"What is there for me in Westeros but death?"
―Tyrion Lannister
…
Rhaenyra Targaryen stood by the high windows of the Sea-Dragon Tower, gazing out over a churning grey sea. Dawn had barely touched the sky, yet every corridor of Dragonstone thrummed with footsteps and anxious whispers. The small council had gathered in the antechamber behind her—lords of old houses, captains of her fleet, and a handful of trusted advisers. They spoke of supply lines, alliances, and future hopes. None of it came easy. Since Daemon's departure for Rook's Rest, the castle had felt as though it were balanced on a knife's edge.
She turned away from the window. The painted table in the council chamber, carved in the shape of Westeros, sat strewn with parchment, half-unfurled maps, and ravens' scrolls. She could see the worry etched into every face, but she forced herself to stand tall. A queen does not bow to dread.
"My lords," she said calmly, "we must consider fresh entreaties. The Stormlands are bled and the smaller houses hesitate to show support in light of this. There is no quick victory on the mainland—"
Before she could finish, the heavy door slammed open. A breathless squire burst inside, face sallow with panic. "Your Grace… Prince Lucerys has—he's returned—he's in a state—"
The words coalesced in Rhaenyra's mind like shards of glass. Beside her, Jacaerys stiffened. "Luke? Here?" he blurted. "But that's impossible. He flew with Daemon—"
Rhaenyra's heart thudded. Daemon was at Rook's Rest, with Caraxes to bolster their defenses. He had insisted Lucerys accompany him. Why would Luke have returned alone?
In the echoing silence, she exchanged a glance with Jacaerys. Neither spoke. They didn't need to. A chill gripped her spine.
"Show me," she said, voice tightening.
…
They found Lucerys in the lower courtyard, near the stables where Arrax stood panting, wings drooping in exhaustion. Dragonkeepers hovered uncertainly, looking like they feared the dragon might snap at them in its distress. Luke himself was on his knees, trembling so violently that one of the guards was trying to cradle his shoulders to keep him from collapsing. His hair was plastered to his brow, sweat dripped along his temples, and his breaths came in frantic gulps.
Rhaenyra hurried forward. "Luke. Luke!" She knelt, ignoring the dampness soaking through her skirts. Jacaerys dropped to one knee beside her.
Lucerys's eyes were wide and wild—filled with tears, fear, and something worse. Guilt, perhaps, or heartbreak. He clung to Rhaenyra's arms as though she were the last bit of solid ground in a storm-lashed sea.
"Mother—" he rasped, voice hoarse. "I—I had to—Daemon said—Arrax—Caraxes—"
His words devolved into a strained wheeze, and he doubled over, gasping. Jacaerys gripped his shoulder. "Breathe, Luke. Slow."
But Luke only shook his head, fresh panic flooding his features. "They—they killed him. I couldn't—there was no time—Daemon told me to go. He told me to flee! I—I left him, Mother. I left him behind—"
The boy collapsed forward, sobbing. Rhaenyra froze. She could hear Jacaerys suck in a sharp breath. She felt her own breath catch in her chest. For a moment, the courtyard seemed to waver around her—like she was looking through a haze of smoke. Daemon…
Dead?
Jacaerys slid an arm around Luke, blinking rapidly as if to ward off tears of his own. Rhaenyra drew a shaking breath, forcing herself to speak low and calm.
"You've done well to return, Lucerys. You did as your father and commander bade you. Now, hush… hush." She stroked the side of his head, brushing damp hair from his eyes. "Tell me everything. Slowly. From the beginning."
…
For a time, Lucerys could only cling to her and Jacaerys, trembling. Then, in fitful bursts, words tumbled out: the parley. Aemond's impossible demands. Daemon's dismissal. The pursuit that followed and the one-sided brawl that came after.
"Caraxes crashed in the shallows." His voice quivered with the memory, eyes distant. "Near the shoreline. He was screaming. I've never heard a dragon scream like that, Mother—" Luke broke off, shuddering.
Rhaenyra's nails bit into her palms so hard she felt the sting of blood. She forced her face into stillness, for Lucerys's sake. Daemon, dead. The thought threatened to steal the air from her lungs. No. I must be steadfast. For them.
She nodded and, with all the authority she could muster, said, "Go to Gerardys. He'll give you a draught to help your nerves." She cupped Lucerys's chin, making him meet her gaze. "You did right by Daemon. He wanted you safe. Understand?" He nodded through tears, too tired to argue. Guilt radiated from him, but exhaustion was winning. "Jace, take him inside. Make sure the maester sees to him."
Jacaerys helped Luke to his feet. They stumbled toward the keep. Rhaenyra watched them go, her heart thudding so heavily she felt faint. Only when they were gone did she let her composure crack, just for a moment—her lips trembling in a silent curse. Daemon…
No.
No.
…
For two days, Rhaenyra waited. At times, she felt like a statue in the courtyard, scanning the sky for ravens. News came in fragments. One messenger said the Greens had begun in earnest their siege upon Rook's Rest. Another swore that a man was flown to the Green's camp in shackles, that Daemon might still be breathing. The same fool also spoke of hatchlings crawling down from Vhagar's back. Still, hope—thin, foolish and desperate—flared in Rhaenyra's breast. Please, gods… let him live.
She thought of the labyrinth of scorpions and fortifications Daemon had prepared at Rook's Rest. He had been so confident that if Caraxes forced even one of the Greens' dragons down, the fortress's archers and hidden war-engines could bring it to ruin. But the next day's ravens told a darker tale: confusion and panic in the defenders' ranks; the mercenaries of the free companies laying down arms; Lord Staunton betrayed by their hired swords. Rook's Rest had fallen. Simon Staunton was taken prisoner. Of Daemon's fate, there was no mention.
Rhaenyra read the letter in her bedchamber, candlelight flickering across her pale features. She read it once more, then a third time, hoping something might change. But the words remained stark. She shut her eyes. This is how the war ends. With betrayal and a hush, not a roar of victory.
Jacaerys appeared at the door, voice laced with dread. "Mother…?"
She handed him the scroll without a word. He read and blanched, shoulders sagging under the weight of the final blow. "Then… what do we do?"
Rhaenyra gazed at the flame on the bedside candle, remembering the time Daemon had spoken of the war that had just then begun—fiery, certain of victory. Now I alone must decide. She straightened her back. "We do what we must to survive."
…
At once, she convened a midnight council in the Great Hall of Dragonstone. The men gathered with taut faces and hushed voices. Rhaenyra spoke clearly, making sure each syllable cut through their shock.
"We are outnumbered and outflown," she said. "We have dragons left, but not enough to meet the Greens on open ground. Our allies are scattered; our fields are bare. We cannot hold Dragonstone if they come with all their might."
A ripple of dismay. One or two lords protested—"We cannot abandon Westeros, my queen!"—but she silenced them with a glance.
"If we remain," she said coolly, "we will be butchered—our cause ended in a single stroke. Yet if we flee across the sea, we can rebuild. Gather coin, armies, mercenaries. We can strike again. Or at least stay alive. This is not a surrender. It is merely a necessary retreat."
Slowly, the lords bowed their heads. They knew the truth. The war was all but lost for now.
Rhaenyra continued: "Our fleet remains anchored about Dragonstone. Half have Braavosi or Pentoshi captains, men who have known us well now. They will ferry my loyalists to Essos—Pentos, Braavos. Where any friend to my claim might harbor us."
She turned to Lord Celtigar, the old man with watery eyes. "See to it. Inform the captains. They are to depart at once with our men and await my command in the Eastern ports."
He bowed. "Yes, Your Grace."
"That done," said Rhaenyra, "we do likewise." She glanced at Jacaerys, who stood with fists clenched at her side. "We take what remains of our dragons—Syrax, Vermax, Arrax, Tyraxes, Morning—and fly to Braavos. The Iron Bank supports my cause and have invested a lot in me. Perhaps they will continue to do so… or we can negotiate something new."
No one spoke. A hush fell, heavy and bitter. Rhaenyra realized her nails were digging into the table's edge. So this is how queenship can taste—in the moment of defeat.
…
Just before daybreak, in the midst of frantic preparations, another panic erupted in the courtyard. One of the serving women rushed up to Rhaenyra, breath hitching in her throat. "Your Grace—Princess Rhaena—she's gone!"
Rhaenyra's head snapped up. "Gone? Where?"
"I—I don't know, Your Grace. She's not in her chamber. No one's seen her since the bells tolled an hour past midnight. And… Morning is missing as well."
For a moment, Rhaenyra could not process the words. Rhaena, so young, with only that fledgling dragon—where would she go? Fear lashed her. What if she tried to find Daemon? Or Baela? Gods, no…
She grabbed the woman's arm. "Spread the word. Search the castle towers, the beaches, every hidden cove. Find her! Now!"
The serving woman curtsied in terror, stumbling away to relay the order. Rhaenyra's mind whirled. First Daemon lost, now Rhaena vanishes in the night.
Yet precious time was slipping away. The Greens might already be en route. Vhagar could be on them by midday, a monstrous shadow devouring the sky. Rhaenyra pressed her lips together, praying to every god that Rhaena simply wandered the cliffs in a moment of reckless youth. I cannot lose another. I will not.
Tension coiled around every rampart and courtyard of Dragonstone, the sense that doom was coming. The dawn sky lightened by the minute, each ray of sunlight a warning bell in Rhaenyra's mind. Hurry—before it's too late.
Alas, Rhaena did not appear.
And soon, Rhaenyra would have to choose—risk everyone by delaying, or leave the girl behind to an uncertain fate. She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing down the horror of that thought.
✥✥✥
Rhaena awakened to the jarring roll of waves against the hull. A salty wind stung her cheeks; when she tried to sit upright, a sharp ache pulsed through her temples, as though she'd been struck or drugged. Overhead, a pallid sky stretched across endless water, a stark reminder that she was far from Dragonstone's black cliffs.
She blinked groggily, and found herself on a small sloop—a cramped deck, its timbers worn by years of hard voyages. Sails slapped in a restless breeze. Three men in faded cloaks manned ropes or tended the rudder. They scarcely spared her a glance, but their presence immediately set her nerves aflame.
At her feet sat a small iron cage. Inside, her dragon, Morning, let out a plaintive hiss, pressing her pale snout to the bars. Even more panic lanced through Rhaena. Her last memory was pacing Dragonstone's outer battlements, restless with worry for her family—then an arm around her neck, a gag of cloth. Her vision had dimmed.
She struggled to her feet, gripping the side of the sloop for balance. "Who are you?" she demanded, voice shaky but braver than she felt. "What have you done with me? Where are we going?"
One of the men, tall and gaunt with a greying beard, turned from the rudder and stared at her for a long moment before speaking. "We are the Vezarys' Speakers, Princess." he said, as though that explained everything. "Please remain calm."
Rhaena's mind spun—she had never heard that name. A pirate crew? Mercenaries? She glanced at Morning, searching for some way to pry open the cage. Her dragon scratched at the bars, annoyed.
"What is this?" Rhaena asked again, breath hitching. "Why am I here? Who sent you?"
The man with the grey beard said simply, "We have been instructed to deliver you to your sister and your grandsire, Princess Rhaena. There is no need to panic. Again, I would implore you to remain calm."
Her heart stuttered, confused hope flaring, only to wither as she remembered that they had been taken to King's Landing. That Prince Aemond holds them captive.
A chill that had nothing to do with the ocean air swept through Rhaena.
Her captors offered no further explanation, returning to their tasks. One man coiled a rope, the other silently checked the rigging. Only the grey-bearded man glanced her way.
A tremor passed through Rhaena's limbs. She tried to steady herself. "I… I demand you free me at once," she said, a note of desperation creeping into her voice.
"We do as our master bids," the man said calmly. No anger. No malice. Just an emptiness that scared her even more.
At her feet, Morning let out a distressed keen. Rhaena sank to her knees, pressing her fingers through the cage's bars in futile comfort. The ocean stretched in every direction; no land, no ship of rescue. She fought back tears.
Mother will come, she muttered. She has to.
In the distance, thunderheads gathered on the horizon. Or perhaps it was only Rhaena's dread, taking shape in the brooding sky.