already given you her judgment," he said, his voice low and weary. "I see no point in echoing her words."

His gaze drifted past her, lost somewhere in the shadows. "Do you know what first drew me to your father?" he asked, his voice softened by distant memories. "It was his sadness. It confused me, at first. Here was a prince, adored and celebrated, yet burdened with a sorrow he couldn't shake."

Arthur's eyes grew distant, his expression softening. "But as I came to understand that sadness, I became his closest friend. Rhaegar was consumed by prophecy, just as Aerys was consumed by wildfire. Yet, where his father's obsession destroyed lives, Rhaegar's dreams were meant to save them." He hesitated, his jaw tightening. "To the world, he was a melancholy prince, moping over things he couldn't change. But to those of us who truly knew him... his dreams were his burden. And he mattered to us because of them."

He looked at Rhaenys, his gaze piercing. "Rhaegar cared more about the world's salvation than his own desires. He cared about the safety of the realm, about protecting those he loved... even at the cost of his own happiness. And I loved him for it." Arthur's voice faltered, grief tightening his throat. "When he believed Jon died with Lyanna, it shattered him. To him, it meant his vision for saving Westeros had failed... and that it had cost him the two people he loved most."

Arthur's shoulders sagged, his voice quivering. "And now, with Rhaegar, Lyanna, and Jon all gone... it's a tragedy beyond words. Your father fought against the world to acknowledge Jon as his son, the Prince That Was Promised. To take that away from him now... to destroy Rhaegar's legacy..." His eyes shone with sorrow as they bore into Rhaenys. "It would break his heart in a way you cannot fathom."

Rhaenys stood frozen, her chest tight, struggling to breathe. Arthur's words pierced her like arrows, each one striking deeper than the last. She hadn't even realized she was crying until the taste of salt touched her lips.

Arthur's voice dropped to a whisper, heavy with grief. "Rhaegar didn't just believe in the Prince That Was Promised. He believed in the dragon having three heads – not merely as a sigil, but as a bond. A union of House Targaryen... a family." His gaze softened, sorrow flickering in his eyes. "A family that stands united against the darkness. A family that protects each other from those who wish to see them destroyed. A family that loves fiercely, even when the world turns against them."

His voice broke, raw and trembling. "Not a family that tears itself apart. Not one that poisons itself from within... that destroys its own blood."

Arthur's composure shattered, grief clawing at his words. "Not one that kills its own."

The ground seemed to drop out from beneath Rhaenys. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed, her body shaking with uncontrollable sobs. The weight of her guilt crushed her, and she wept openly, her cries echoing off the cold stone walls.

She was broken, laid bare before the Sword of the Morning. Before her father's dearest friend. The man who had vowed to protect her family... and who now looked at her with unspoken grief and profound disappointment.

"I didn't want to kill him, Arthur," Rhaenys choked out, her voice cracking under the weight of her shame. "Father wanted me to help him and Aegon grow close, to be brothers... but it was impossible! They hated each other!"

Arthur's eyes were solemn, his face etched with sorrow. "Hate is not born, Rhaenys," he said softly. "It festers in the void left by love. Strangers can't hate each other. They simply never had the chance to become anything else."

A deafening boom shattered the air, shaking the walls around them. Dust rained down from the ceiling, and the floor trembled beneath Rhaenys's knees. Her heart lurched, her tears freezing on her cheeks as distant screams pierced through the stone walls.

Arthur's head snapped toward the door, his eyes wide. Another explosion followed, the roar of flame unmistakable, accompanied by the terrible whisk of fire cutting through the air. Panic surged through Rhaenys as the acrid scent of smoke seeped in, curling around her like a serpent.

"We need to get outside," Arthur said, urgency sharpening his voice. He was already moving, his hand gripping Dawn's hilt. "Now."

Rhaenys forced herself to her feet, her body trembling as she followed Arthur out into the chaos. The doors burst open, and a wave of blistering heat hit her like a wall. Her eyes widened at the carnage unfolding before her.

The sky was darkened by smoke, thick clouds swirling as flames danced wildly below. Screams echoed through the streets as people ran in every direction, their faces twisted in terror. The once-bustling square was now a battlefield, fire raining down from above, its color an unnatural, vibrant shade of purple. It blazed across the cobblestones, licking at wooden beams and engulfing homes.

Rhaenys's heart dropped to her stomach when she looked up and saw him.

Aegon hovered above on Mystic, the dragon's scales shimmering in the dim light, reflecting hues of violet. His wings beat rhythmically, churning the smoke around them. Mystic's eyes gleamed with cruel intelligence, his jaws parted as he unleashed another torrent of purple fire. It spread like liquid, searing through anything it touched.

The flames danced in Aegon's eyes as he looked down on the town below. His face was set in cold determination, his jaw clenched as he surveyed the devastation. He was directing Mystic's flames with calculated precision, carving a ring of fire around Stoney Sept, trapping the inhabitants within.

A surge of relief flooded through Rhaenys, mingling with horror. He's alive. He came back. Her brother... she hadn't seen him in so long. A part of her wanted to run to him, to embrace him, to be a sister again.

But then she saw the faces of the villagers as they ran, their clothes alight with purple flame, their screams of agony cutting through the chaos. Her stomach twisted as Mystic's fire carved through the Silent Flames, their robes catching alight as they tried to flee. Aegon was aiming for them, his fire striking with ruthless accuracy, burning them to ash.

He's killing them. He's burning them alive.

Rhaenys's breath caught, her hands instinctively protecting her abdomen. Fear coiled around her heart, squeezing tightly. If Aegon found out about the child... about Jon...

Would he burn her too? Would he see her as a traitor, an enemy, for carrying Jon's blood?

"Rhaenys!" Arthur's shout snapped her back to the present. He was by her side, his eyes fixed on Mystic above. "We have to get out of here!"

Rhaenys looked up once more, her gaze locking onto Aegon's silhouette against the smoke-filled sky. His silver hair caught the light of the purple flames, making him look every bit the dragonlord he was born to be. Her heart thundered as she watched him rain fire upon the town, his face hard and unyielding.

He was still her brother. The same boy she had grown up with, the same child who had laughed with her, fought with her, dreamed with her. The same man she killed Jon for.

The same brother who might burn her alive if he knew the truth.

Rhaenys's chest tightened, tears burning in her eyes as she forced herself to turn away, her heart shattering as she followed Arthur into the chaos.

Aegon

The flames consumed the world.

Mystic's violet fire tore through the Stoney Sept, a ravenous beast devouring stone and flesh alike. The dragon's roar shook the earth, drowning out the wails of the dying, the pleas of the helpless. Towers crumbled, walls melted, and ancient wood burst into showers of embers, swirling upward like lost souls escaping the inferno.

Aegon watched from above, his jaw clenched, hands rigid on the saddle. The heat rose to meet him, suffocating and relentless. Yet the fire wasn't enough—it could never be enough. Not to silence the echo.

"Thank you, my prince... But I am not done... It's not a song... it's a sword."

The flames surged, as if answering the words. An explosion shattered the bell tower, sending shards of stone raining down. The great bronze bell fell, twisting in the air before crashing into the ruins below, its mournful toll silenced as it was swallowed by the fire.

Aegon's eyes followed the wreckage, his gaze empty as Mystic's fury continued. He did not blink. He could not.

"You did not look delighted about everyone finding out I was your brother in the great hall. I watched you..."

People ran below, their faces twisted in terror, limbs flailing as they tried to escape the inevitable. Mystic's shadow passed over them, and violet flames followed, sweeping through streets, engulfing homes, turning flesh to ash.

Aegon's lips curled. The fire reflected in his eyes, a sea of purple devastation. Yet the cold in his chest did not warm.

"We should spar sometime..."

A child screamed. A woman stumbled, cradling a broken arm as she dragged herself through the mud, her eyes fixed on the flame-wreathed sky. Mystic descended, jaws open, and the world was reduced to light, heat, and silence.

Roofs caved, beams snapped like twigs. The fires raced, hungry, alive. They leapt from building to building, twisting into serpents of violet flame that coiled around shattered walls, devouring the town's bones.

"Black has always been my color..."

The holy icons within the sept blackened and crumbled, faces of saints twisted in agony as they melted beneath the fire. The sacred walls buckled, collapsing inward, dust rising to meet the sky. The sept was gone—erased.

Still, it was not enough.

Aegon's fingers tightened until his knuckles turned white. Mystic roared again, unleashing another torrent of flame that spread like a plague, scorching the ground, obliterating everything in its path.

"Does it hurt, Aegon, to know that Rhaegar, who was more of a father to you than to me, chose me as his heir? Is that why you killed him?"

The heat was unbearable. It pressed against him, heavy and suffocating. Aegon's eyes burned. His vision blurred, the fire warping, twisting, becoming shadow and smoke.

"Not fair? You putting Sansa's life in danger was not fair. You pushing Bran was not fair. You killing Rhaegar was not fair!"

Aegon's breath caught. His chest tightened, a knife driving itself between his ribs, twisting. The smoke stung his eyes, bitter and unyielding. He swiped at his face, the back of his hand scraping against his cheek. "Damn smoke," he muttered, his voice raw. "Damn... this cursed place."

Mystic's wings beat furiously, sending the ashes swirling, a tempest of soot and cinders. The flames leapt higher, as if mocking him, defying him. Yet they did not burn away the coldness within.

Rhaenys.

The name tore through his mind, ripping him from his daze. His breath hitched, a cold dread curling in his gut. Had he just burned his sister alive?

Aegon's chest tightened, pain stabbing through him like a jagged knife. He could almost see her face—her wide, dark eyes frozen in terror as the flames closed in, her scream lost beneath Mystic's roar. His stomach lurched. His hands shook.

How would his father look at him now? Rhaegar, who had raised him to protect his big sister. He could almost see the disappointment etched on his father's face, the solemn shake of his head. Jon would never do such a thing, he would say. The unspoken words cut deeper than any blade.

His vision blurred. The smoke, he told himself. It was just the smoke.

Dany. His heart twisted. Had he killed her, too?

Even after everything—even after her betrayal, after she had sided with Jon—he had clung to the foolish hope that she would see reason. That she would come back to him. That they could rebuild what was broken.

He was a fool. A damned fool.

Aegon's nails dug into his palms, sharp pain grounding him as the truth clawed its way through his chest. She was dead. They were all dead. Because of him. Because of his father. Because of Jon. Aegon didn't even fucking know anymore.

Mystic descended with a satisfied purr, wings folding as his talons dug into the charred earth, sending ashes swirling. The dragon's violet eyes gleamed with a cruel intelligence, smoke curling from his nostrils as he surveyed the destruction. Fires crackled around them, the heat licking at the sky. Aegon leapt from the saddle, landing amidst the ruin, his eyes sweeping over the devastation. He felt the heat on his face, the bitter smoke burning his lungs.

He took a step forward, boots crunching on shattered stone. "Rhaenys!" he shouted, his voice raw, desperate. "Rhaenys!"

Silence. Only the wailing of the dying answered him, the groans of timber collapsing under flame. His heart thudded, a cold pit forming in his stomach. If she was dead... if he had killed her...

A flash of movement. Aegon's head snapped up, hand instinctively going to Blackfyre's hilt. Two figures emerged through the smoke, faces grim, eyes blazing with righteous fury.

Toad and Halder. Soot clung to their armor, their swords drawn and steady. Their faces were twisted in anger, grief etched into every line.

"You monster," Halder spat, voice trembling with rage. "These were innocent people. They had nothing to do with your quarrel."

Toad's eyes flicked to the flames, jaw clenched tight. "You burned them... all of them... and for what?" His grip tightened on his sword. "You'll pay for this. For every soul you condemned to ash. And we'll avenge Jon, for what you did to him."

Aegon's lips curled into a snarl. "Jon? Is that what this is about?" He took a step forward, Blackfyre gleaming wickedly as he unsheathed it. The blade was dark as midnight, its edge shimmering in the firelight. "You think to avenge him? Fools. He was the cause of all this. He deserved everything he got."

Toad let out a roar, charging forward with Halder at his side. Their blades flashed, cutting through the smoke, and Aegon met them head-on. Blackfyre clashed with steel, the impact jarring through his arms.

They fought together, a practiced unity from their time training with Jon. Halder's strikes were powerful, unrelenting, while Toad was swift, precise. They moved in tandem, forcing Aegon back, raining blows upon him.

But they were not enough.

Aegon's movements were fluid, graceful, each swing of Blackfyre cutting through the air with lethal precision. He parried Toad's swift strike, twisting his wrist and driving his blade through Halder's chest. The big man's eyes went wide, a choked gasp escaping his lips before he crumpled to the ground, sword slipping from his grasp.

Toad's roar was guttural, filled with anguish. He charged recklessly, rage blinding him. Aegon sidestepped, sweeping his leg out and sending Toad sprawling. Before he could rise, Aegon plunged Blackfyre down, the blade sinking deep into Toad's back. The boy shuddered, a strangled breath leaving his lips before his body went limp.

Aegon stood over them, chest heaving, Blackfyre dripping crimson. He looked down at their bodies, faces twisted in death, eyes vacant and unseeing. His lip curled. "Fools," he muttered, wiping the blood from his blade with a sharp flick. "You followed the wrong brother."

In that instant, a flicker of motion caught his eye. The world tilted, the bloodstained ground shifting beneath him. For a heartbeat, he saw Jon sprawled on the ground, body contorted in agony. His fingers clawed at the ground, nails splintering as his limbs spasmed, his face twisted in pain, the light fading from his purple eyes.

The vision was gone as quickly as it came, vanishing like smoke on the wind. Aegon's breath caught, his grip tightening on Blackfyre, knuckles white. His chest felt cold, hollow, but he shook it off, forcing himself to look back at the corpses before him.

A low growl filled the air. Aegon turned, heart skipping as the Blackfish stepped through the smoke, eyes locked on Aegon with cold, murderous intent. His armor was scorched, his face streaked with soot and blood, but his stance was unyielding, sword steady.

"You've become everything Rhaegar despised," the Blackfish said, voice like gravel. "A monster. A mad dragon." His jaw tightened. "I should've killed you when I had the chance. I'll finish what I started, and I'll avenge little Cat, Robb, Rickon...and now with this, Bran and Arya."

I killed the rest of Sansa's family.

At the cost of your sister, a voice responded.

Aegon's grip on Blackfyre tightened. His heart thundered, but he felt the cold calm settle over him, the clarity of battle. "They were traitors. They stood with Maegor."

"And you murdered them." The Blackfish's eyes were fierce, unwavering. "Today, I end this."

He lunged. Their swords met with a crash of steel, sparks flying. The Blackfish was swift, his strikes precise, relentless. Aegon was driven back, his feet skidding over rubble. The old knight fought with a fury Aegon hadn't expected, each blow fueled by grief and vengeance.

Aegon countered the Blackfish's ferocity with cold precision, parrying and striking, his movements fluid and calculated.

The Blackfish's blade slashed at his shoulder. Pain flared, but Aegon gritted his teeth, refusing to give ground. He retaliated, Blackfyre sweeping low, forcing the old knight back.

Their swords clashed again and again, the rhythm of battle echoing through the burning ruins. Aegon's muscles burned, his breath coming in ragged gasps, but he matched the Blackfish blow for blow.

The old knight's age began to show, his strikes losing a fraction of their speed, his footwork a touch slower. Aegon pressed his advantage, his attacks becoming more aggressive, more unrelenting.

The Blackfish's guard faltered for just a heartbeat. Aegon seized the moment, his blade arcing through the air, slicing across the Blackfish's neck.

The old man staggered, eyes wide with shock, blood gushing from the wound. He dropped to his knees, his sword slipping from his grasp, clattering against the stones.

Aegon stood over him, chest heaving, blood dripping from Blackfyre. His vision swam, exhaustion threatening to pull him under, but he remained standing.

Then he heard the whisper. The Blackfish's lips moved, his voice a faint whisper.

"Brother... I'm so sorry..."

The words were faint, a dying breath carried on the smoke. Aegon's eyes widened, his skin prickling. The Blackfish's final words echoed in his mind, haunting, accusing.

Aegon turned away, his vision blurring. He mounted Mystic, the dragon's body shifting beneath him, powerful wings spreading. The flames still raged below, the town reduced to rubble and ash.

But even as they rose into the sky, the smoke curling around them, the words followed him, a shadow he could not escape.

"Brother... I'm so sorry..."

Arthur

The air was suffocating, heavy with smoke and the acrid stench of burning flesh, as Arthur led them through the twisting passages beneath the Stoney Sept. Above, flames devoured wood and stone alike, their roaring echoes blending with the tortured wails of the dying. Arthur's heart pounded, his senses sharp with fear and urgency. He counted each face—Rhaenys, Ashara, Arya, Bran, and Edric Dayne—all alive, for now.

They stumbled into a damp, shadowy cellar, the cool stone walls muffling the chaos outside. Arthur slammed the door shut behind them, bracing his back against the rough wood, his chest heaving as he fought to steady his breath.

The silence was shattered by Arya's voice, raw and trembling with fury. "Look at what your brother did! He burned them all!" Her grey eyes blazed as she fixed her glare on Rhaenys, hatred twisting her young features.

Rhaenys stood motionless, her face pale and drawn, but her eyes were cold, unflinching.

Edric's voice broke the heavy tension, tinged with panic.

"I saw Princess Daenerys escorted to safety. We have to go back for her!"

"No." Arthur's voice was firm, his tone unyielding. The

command in his voice stopped them all cold, faces turning toward him, eyes wide with confusion.

"What?" Bran's voice wavered, his young face pale.

Arthur's gaze moved to Ashara, who stood apart from the others, her face grim and resigned. Her dark eyes met his, understanding passing between them. She gave him a small nod, her jaw set.

Arthur took a breath, his shoulders heavy with the weight of what he had to say. "You all died," he said, his voice hollow.

Silence crashed down on them, broken only by the distant roar of flames. Edric staggered back, his face paling. Arya's mouth fell open, disbelief twisting her features. Bran took a step away, his eyes wide with fear and confusion.

"What... what are you talking about?" Bran's voice was small, trembling.

Arthur looked at each of them, his heart aching. "You all died in the fire, except for Bran and me. We tried to retrieve Princess Rhaenys... but she perished in the very flames her brother unleashed, taking the life of her and Jon's child within her."

Arya's face shattered, her body trembling. Bran's mouth moved soundlessly, his eyes dark with shock.

Only Ashara remained unmoved, her eyes locked on Rhaenys, who stood frozen, her face blank.

Arya found her voice first, weak and breaking. "Jon's child? You're... you're carrying Jon's child?"

Rhaenys's lips trembled, her face twisting in pain. She nodded, tears shimmering in her dark eyes.

Bran's voice was choked, his face pale with dawning horror. "That would mean... both you and Daenerys... both of you carry Jon's seed." His eyes widened, the realization dawning.

Ashara's voice was sharp, cutting through the silence. "Which is why the Red Woman must not get her hands on Rhaenys. I believe they mean to sacrifice her and her child to bring Jon back."

The words fell like a curse, cold and heavy. Edric's face went white. Arya's eyes flared with anger and fear. "She can't! Jon's child is in her!"

"It doesn't matter," Arthur said, his voice hard as iron. "They will do anything to bring Jon back, even if it means sacrificing his own blood. It's evil... Rhaegar would never approve." He looked at Rhaenys, her shoulders shaking, her face a mask of despair. "If Jon is meant to return, if he is to save the world, there must be another way."

His gaze turned to Bran. "I still intend to bring back Rhaegar's son—without the sacrifice of his daughter and grandchild. Do you?"

Bran's eyes flickered with fear but then hardened with resolve. He nodded. "I do."

"So do I!" Arya's voice was fierce, her face set in defiance. "If there's a chance to bring Jon back... I want to be there."

Arthur's face softened. "Brandon has power, as do you. If both of you leave to resurrect Jon, who stays to protect his child growing within Rhaenys?"

Arya's mouth opened, then closed, her face torn. "I don't... I don't want to leave Bran."

Bran placed a hand on her shoulder, his eyes dark and solemn. "This is the only way to make things right. This is what Jon would want. Please, Arya."

Arya looked at her brother, her eyes glistening with tears. She swallowed, her jaw clenched. "You better bring Jon back, you stupid wolf."

Bran's face softened, a glimmer of a smile. "I will."

She threw herself at him, arms wrapping tight around his shoulders. He held her close, eyes squeezed shut, his shoulders shaking. They stayed like that, tangled in each other's arms, two children caught in the cruel games of kings and gods.

Arthur looked away, his heart aching, his thoughts dark and heavy. If Jon were to return, it would be at a price none of them were ready to pay.

Arthur stepped up to Edric, his hand firm on his nephew's shoulder. His voice was steady, filled with quiet pride. "Your father would be proud of you—just as I am now. Protect Rhaenys with everything you have. Do you understand?"

Edric's eyes shone with determination as he nodded. "I will, Uncle. I swear it."

Ashara approached, her lips curving into a sad smile. "Off to play the hero again, aren't you?"

Arthur managed a faint chuckle. "This time, it's for Jon... and for everything he stood for."

Her gaze softened, worry etching lines into her face. She lowered her voice, her words trembling. "Do you truly believe you can bring him back?"

Arthur's eyes grew distant, flickering with memories. "Jon's defied death before. When Lyanna died bringing him into this world, everyone thought Rhaegar's hope had died with her. But Jon returned—on dragonback—when his father needed him most. If he could do that, then he can return once more... to save us all." He revealed the hilt of Dawn, the ancient blade gleaming faintly in the dim light. "If it means giving my life in Old Valyria, then so be it. I would gladly die to see him rise again. I won't fail Rhaegar again."

Ashara's face crumpled, her composure shattering. "Don't say that. You must come back to me... Promise me, Arthur. Promise me you'll return."

His hand found her cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear as he smiled sadly. "I must go to Old Valyria for him. I can't make promises I'm not sure I can keep. But I promise this—I will do everything in my power to bring Jon back. I will show no mercy to any who try to stop me. I will fight until my last breath to fulfill Rhaegar's dream. That is all."

A sob escaped Ashara as she collapsed into his embrace, her arms tightening around him. Her tears soaked into his tunic as he held her close, his chin resting on her head, his heart heavy with the weight of all they stood to lose.

Arthur's legs burned as he climbed the crumbling steps, Bran heavy in his arms. The boy's eyes were open, wide and hollow, his face pale beneath a mask of soot. He was silent, his body limp, shock wrapping him in its cold embrace. Summer followed close, his fur matted with ash, his head low, a growl rumbling deep in his chest.

Behind them, the Stoney Sept burned, flames clawing at the sky, black smoke curling sun was dim, veiled by smoke, its light pale and sickly. He saw them then—Daenerys, her silver hair tangled, eyes wide with hope and fear; Melisandre and Thoros, their faces solemn; Beric, his gaze heavy with sorrow; Theon, his shoulders tense, face pale; Grenn, Pyp, and Satin, standing guard, blood and soot streaking their faces; the last of the Silent Flames, silent and grim.

But Arthur only had eyes for Daenerys.

As Arthur repeated the lie he had created in his head to the princess, Dany's face crumbled.

---

Arthur: Next chapter...Chapter 38: Maegor Targaryen, Second Of His Name