Rhaenyra sat alone in her chambers, the flickering candlelight casting dancing shadows upon the stone walls. Her thoughts drifted, consumed by the weight of her responsibilities as the rightful heir to the Iron Throne.
Suddenly, the heavy wooden door creaked open, and Rhaenyra looked up to see Daemon standing in the doorway, his expression etched with worry and urgency. Without a word, he strode across the room and approached her, a crumpled piece of parchment clutched tightly in his hand.
"Message from Dragonstone," he announced, his voice low and strained. Rhaenyra furrowed her brow in confusion as she accepted the parchment from him, her fingers trembling slightly as she unfurled it.
The words written on the parchment sent a chill down her spine, her heart sinking with each passing moment. She read the message in silence, her eyes scanning the ink-stained lines as the truth of its contents settled upon her like a heavy cloak.
"𝑴𝒚 𝑫𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝑴𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓,
𝑾𝒆 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒓𝒈𝒆𝒅 𝒗𝒊𝒄𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒐𝒖𝒔 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒍𝒂𝒖𝒏𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒅 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑵𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒐𝒘 𝑺𝒆𝒂, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒊𝒕 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒎𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒆 𝒐𝒃𝒋𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒍𝒂𝒚 𝒆𝒍𝒔𝒆𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆. 𝑾𝒉𝒊𝒍𝒆 𝑳𝒖𝒄𝒆𝒓𝒚𝒔 𝒂𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒅 𝑱𝒐𝒇𝒇𝒓𝒆𝒚 𝒊𝒏 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑨𝒓𝒓𝒂𝒙 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑻𝒚𝒓𝒂𝒙𝒆𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒃𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆, 𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒄𝒌 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒘𝒊𝒇𝒕𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒂 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒅𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒆.
𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑫𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒐𝒏𝒎𝒐𝒏𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒆𝒏𝒈𝒖𝒍𝒇𝒆𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝒇𝒍𝒂𝒎𝒆𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒂 𝒎𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔, 𝒄𝒍𝒂𝒊𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒊𝒕𝒔 𝒇𝒊𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒆. 𝑳𝒖𝒄𝒆𝒓𝒚𝒔, 𝑱𝒐𝒇𝒇𝒓𝒆𝒚, 𝑻𝒚𝒓𝒂𝒙𝒆𝒔, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒘𝒐 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒆𝒆 𝒉𝒂𝒕𝒄𝒉𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒉𝒆𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒍𝒂𝒛𝒆, 𝒂𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝑫𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒐𝒏 𝑲𝒆𝒆𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒔. 𝑨𝒓𝒓𝒂𝒙 𝒔𝒖𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒅 𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒊𝒏𝒋𝒖𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒅𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒐𝒏𝒔 𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑫𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒐𝒏𝒎𝒐𝒏𝒕 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒅 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏 𝒊𝒕𝒔 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒔.
𝑰𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒐𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒆𝒏𝒔𝒖𝒆𝒅, 𝒕𝒘𝒐 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒐𝒏𝒔 𝒇𝒍𝒆𝒅 𝑫𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒏𝒆, 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒔𝒑𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒔 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒌𝒆𝒏 𝒃𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒆𝒗𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏. 𝑽𝒆𝒓𝒎𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓 𝒉𝒂𝒔 𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝑲𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝑳𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈, 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒍𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑪𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒊𝒃𝒂𝒍 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒖𝒏𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘𝒏, 𝒊𝒕𝒔 𝒂𝒃𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒂 𝒉𝒂𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒆𝒅𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒉𝒂𝒔 𝒃𝒆𝒇𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒏 𝒖𝒔."
Rhaenyra's hands trembled as the parchment slipped from her grasp, the weight of the news crashing down upon her like a tidal wave. Tears welled in her eyes, blurring the ink-stained words before her. Daemon moved to her side, his presence a comforting anchor in the storm of her emotions. He took her hand in his, offering silent solace as they faced the harsh reality together.
Anger and sorrow threatened to consume Rhaenyra, a tempest of grief and rage swirling within her. But she refused to succumb to the darkness that beckoned, drawing strength from the life growing within her. Unlike in her past life, she would not allow her emotions to endanger her unborn child.
With a determined resolve, Rhaenyra turned to Daemon, her voice steady despite the turmoil raging within her. "Fly with me," she said, her words a whispered command laced with determination.
Together, they took to the skies atop their mighty dragons, Caraxes and Syrax, the beating of their wings a symphony of defiance against the cruel hand fate had dealt them. They soared above Harrenhal, the ancient castle looming below, its shadowy spires a testament to the tragedies of the past.
As they circled the fortress, Rhaenyra felt a sense of clarity wash over her, the cool wind whipping through her hair a balm to her weary soul. With each passing moment, the anger and sadness that threatened to consume her began to ebb away, replaced by a newfound sense of purpose.
For though the road ahead was fraught with peril and uncertainty, Rhaenyra knew that she would not face it alone. With Daemon by her side and their dragons at their command, they would rise from the ashes of tragedy, their spirits unyielding in the face of adversity.
As they continued to fly, Rhaenyra's heart swelled with determination, her gaze fixed on the horizon ahead. For she was the true heir to the Iron Throne, and nothing would stand in her way as she fought to claim her birthright.
Together, they would defy the odds, their bond unbreakable, their legacy enduring. And as they soared through the skies, Rhaenyra knew that their journey was far from over, but with each passing moment, they grew stronger, united in their quest for justice and redemption.
And so, beneath the watchful gaze of the gods, they flew on, their destinies intertwined in the tapestry of fate, their hearts ablaze with the fire of a thousand suns.
Addam of Hull sat upon the rugged cliffs of Claw Isle, his weary gaze fixed upon the form of his beloved dragon, Seasmoke, who lay beside him, his massive frame battered and bruised from the recent battle. Men stood watchful guard around them, their eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of danger.
With a heavy heart, Addam reached out a trembling hand to caress Seasmoke's scaled head, the touch a silent reassurance of their unbreakable bond. The dragon stirred beneath his touch, a low rumble of pain escaping his throat as he met Addam's gaze with weary eyes.
Addam attempted a smile, but fear gnawed at his insides, casting a shadow over his features. Seasmoke's presence was a comfort, yet a reminder of the peril they faced.
Suddenly, a roar echoed through the skies, and Addam looked up to see Nettles, astride her dragon Sheepstealer, descending gracefully to the beach below. Guards hastened to greet them, but Nettles quickly made her way to Addam and Seasmoke, her expression grave yet resolute.
As she settled beside them, Addam's heart clenched with anxiety, his voice trembling as "Who won?" he asked. Nettles nodded solemnly, her eyes reflecting the weight of their recent struggles.
Addam couldn't contain his fear any longer, his voice choked with emotion as he expressed his concern for Seasmoke's well-being. But Nettles laid a gentle hand upon his shoulder, her touch a calming presence amidst the storm of his fears.
"Don't worry, Addam," she said softly, her words a soothing balm to his troubled soul. "Seasmoke's wounds are serious, but he will recover. You did not send him to an early death."
Addam's shoulders sagged with relief, a heavy burden lifted from his heart at her words. But his relief was short-lived as Nettles spoke of another tragedy unfolding far away on Dragonstone.
With wide eyes, Addam sat up, his mind racing with worry and dread. "What happened?" he asked, his voice urgent with concern.
But Nettles shook her head, her expression pained yet determined. "You need to rest, Addam," she insisted, her voice firm yet gentle. "All will be revealed in time."
And with that, Nettles settled beside Addam and Seasmoke, her presence a beacon of hope amidst the darkness that threatened to engulf them. Together, they would weather the storm that lay ahead, their bonds of friendship and loyalty stronger than any foe they faced.
In the heart of King's Landing, amidst the flickering torchlight and the echoes of revelry, a small celebration unfolded. Aegon, the mastermind behind the cunning scheme, stood tall and proud, his voice ringing out above the clamor of the crowd.
He revealed his perfect plan, a web of deception and manipulation woven with precision. By diverting the forces of the Blacks away from Dragonstone, the assassins he had dispatched were able to slip through the defenses unnoticed. Aegon's admission sent a ripple of shock through the gathering, his words painting a picture of treachery and deceit.
As Aegon spoke, Alicent, his ever-loyal wife, cast her gaze downward, her expression a mask of conflicted emotions. The victory they had achieved came at a heavy cost, and the weight of their actions lay heavy upon her conscience.
"The Blacks may believe they have won the battle of the Gullet," Aegon declared, his voice laced with smug satisfaction, "but we have emerged triumphant in the shadows, where victory is won through cunning and guile."
Aemond, sat on the table, his eyes clouded with shame and regret. His thoughts were a tumultuous whirlwind of conflicting emotions, his mind wrestling with the truth of their victory.
But before he could voice his doubts, his sister Halaena spoke the words that lingered unspoken in his mind. "By cheating." she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper yet cutting through the silence like a dagger.
Aemond's jaw tightened, his gaze averted, unable to meet his sister's accusing stare. Shame burned within him, a bitter reminder of the lengths to which they had gone to secure their victory.
In that moment, amidst the revelry and the cheers of triumph, Aemond found himself consumed by a sense of hollow victory. For he knew that true glory could never be achieved through deceit and deception, and the stain of their actions would forever tarnish the legacy of House Targaryen.
And so, as the celebration continued into the night, Aemond grappled with the harsh reality of their victory, his heart heavy with the weight of their king's doings.
In the midst of the jubilant celebration, cheers echoed throughout the streets of King's Landing, mingling with the sounds of revelry and merriment. But amidst the joyous cacophony, a somber note of horror pierced the air.
A group of men emerged from the crowd, carrying a grisly trophy aloft for all to see—a dragon skull, weathered and worn with age. Alicent's eyes widened in horror as she recognized the unmistakable features of the young dragon, Tyraxes. The sight sent a chill down her spine, her heart heavy with sorrow and remorse.
While the common folk cheered louder, their voices raised in triumph at the sight of their fallen foe, Aegon's court stood in stunned silence. Shame hung heavy in the air, a tangible presence that weighed upon them like a shroud.
Aegon's closest advisors and allies averted their eyes, unable to meet his gaze. Their faces were etched with guilt and shame, their hearts heavy with the knowledge of the dark deeds they had committed in the name of victory.
But Aegon stood tall amidst the crowd, his expression unreadable as he basked in the adulation of his subjects. Though the cheers of the common folk drowned out the whispers of doubt and dissent, Aegon could not escape the weight of their collective shame.
And so, as the celebration continued into the night, the echoes of victory mingled with the shadows of regret, casting a pall over the festivities. For even in their moment of triumph, the cost of their victory was steep, and the stain of their actions would linger long after the revelry had faded into memory.
Rhaenyra's heart weighed heavy with sorrow as she guided Syrax back to Dragonstone, the tears still glistening in her eyes. She circled the island fortress thrice, searching for a safe place to land amidst the devastation wrought by the wildfire.
The once majestic Dragonmont lay in ruins, its charred remnants serving as a grim reminder of the horrors that had unfolded. Rhaenyra's gaze swept over the dragons gathered below, their weary forms a testament to the trials they had endured.
As she descended, Rhaenyra could see the Maesters hurrying to move the precious dragon eggs to safety, their faces drawn with worry as they worked to prevent further catastrophe.
Arrax, her sons loyal companion, stood amidst the chaos, his once-proud form marred by the scars of battle. His wings were burned, his horns cracked, and his scales bearing the unmistakable marks of fire. It was a sight unlike anything Rhaenyra had ever seen in Westeros, a grim testament to the horrors of war.
Beside him stood Jacaerys, Rhaena, and Baela, their faces etched with concern as they rushed to greet their mother. They enveloped her in a tight embrace, their words of comfort a soothing balm to her wounded soul.
But their moment of respite was short-lived, shattered by the sudden arrival of Meleys, who landed nearby with a grace born of centuries of flight. Rhaenyra turned to her son, her expression grave as she met his gaze. Another court meeting loomed on the horizon.
Rhaenyra sat upon her chair at the head of the table, her gaze distant as the lords bickered around her, each vying for their own version of vengeance against the Greens. The room reverberated with the echoes of their heated arguments, but Rhaenyra's mind remained elsewhere, her thoughts consumed by the safety of her dragons and the weight of her grief.
"Please, I beg you my Lord's. Abandon Dragonstone. If Aegon could destroy the Dragonmont with such ease without trouble-" Lord Celtigar tried proposing.
"That is because our armies weren't here. But they are now, we don't have to leave and be cowards in-" Said Lord Corlys.
"Forgive me my Lord's but what about my castle, the Greens have control over it, my home and I want it back." Lord Massey cut though them.
"And the resources here is dwindling faster and faster the more Lord's you bring here." Lord Bar Emmon tried speaking for Lord Massey. "Driftmark's army are here in Dragonstone, if resources are what you seek, you can move your army there."
Lord Corlys said, temporarily stopping the Lord's from demanding more. "But what a out the dragons? There home is destroyed, and it is no longer safe here for them." Rhaena interrupted.
"And what do you propose, Princess? That we move them to Claw Isle. There is no home for them there not anywhere." Lord Staunton asked.
"Driftmark." Baela interrupted. "Driftmark has no Dragonpit." Lord Staunton tried defending himself. "No but it's dragon caves." Baela said. "Yet how do you expect us to move the untamed dragons there?" Lord Celtigar said.
But as the lords resumed their arguments, their voices rising once more in a cacophony of discord, Rhaenyra remained lost in her thoughts, her heart heavy with the burden of leadership in the face of adversity.
Suddenly, the heavy oak doors of the chamber swung open, and Ser Lorent, one of Rhaenyra's most trusted advisors, strode into the room with purpose. In his hand, he carried a sealed letter, its contents known only to the sender and recipient.
Rhaenyra's heart skipped a beat as Ser Lorent approached her, the weight of his presence palpable in the tense atmosphere of the chamber. Without a word, he extended the letter to her, his expression unreadable beneath his stoic facade.
Taking the letter with trembling hands, Rhaenyra felt a surge of emotion welling up inside her. As she attempted to read the words penned by her beloved husband, Daemon, her vision blurred with tears, and her thoughts were consumed by a maelstrom of grief and anger.
With a heavy sigh, Rhaenyra rose from her seat, her voice cutting through the din of the chamber like a knife. "The council meeting is over," she declared, her tone firm and resolute despite the tremor in her voice.
Her announcement hung heavy in the air, silencing the room as the lords exchanged uneasy glances. Sensing the weight of her emotions, they offered no protest, their own concerns momentarily forgotten in the face of their queen's turmoil.
As Rhaenyra turned to leave, the letter clutched tightly in her hand, she felt the weight of her responsibilities pressing down upon her like a leaden cloak. But amidst the darkness that threatened to engulf her, she found solace in the knowledge that she was not alone.
With the support of her loyal subjects and the love of her family, Rhaenyra knew that she would find the strength to face whatever trials lay ahead. And as she stepped out into the corridors of Dragonstone, her heart heavy yet her spirit unbroken, she resolved to confront the challenges of the future with unwavering resolve.
As Rhaenyra retreated to the solitude of her chambers, a sense of weariness settled upon her like a heavy cloak. With each step, the weight of her grief and anger seemed to grow heavier, threatening to crush her beneath its burden.
Upon reaching the sanctuary of her chamber, Rhaenyra made her way to the window, drawn by the sight of the sunset painting the sky in hues of gold and crimson. Outside, three majestic dragons soared gracefully through the air, their forms silhouetted against the fading light. Meleys, Vermax, and Moondancer, their wings catching the last rays of sunlight as they circled the island fortress, a silent vigil over their queen and her kingdom.
Rhaenyra watched them with a mixture of awe and sadness, her heart heavy with the weight of their shared losses. The message from Daemon lay untouched beside her, its contents a bitter reminder of the trials that lay ahead.
But before she could dwell on its contents any further, the silence of her chambers was shattered by the voice of one of her handmaids. "Your Grace," the maid said, her voice soft yet insistent, "the cooks wish to know what you want for dinner."
Rhaenyra shook her head, a weariness seeping into her bones. "Thank you," she replied, her voice heavy with exhaustion, "but I don't feel like eating tonight."
The maid bowed respectfully and withdrew, leaving Rhaenyra alone once more with her thoughts. With a heavy sigh, she set the message from Daemon aside, her mind too weary to decipher its contents.
Instead, she turned her attention to preparing for rest, shedding the weight of the day's burdens as she readied herself for the respite of sleep. And as she settled beneath the covers, the echoes of dragons' cries fading into the distance, Rhaenyra found a fleeting moment of peace amidst the turmoil that engulfed her world.
Rhaenyra's heart pounded in her chest as she awoke abruptly from her troubled sleep, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Disoriented and shaken, she found herself in unfamiliar surroundings, the walls of her chamber in Kings Landing looming ominously around her.
Without hesitation, she rushed outside, her mind racing with fear and confusion. But instead of finding herself in the clutches of Aegon, she encountered Lord Caswell, alive and well—or so she thought. As she approached him, her hand outstretched in desperation, he passed through her as though she were nothing more than a specter, leaving her feeling cold and hollow.
Frantically, she made her way to the throne room, only to find herself no longer pregnant, the weight of her unborn child's absence a crushing blow to her already fragile psyche. Her stress mounting, she fled further into the depths of the keep, each twist and turn leading her further into the labyrinth of her own nightmares.
Finally, she found herself in the Dragonpit, the ancient stones bearing witness to her torment. As she turned to flee, she was confronted by the sight of Dreamfyre, her jaws gaping wide in a silent scream as she devoured Rhaenyra whole.
But just as suddenly as she had been consumed, Rhaenyra found herself back in Kings Landing, confronted by the haunting image of her sister, Halaena, cradling a lifeless child in her arms. Halaena's plea for help echoed in Rhaenyra's ears, but before she could reach out, her sister vanished before her eyes.
As she staggered toward the window, the sound of a roar echoed through the chamber, the black dragon, the Cannibal, looming ominously on the horizon. With a deafening crash, the tower began to crumble around her, sending her plummeting to her doom.
But just as she braced herself for impact, Rhaenyra found herself back in the Dragonpit, confronted once more by Vermithor and a mysterious figure with silver hair. Her confusion mounting, she reached out to touch the dragon, only to be confronted by the sudden appearance of her own dragon, Syrax.
With a sense of urgency driving her, Rhaenyra mounted Syrax and took to the skies, determined to unravel the mysteries of her twisted dream. But as she soared above the clouds, she found herself transformed, her body no longer her own as she inhabited the form of Aemond.
And then, with a roar that shook her to her core, Caraxes appeared before her, his flames consuming her in a blaze of searing agony.
With a gasp, Rhaenyra awoke, drenched in sweat and trembling, the echoes of her nightmare still ringing in her ears. It had all been just a dream—a twisted, nightmarish fantasy born of her deepest fears and darkest desires.
Note: If you're wondering why it took so long for me to write such a short chapter, my reason is: laziness. Now I named this "The Spoils of War" as a nod to Game Of Thrones, when Dany burned the Lannister army so a nod to the future Targaryen's, because Rhaenyra is a Targaryen who is from the future, sort of.