Dragonstone.
Night.
Inside the sept of the Dragonstone castle, Rhaenyra knelt before the statues of the Seven.
She was not praying.
She was simply kneeling.
Two black iron caskets rested beside her knees.
Candlelight flickered before the Seven, casting an unsteady glow across the face of the Mother.
Rhaenyra's gaze fell to the Mother's feet—where a line was carved:
[She listens to all sorrow.]
Listens to all sorrow.
Rhaenyra let out a bleak, hollow laugh.
Her most beloved son.
Her heir.
Her pride.
Joffrey.
Joffrey was only ten—devoured alive in a single bite by a dragon…
Rhaenyra closed her eyes.
She could hear her own heartbeat—slow, heavy. Hatred flowed in her blood, endless, unextinguished.
Soft footsteps came from outside.
The door opened quietly.
She did not turn.
"Your Grace," a maid said cautiously, "a messenger from Rook's Rest has arrived."
Rhaenyra did not move.
The maid waited a moment. In the candlelight, the queen sat unmoving—like a statue.
She quietly withdrew.
After a while—Rhaenyra opened her eyes.
She looked down at the two black iron caskets.
On each lid was engraved a name:
Jacaerys Velaryon.
Joffrey Velaryon.
Velaryon.
Rhaenyra reached out, her fingertips brushing the cold lid.
That chill spread from her fingers, through her veins, into her heart.
She remembered when little Jace was young, always pestering her: "Mother, why is my name Velaryon, not Targaryen?"
What had she answered then?
"Because you will be the future lord of Driftmark, the heir to your grandsire, the Sea Snake."
Little Jace blinked. "Then… will I be a dragonrider?"
"Yes." She had smiled and kissed his forehead. "You will be a dragonrider."
Rhaenyra's fingers curled, gripping the lid.
"Jace," she whispered.
No one answered.
"Joffrey."
Silence filled the sept.
She remembered what Rhaenys had once told her:
"Men would sooner see the realm burned than a woman sit the Iron Throne."
Perhaps… she had been wrong from the start.
Perhaps she should never have fought for the throne in Jacaerys's name…
Perhaps none of this would have happened.
"Mother will avenge you."
Her hand rested on the cold casket.
"I swear it."
The words rolled from between her lips.
She rose.
Her knees had gone numb. She staggered slightly, bracing herself against the statue's base.
The wood was cold.
She looked up.
The Seven gazed down at her.
The Mother's face was serene—and distant.
The hollow eyes of the statue were deep, candlelight flickering within them—merciful, or perhaps pitying.
Rhaenyra stared into those hollow eyes.
Suddenly, she remembered—
That night, years ago, after her mother, Aemma Arryn, died.
She had knelt just like this, looking up at the Mother.
She had been eight.
Eight years old, kneeling, praying over and over—for her mother to return, for her father to stop grieving, for her newborn brother to live.
She had prayed all night.
And then?
Her mother never returned.
Her brother lived only a day—and died.
Her father shut himself away, seeing no one.
After that, ten-year-old Rhaenyra Targaryen was summoned before Viserys I Targaryen and told she would be heir to the Iron Throne.
Rhaenyra looked at the Mother.
"Did you bless my mother?" she asked.
No answer.
"Did you bless my son?"
The candles burned in silence.
"You are nothing."
Her voice was soft—barely more than a whisper.
"False gods."
The Mother remained silent.
Rhaenyra drew her gaze away.
She turned and walked toward the door.
As she passed the threshold, she saw the maid standing there.
The young girl kept her head lowered, her shoulders trembling.
The maid looked up, her eyes red. "Your Grace."
Rhaenyra did not stop.
"Send word. Summon the small council."
...
Inside the great hall of Dragonstone.
Lava flowed beneath the painted table, casting the chamber in a red glow.
The great map of the Seven Kingdoms was carved across its surface—every castle, river, and forest from the North to Dorne.
After the Targaryens came to Dragonstone, their ancestors had commissioned this table.
Rhaenyra stepped onto the dais.
A maid approached, carrying the crown.
The Valyrian steel crown of Viserys I Targaryen—seven-sided.
The maid tried to place it upon her head, but Rhaenyra took it herself and put it on.
It was light.
But it felt unbearably heavy.
She turned to face the hall.
Corlys Velaryon already stood at her left.
The old man's back was still straight, as if he stood once more at the prow of a ship facing a storm.
His gaze remained calm, unfathomable—like the sea.
Rhaenys Targaryen stood at her right.
Rider of the Red Queen, Meleys—the Queen Who Never Was.
Her once-dark hair had turned gray, but her violet eyes still seemed to burn.
She looked at Rhaenyra and gave a slight nod.
The lords of Dragonstone stood in ranks across the hall.
They wore their house colors—some bearing sigils, others unadorned.
Rhaenyra recognized every face.
House Celtigar. House Massey. House Bar Emmon…
Many had sworn to her in her father's reign.
They still stood with her now.
A maid stepped forward and cleared her throat: "Rhaenyra Targaryen, Queen by her name—Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms."
Her voice echoed through the hall.
All present bowed their heads.
Rhaenyra did not speak.
She looked at the messenger kneeling in the hall.
A courier from Rook's Rest.
He was a young man, dressed in gray leather armor, kneeling on the ground, his face drawn with urgency.
He lifted his head, looking toward the queen on the dais. His lips moved, but no sound came out.
"My loyal man, speak," Queen Rhaenyra said, looking at him.
The messenger drew in a breath and spoke in a rush.
"Your Grace! Lord Staunton says the Green host has already begun its advance from the direction of Antlers."
"In three days, their army will reach Rook's Rest."
"The kinslayer—Aemond—and his dragon… those two beasts."
"They have been circling above Rook's Rest these past days, harrying us, spewing flame."
"More than a hundred have already been burned to death…"
"My lord begs Your Grace for reinforcements—at once!"
When he finished, the hall fell silent.
Rhaenyra looked at him.
The young man knelt there, hands braced against the floor, his forehead pressed to the stone.
His back trembled slightly—not from fear, but from exhaustion. He must have ridden all the way from Rook's Rest with barely any rest.
"What is your name?" Rhaenyra asked.
The messenger raised his head. "Sam, Your Grace. Squire to Lord Staunton."
"Sam," Rhaenyra said, "you have done well. Take him away and let him rest."
Sam froze. "Your Grace—but the reinforcements…"
"I will send reinforcements," Rhaenyra said. "What you need now is rest."
Sam opened his mouth, as if to say more, then lowered his head. "Yes… Your Grace."
Two guards stepped forward, helped him up, and led him out of the hall.
The great doors closed.
Rhaenyra turned toward the painted table.
She descended from the dais and walked to it.
The lords parted to make way.
She stood before the map, looking down at the position of Rook's Rest—at the northeastern edge of the Crownlands, at the mouth of the Crackclaw Point peninsula, not far from Dragonstone.
By dragonback, less than two hours.
Her finger lightly tapped the place, then she looked at the gathered lords.
"This battle—we must meet it."
She lifted her head, sweeping her gaze across the hall.
"Lord Staunton could have done as other lords of the Crownlands have done—bend the knee to Aegon II, give hostages, and preserve his lands."
"But he did not. He chose to honor the oath he once swore—to me."
Her voice was not loud, yet every word was clear.
"A lord such as that—I will not leave him to face the Greens' wrath alone."
The lords exchanged glances. Some nodded. Others remained silent.
Rhaenyra turned to her right.
"Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, what say you?"
Rhaenys did not answer at once.
She lowered her gaze to the map, to Rook's Rest.
"This battle," she said slowly, "even if we cannot kill Aemond—so long as we can wound him grievously and hold Rook's Rest, it will send a message to the whole Crownlands."
She raised her head and looked at Rhaenyra.
"That we have the strength to protect those who are loyal to us."
"When that happens, the other lords of the Crownlands will understand—the Greens are not the only choice."
Rhaenyra nodded.
The best outcome—kill Aemond, break this host, and hold Rook's Rest.
If all of that could be achieved, how would the Greens fight them then?
Aegon and Sunfyre were too young. Daeron and Tessarion as well.
Helaena and Dreamfyre had never seen battle.
Only Aemond was different.
Rider of two dragons. Even the Bronze Fury, Vermithor, had nearly died by his hand.
That battle above Dragonstone, against the bastard riders, had already proven his gift with dragons.
As long as Aemond was slain—
"Your Grace."
Rhaenys lifted her head.
"Let me take Meleys to war."
Her words fell—and the hall went still.
Corlys stood nearby, looking at his wife.
He did not speak.
His gaze rested on Rhaenys's face.
He had looked upon that face for forty-five years. He knew every line upon it.
Yet in that moment, it felt as though he were seeing her for the first time.
There was something burning in her eyes.
He had seen it before.
Forty years ago—when she first mounted Meleys.
It had burned like this.
Rhaenyra looked at Rhaenys.
"My lady," she said, "this battle is too dangerous…"
Rhaenys shook her head.
"I do not ask you as a princess, nor as a lady."
She paused.
"I ask you as a grandmother."
"My son died in lies and schemes."
"My grandson died by Aemond's hand."
"My husband's House Velaryon—its century of glory has been cast into flame."
"And my kin now slaughter one another…"
She lowered her head.
"This is a vengeance I must see done with my own hands."
Rhaenyra looked at her for a long moment.
"Very well."
She turned to Corlys.
"Lord Corlys."
Corlys inclined his head.
"You will take the fleet to Crackclaw Bay. If the Green fleet dares sail north to reinforce them—I want them all sunk to the bottom of the sea."
Corlys lowered his head.
"As you command."
But his gaze never left Rhaenys.
Rhaenys did not look at him.
She only lowered her head, gently touching the ring upon her finger.
Inside the band, the words carved there—she knew them by heart:
[Fire and blood. Sea and sky.]
She had carved them herself, long ago.
With pride, Rhaenys lifted her head.
"Then… I should make ready."
She turned and walked toward the doors.
Corlys remained where he stood.
He looked at the door.
That heavy oak door, carved with the Valyrian words of House Targaryen—
[Fire and Blood.]
He did not call out to her.
Not once in his life had he ever called her back.
After a long while—
He spoke softly: "Rhaenys."
She could no longer hear him.
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