Chapter 243 — We Will Be Together, Always
Provocation.
Facing the tiny human before him, Rhaego's vertical pupils narrowed into a razor-thin slit.
He couldn't understand it.
How could something so small—so fragile—dare speak to him in such a commanding tone?
He had just gained power enough to burn the world.
A low, thunderous growl rolled from his chest. Fire flared in his throat, blazing bright, illuminating Rhaella Targaryen's face.
Between his spear-like fangs, heat warped the air.
Destruction gathered.
At any moment, the dragonfire would erupt—and reduce this audacious woman to ash.
Then—
A voice cut in.
Melisandre.
Still speaking in Valyrian.
"You should think carefully."
"She is the hope of Lance Lot."
That name—
The moment it left her lips—
The flames in Rhaego's throat faltered.
The golden-red glow dimmed, choked as if by an unseen hand.
And in its place—
Fear.
Clear, unmistakable fear filled the dragon's massive eyes.
He could not forget.
That white-clad figure—
That overwhelming presence etched deep into his instincts.
"Grrr… hrr…"
A low, unwilling rumble escaped him.
And before everyone's disbelieving eyes—
The once-raging, destructive beast slowly lowered his proud head.
His warm breath washed over the ground, stirring Rhaella's hair and cloak.
The courtyard fell into absolute silence.
Only then did Rhaella loosen her clenched fists—her palms slick with cold sweat.
She drew in a sharp breath, forcing her trembling emotions back under control.
There was no time to hesitate.
No time to fear.
Lance was still out there—in that cold abyss—waiting.
Every second lost could become eternity.
Under moonlight and fading embers, the Regent Queen of the Seven Kingdoms bit down hard, stepped forward—
And seized the scales behind Rhaego's neck.
With all her strength—
Awkward, but unwavering—
She climbed onto the dragon's back.
"Fly."
The command, spoken in Valyrian, was simple—and absolute.
Rhaego threw back his head with a piercing roar.
His powerful hind legs drove into the ground—
His vast wings slammed downward—
And the world exploded into wind.
A vast shadow swept over the shaken Kingsguard below, cutting straight into the night sky—where only a swollen, pale moon hung amid suffocating clouds.
Melisandre remained where she stood, barefoot upon the cold stone. Her crimson robes whipped violently in the wind stirred by the dragon's ascent.
She tilted her head upward, watching.
The ruby at her throat pulsed wildly.
Harsh, ancient Valyrian syllables slipped from her lips—half prayer, half lament.
Then—
Crack.
The ruby shattered.
Not into dust—but into a dense stream of golden-red light.
Warm as the rising sun, it surged forward, chasing after the fleeing dragon and rider.
It touched the bronze tail—
Then spread.
Through scale.
Through flesh.
Through bone.
Man and dragon alike were wrapped in a faint, flowing veil of gold, the biting cold strangely held at bay.
Up above, Rhaella Targaryen felt the world grow distant.
Only the thunder of wings—
And her own heartbeat remained.
Then—
A voice echoed directly within her mind.
Melisandre's.
Weary. Fading.
"Rhaella Targaryen…"
"The place where Lance Lot lies… is now etched into your soul."
"He is there… between the fangs of the Abyss."
"Save him."
A pause.
As though even this effort drained her strength.
"This barrier… is my Lord's final gift."
"It will hide you and Rhaego… like sand within the desert, unseen by that god's malice."
"Remember…"
"You now carry the last light of hope in Westeros."
"The world teeters on collapse… all life sinks toward ruin…"
"Light and darkness… rest upon your shoulders."
"…Please."
The voice vanished.
Only the roar of wind remained.
Rhaella tightened her grip on the dragon's scales.
And within her mind—
A direction burned like a star.
The Sunset Sea.
Along with it… came something else.
A fragment of memory.
A story not her own.
Below—
Melisandre staggered.
She turned away at last, no longer watching the dragon's flight, and walked slowly toward the courtyard exit.
Ser Jonothor Darry watched closely.
Something felt… wrong.
Step by step—
Her straight posture bent.
Her brilliant red hair dulled.
Her skin withered.
Time devoured her.
Each step stole years.
By the time she reached the archway—
The woman of fire and mystery was gone.
In her place—
A frail, ancient figure.
Bent.
Fading.
She disappeared into the darkness.
…
Far to the west—
Beneath the Sunset Sea—
Light did not exist.
Only crushing darkness.
It pressed from every direction—seeking to break, to consume, to erase.
And there—
At the center—
Floated a lone figure.
Lance Lot.
A thin golden glow clung to his skin.
Flickering.
Fading.
The last defense against the abyss.
His eyes were closed.
His body rigid as iron.
One hand still gripped a single thing—
Dawn.
His Valyrian steel blade was gone.
Only this sword remained.
He had fought—
For how long, even he no longer knew.
Monsters with green-lit eyes surged endlessly from the dark.
Each strike.
Each defense.
Drained him further.
The sea was the Drowned God's domain.
Here—
It was everywhere.
In every current.
Every bubble.
Every whisper.
It pressed upon him.
Trying to freeze his blood.
Break his will.
Drag him into stillness.
Into oblivion.
And just as the fragile light around him began to fail—
A golden streak tore through the abyss.
A dragon.
Rhaego plunged downward like a meteor, wings straining against crushing pressure.
The golden veil around him dimmed rapidly in this place.
Barely holding.
On his back, Rhaella clung tightly.
The darkness was suffocating—
But her gaze never wavered.
Locked on that faint golden spark below.
I'm here.
You saved me every time…
Now—
It's my turn.
"Lance Lot!"
The dragon's claws tore through grasping tendrils—
And seized the glowing figure.
With a violent twist, Rhaego turned upward—
And surged for the surface.
Behind them—
Countless eyes opened.
Shapes emerged.
Guardians of the abyss.
A silent tide of horror closed in.
But—
They broke through.
The sea exploded—
And dragon and riders burst into open air.
The golden light vanished.
Rhaego collapsed upon the shore, utterly spent.
Rhaella cradled Lance's body.
Cold.
Too cold.
His face—once proud, untouchable—
Now pale as marble.
Fragile.
Her trembling fingers brushed his brow.
His eyelids.
His cheek.
Ice.
Without hesitation—
She tore open her velvet gown.
Pressed her bare body against his.
Warmth against deathly cold.
She held him tightly.
As if holding the last hope of the Seven Kingdoms.
"Live…"
Her tears fell hot against his skin.
"Lance Lot… you will live!"
But then—
The sea roared.
Voices.
Screams.
Madness.
The abyss rose again.
Endless creatures surged ashore.
Even Rhaego hesitated.
Fear—true fear—entered his eyes.
He roared, spewing fire—
But he was exhausted.
Too weak to fly.
Tentacles lashed.
Claws tore.
The dragon was overwhelmed.
Rhaella looked around.
Darkness.
Monsters.
No escape.
She looked down—
At the man in her arms.
Still unmoving.
Still cold.
Despair swallowed everything.
Is this… the end?
Then—
A memory surfaced.
Fire.
Binding.
A pact.
Her family gone.
Her husband mad and dead.
Her son still a child.
And this man—
Was all that remained.
Her eyes fell to the sword in his hand.
Dawn.
Its faint glow pulsed—
Like a dying heart.
"You are mine… Lance Lot."
"Forever."
Her voice rang clear through the chaos.
Love.
Possession.
Obsession.
Duty.
All bound together in the madness of Targaryen blood.
She took his arm—
Forced it upward—
Positioning the blade between them.
The cold steel pressed against her trembling chest.
No hesitation.
No fear.
"We will be together…"
"Forever."
Then—
She drove herself forward.
The blade pierced her heart.
A dull, terrible sound.
Blood—
Burning hot—
Erupted from her body.
Gold-red.
Like molten fire.
It poured across them both—
And in the abyssal dark—
It ignited.
The world trembled.
Something—
Awakened.
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