I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.
https://www.patréon.com/emperordragon
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Chapter 91: The Longest Night
The chamber was quiet save for the gentle crackle of the fire and the slow, steady breaths of the direwolf stretched out beside her. Rhaella Targaryen sat on a cushioned chair near the hearth, her hands slowly running through Ghost's thick, snow-white fur. Ghost's red eyes, reminiscent of the weirwood trees, reflected the firelight, offering a silent companionship that Rhaella had come to cherish. His warmth was a comfort, a living presence in a room that felt far too empty.
She had been there for hours now—ever since Daeron had left with Ser Arthur and Ser Barristan to slip into the city and right into the Renly's den. The very thought of it made her stomach twist, but she had not begged him to stay. She now knows him better than that.
Rhaella had not even attempted to go to her own bedchamber. Sleep was an illusion, a far-off dream that held no meaning on a night like this. How could a mother—or grandmother—close her eyes knowing her blood was walking willingly into danger?
She looked down at Ghost. The great white beast, quiet and alert, had not left her side. Daeron's wolf, bound to him by a connection Rhaella could only begin to understand, was her only company in the lonely hours of waiting. She stroked him again, grateful for the comfort he provided, the steady presence in a world that felt ready to collapse.
"It is always the waiting that kills us," she murmured to no one. "Never the moment itself. The waiting slowly steals the breath from your lungs."
She did not let herself weep. She was a Targaryen—born of dragons. But even dragons feel fear when it is their kin who walk into fire.
Ghost suddenly lifted his head.
Ghost stirred. His ears perked, and his glowing red eyes sharpened, alert. Rhaella watched him, sensing the change. A low rumble started in his throat—not a growl of warning, but something else. Rhaella sat straighter in her chair, her heart suddenly pounding.
"What is it?" she whispered, as if he could answer.
Ghost rose swiftly, muscles tensing, tail swaying with anticipation. He turned to the door, then bolted from the chamber without a sound. Rhaella stood, her body moving before her mind caught up. She knew. Somehow, she knew.
Her boots whispered across the stone floor as she followed Ghost down the halls of Castle Stokeworth, her night cloak trailing behind her like a shadow. The halls were quiet, the few torches lit casting long lines of flickering gold across the darkened stone. They made their way through the corridors, the castle stood peacefully silent in the late hour.
She reached the courtyard moments after Ghost. The wolf stood at attention, tail swishing, eyes fixed on the gate.
Rhaella's breath caught in her throat.
Then the gate slowly creaked open.
Slowly, steadily, three riders came into view—Daeron at the front, tall and silent, his face shadowed beneath his hood. Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Barristan Selmy followed just behind, and behind them came a small wagon covered with a simple cloth.
Ghost huffed once—a sound that was half joy, half greeting—and rushed forward, his paws thudding against the stone.
Daeron dismounted with practiced ease, just as Ghost leapt up, placing his massive paws on the young king's shoulders. Daeron laughed softly, wrapping his arms around the direwolf's neck in a warm embrace. The reunion between man and direwolf was brief but filled with mutual joy.
Rhaella approached, her eyes scanning Daeron for any signs of injury. She could feel the tension bleeding out of her chest with every step she took toward them. She stood there for a moment in the courtyard, letting herself breathe again as she saw her grandson—whole, safe, and smiling.
He turned to her as Ghost stepped aside, and Rhaella didn't hesitate. She crossed the remaining distance, her hands reaching up to cup Daeron's face.
"You're all right," she said, more to herself than to him.
"I'm great," he replied, his voice calm and warm. "No scratches. I promise."
She looked into his eyes, searching for any trace of pain or weariness. Finding none, she gave him a small, tired smile.
"Well," she said, letting her hands fall, "did you get what you wanted out of this foolish endeavor?"
Daeron grinned. "Not just Renly," he said. "We got Loras Tyrell too."
Rhaella blinked, then gave a slow nod of approval. "You always go beyond what you set out for. Like your father used to."
Daeron didn't reply to that—he only smiled. The name of his father still lingered like a shadow between them, but there was pride in that silence.
"Now," Rhaella said, suddenly feeling the weight of the night settling over her shoulders, "go get cleaned up. I'm going to bed before the sun rises. I've waited long enough for one night."
Daeron gave her a small bow, and Rhaella turned, her steps slow but steady as she finally made her way back inside, the weight of her worries lifted.
This time, she knew she would sleep.