The Red Keep was finally restored, and just as Rhaena had hoped, it was grander than it had ever been before. It had taken fifteen years since the day King's Landing fell, but all the work and patience were well rewarded. The city itself had taken on a new life, with clean streets, decent housing and marketplaces bursting with trade, and craftsmen working their skills to provide steady income. The city was thriving, and so were the rest of the kingdoms. Gone were the sorrows of the past, the scars made by war and bloodshed steadily healing as spring brought forth new life and a promise for a long, good summer. Winter was over. The crown was stable, the treasury full to the point of bursting, the people were well fed, and all were happy. The legacies of those who had fought in the Great War steadily began to step out from their parents' shadows and take up their mantles. Children were born year after year, and as Rhaena sat back and listened to shouts and laughter filling the squire yard and heard the giggles of ladies gossiping as they watched the boys fight out of sight, Rhaena smiled to herself, the book in her lap long since abandoned.

Sansa was with her, sewing a new gown for her daughter who was to see her tenth nameday very soon, working flowers and birds into the fabric with colourful threads. She and Dickon had conceived a great brood of children since their marriage, their number now reaching six. Loving children as much as she did, Sansa was always yearning to have more, and Dickon, who was so utterly in love with his wife, was more than happy to provide them. If Rhaena knew Sansa as she did, then she suspected that there was another little Tarly on its way. It seemed they hardly put the cradle away before it was needed once again. Herself, Rhaena only had Daenon. He was more than enough for her, and although would not have minded more children, did not actively seek them as Sansa did. Ilyan was often away at sea, and although when together they were exceedingly active in their endeavours to conceive another child, none was yet to arrive. Perhaps Rhaena was unable to bear anymore children. Perhaps it was simply the will of the gods. Either way, Daenon had kept her hands full well enough as it was. He was as keen and intelligent as ever she could have imagined, and although he did not love books as his mother did, learned well simply by listening and very rarely forgot something after being told once.

Between Ser Jaime and Bronn, he had become a champion swordfighter, winning his first list this very year at eleven, winning his spurs from King Bran himself. It had been a proud moment for Rhaena, watching her son rise from a squire to a knight, all solemn and serious until he had turned away then grinned cheerfully to her. She remembered laughing at the sight. Daenon the Demon, they called him, both for his prowess with weaponry and because the adults still remembered the terror he had been as a child. It suited him, in a sense, but Daenon possessed a golden heart with more kindness in him than Rhaena would have thought possible. When it concerned the other children, he was especially protective, and often defended the younger, smaller ones from the elders. One time, Daenon had struck a fellow squire so fiercely with his wooden sword that it had broken the lad's nose. The father had come angrily storming towards Rhaena, demanding that an apology be made and that her son be punished. Summoning Daenon as well as the boy in question, Rhaena had the truth out of them within moments. Daenon never had reason to fear his mother, but she could be frightening when she wanted to be, and the boy he had struck was soon sobbing and admitting that he had been beating one of the younger boys behind the Master at Arms' back. Turning, Rhaena had balled her fist and punched the father on the nose with so much force, his nose had broken too. "Perhaps now you will learn to teach your son properly. Begone, before I truly lose my temper." Bleeding, the lordling had escaped with his son, dragging him by the arm.

Pride. Pride was all she felt whenever she thought of her son, and Rhaena hoped that he would continue to grow as he had. Although she feared that the Targaryen madness might overtake him, he never once displayed a shred of cruelty. Harshness perhaps, but never cruelty. He saw the children he had been raised with as his siblings, and cherished them all dearly. Joanna and Rosana doted upon him, Joanna and Daenon in particular being as close as brother and sister since their mother and father were so often together. Jaime remained to this day Rhaena's sworn knight, and had proven a number of times that a lack of hand did not mean he was useless. The scar of his face was proof enough, taking a sword to his cheek when he had thrown himself in front of Rhaena when the bandits and outlaws they had been hunting set upon them. The winter had driven them under, but when spring returned, they had risen from their hibernation and terrorised the Kingsroad and east. Bran had ordered them to be dealt with, and Rhaena had gone with Jaime in order to uproot them alongside Randyll Tarly.

With their parents as close as they were, it was understandable that Daenon would look upon Joanna as his sister, and often chased away squires and young men who attempted to woo her. She was the heir to Casterly Rock after her uncle, should he never have children of his own. Jaime had refused the inheritance even after being dissolved of his oaths in the Kingsguard. He passed it to his brother, Tyrion, knowing that he wanted it far more than he did. Jaime was content to remain forevermore in Rhaena's service, living and dying at her side as he lived each day making amends for his many past sins. Duty aside, Jaime had grown used to life this way, and could not imagine it any other way. Here he could see his daughter grow in fairness and beauty. Soon enough he will have to contend with suitors, something that left a bitter taste in his mouth. It was difficult enough with Myrcella all the way in Dorne with his number of grandchildren still increasing. He did not know how he was to manage another man stepping in and sweeping her away. Rhaena often laughed whenever the discussion of betrothals arose, amused by Jaime's expression. Hopefully, such worries were not for some years yet at least.

Time was still passing, and with each year, the children continued to make names for themselves. Some as knights, some as scholars, and some as elegant beauties of whom many a song was spun. When Daenon reached manhood, he took to the seas as his father had with a mission to seek out and find more dragon eggs wherever he could find them, and rid the seas of raiders and pirates as they had swelled too great numbers, large enough to strike fear into every port city in both Westeros and Essos. There he became known as a demon for another reason entirely. No pirate was safe one they were in view of Daenon's black sails and three headed dragon crest. His ship, Dragon's Wrath, became widely feared across the Narrow Sea and all the way to the south, in the Summer Sea, the Gulf of Grief and the Jade Sea. He sent word back when he could, but it was some years before he returned to land once more. When Rhaena saw him, she wept. He was taller than her, broad shouldered and strong from his time at sea, hauling ropes and pulling oars. His curling hair was longer, touching his shoulders which he tied back from his face, but he was still her boy. He had shaved to make himself presentable for his mother, donning a grey silk shirt fastened with the triple dragon broach that was a staple of their house whilst carrying a chest containing three dragon eggs that he had found. When he smiled to her, it was warm and unchanged from that boyish grin he had turned to her the moment he received his knighthood.

Rhaena had taken him into her arms and thanked the gods he had returned safely. With him he had stories of his own to share and had even crossed paths with his father several times. They had fought, then parted ways much as Rhaena had done in the past when Ilyan raided her waters. It made her laugh brightly, wiping tears from her face before ushering Daenon to continue. He truly was a man of fire, sea and air, just as Bran had foretold. In the time that he had been gone, Drogon had returned from his own travels and upon meeting Daenon, had bonded with him instantly. Now they flew through the skies, and no one could defeat them. The dragon eggs he entrusted to his mother's care and she kept them upon Dragonstone, warming them in braziers but not hatching them. It was too soon for more dragons. She thought of the three eggs Daenerys had received upon her wedding to Khal Drogo, remembering how she had described them. These there were different. One was a deep sapphire with veins of silver and gold. Another was an intense red with black accents dusting the scales. The last seemed to be made of solid gold and weighed just as much. The eggs would remain safely in Rhaena's keeping until such a time came that they might be hatched, writing in her personal record that, according to her beloved sister Daenerys, hatching a dragon requires fire and a blood sacrifice to awaken the dragon within. Putting away the record, Rhaena had smiled before putting the eggs to the back of her mind.

As the summer continued, a guest arrived from the north, all the way beyond the Wall. When Rhaena had first seen him, she had thought it had been Jon himself, only younger and leaner. It was not Jon, but rather, his son. When the young man turned, Rhaena had recognised him to be Jeormon. Having travelled from his village, Jeormon rather bashfully requested he be allowed to train to be a knight. Rhaena welcomed him with open arms and introduced him to the court proudly as Jeormon Targaryen, son of Jon Snow, and that he would henceforth be a member of her household. To those who did not know Jon's true heritage, they thought it a strange decision of Rhaena's, but reasoned to themselves that she and Jon had always been close and that, to give his son an honourable name rather than a bastard's name, had adopted him so that he would be known as a Targaryen. Rhaena allowed them to think what they liked; she did not care for the thoughts of sheep.

Beyond the Wall, Jon had eventually taken a wife of the North, and together had two children. As well as Jeormon, he had a younger sister named Daena, named for both Daenerys and Rhaena. Jon promised that he would bring his daughter south soon, and so Rhaena prepared for their visit in great anticipation. The Unsullied had lessened their hatred for Jon over the years, and now that their loyalty belonged entirely to Rhaena, would not make any complaint to Jon Snow as her guest. It would be a private visit, they could not proclaim it to the world, but it was enough to Rhaena that Jon would finally come back from his exile and perhaps decide to make his home in Winterfell, or somewhere he felt he could plant deeper roots. More than likely, however, Jon would return beyond the Wall to Tormund's village, Rhaena suspected. It was where he seemed to belong, as she belonged on Dragonstone where she grew older and older.

As Ilyan promised, he returned from the sea ready to draw up his sails for good, presenting himself at court as a wealthy man from one of the Free Cities, and soon after, he was wed to Rhaena Targaryen. Very few knew him to be the Pirate King, and only in later years would the truth ever be recorded. Their lives were a happy one, and with their son Daenon, they watched him with pride as he fought battles, protected innocents, scoured the seas and ruled the skies upon Drogon. Rhaegal remained devoted to Rhaena, crooning to her in her waning years and carrying her through the skies where she felt true freedom. Had it truly been so long? Thinking back, Rhaena realised that she had not noticed the years passing. Two more winters had come and gone, the seasons seeming to equate themselves gradually which of course, gave every maester alive ample reason to research the realm's changing patterns. Rheana was old, now. Although her magic kept her bones from aching, she could still feel it. As she had once promised, Sansa's hair was now as white as hers, and although their faces had lost their youthful firmness, given way to wrinkles and lines, the echo of their beauty still remained in their features.

Their children were all grown and married, with children of their own. So many years. It had gone by too quickly. Rheana thought back, recollecting all that had happened. As he had promised, Sandor had returned from the west with his wife and brood, taking up his seat and there he too was now an old man. Rhaena had visited from time to time and although he was not welcoming host, he did not mind her presence so long as she did not overstay her welcome. Very much like Sandor, she had laughed each time his wife had berated him for not being a better host to his guests. Arya, however, had only recently returned. She had decided that she wanted to live the last years of her life in the land she knew and loved, to die in the north and be buried there with Nymeria. She bore no children of her own, but according to Jon's letters, doted on her nieces, nephews and their children too. Rheana was glad she was home. It would have troubled her to think of Arya passing away in a foreign land, far away from her family. Thinking of family, she considered her own grandchildren.

Daenon had married Sansa's second daughter, Melara, whom he had loved since childhood though he had hidden it well. They had such beautiful children together, and Rhaena liked nothing better than when she sat them upon her lap and told them stories and sang them lullabies. They were her blood, gazing at her with lilac and amethyst eyes as she stroked their silver-white hair. House Targaryen would continue, creating a new chapter where they would no longer be subject to the blood curse which ended in madness. Her days were peaceful, though as it was when people aged, the waning years of her life were measured with grief. One by one she lost those she loved, sinking her deeper into grief and agony. Jaime died with a sword in his hand, as perhaps he would have wanted, defending his daughter from a self-made lord who had attempted to kidnap her and claim her title for his own. He had an entire army at his back, paid for from Essos, however he had not anticipated a golden handed man to give him such trouble. Jaime perished, but only after holding their position long enough to allow Rhaena and Daenon time to fly to his aid upon Rhaegal and Drogon. They set fire to the enemy, and the lord was duly captured then executed. Jaime's last sight was of Rhaegal landing over him, Rhaena screaming his name whilst flinging herself to the ground to run to him. He died just as she pulled him into her arms, smiling as he did so.

Neither she nor Tyrion were quite the same after Jaime's death. Worse still when Tyrion himself passed away an old, withered man beyond years counting when sickness took hold and would not relent. At least his end was peaceful, and Rhaena had been beside him, fingers wrapped around his to warm his aged bones and soothe his hurts. Her mind has broken then, and it was many weeks before she had recovered enough sense to recognise those around her. Her son cherished her tenderly, tending to her during her fits as his father had before he had also passed. His father's death had sent Rhaena into a steep decline, grieving and mourning for years thereafter, and only when he placed her first grandchild into her arms had she risen slightly from those dark depths. A little light returned to her, and held out for as long as she could keep up the strength to maintain it. Even as everyone seemed to die around her from age and sickness, Rhaena continued to live on. Her fire burned continuously, until only she and Bran remained of those they had known since their childhoods. As the Three-Eyed Raven, Bran would continue to live for several generations, and so after reigning as king for sixty years, had abdicated his crown. Both he and Rhaena oversaw the gathering of the Great Houses to name the next king or queen. The vote continued for days, almost for an entire fortnight until finally, after all the names had been considered, a name was chosen after others had refused to have their name considered, Daenon included. He, like his mother, had no interest in ruling. He preferred his freedoms.

And so, the next ruler of Westeros was named. All hail Joanna the Fair, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Lady of the Six Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. It was ironic to Rhaena that Cersei's own daughter would one day be named queen by the choice of the lords and ladies of Westeros, but then Rhaena reasoned that Joanna was much more her own daughter than Cersei's. She was confident Joanna would rule well. One would be hard pressed to find a heart that was kinder or a head that was wiser. Her reign was a peaceful one, and once she was settled into her seat, Bran withdrew from the world. He intended to return to the far North, where he would wait for the next Three Eyed-Raven to find him. Rhaena begged him not to go, but it was time. Even as she wept with her head upon his lap, Bran had stroked her hair and listened quietly to her weeping. She could not go with him, not when her family were here, and he would not wish her to either. Her life was not meant to conjoin with his. It was time they parted, sorrowful as it was. So once the ship was prepared, Bran sailed upon it, and it was like one more person had died in Rhaena's life. Now she was alone. Sansa, Arya, Robb, Rickon, Bran, Varys, Ilyan, Sam, Gilly, Jaime, Tyrion, all of them were gone, and only Rhaena remained.

And she continued to live, for many, many years now until she was as withered as the Crone. Still her fire burned, though it had dimmed greatly, finally losing the last of its strength. Nearing a hundred and seventeen years of age, Rhaena Targaryen felt the last embers of her internal fire burn. In her last days, she had summoned the current serving grandmaester to Dragonstone, and there conveyed to him the hidden truths she had kept secret for all this time, so that the annuls could be amended one last time. A Song of Ice and Fire would tell the truth of the kings and queen she had killed, the sacrifices she had made, and the shames she had hidden. It did not matter now. Her life was ending. It was important that the future generations would know the truth, so that they would not misinterpret events, or remember Jon as a murderer and traitor. The grandmaester listened and wrote in continuing shock until finally, the ancient woman before him, who had once been the beauty of the continent, dismissed him, having nothing more to say. She sighed then, deeply. Her son entered after the grandmaester had left. He too was aged, seventy years over. Through dim eyes, Rhaena looked at him and remembered him when she had first laid eyes upon him, pink and squealing, struggling to wriggle free of his swaddling. She smiled as he took her hand, softly calling to her. He was Prince of Dragonstone and the bearer of Whitefyre, and his children would bear the title after him. Rhaena hoped that the legacy she had left him was enough for him to be as proud of her as she was of him.

"Mother? Is there anything I can bring you?"

"Rhaegal." Croaking weakly, there was only one thing other than her son and grandchildren Rhaena wanted. "Please…take me to Rhaegal." Answering her request, Daenon wrapped his mother lovingly in thick furs before placing her upon the wheelchair that she now required in order to move anywhere. Her legs no longer supported her own weight, and after a fall some years ago, she had never recovered her strength in them. Daenon took her out of the castle and all the way to the cliffs to where their dragons nested. It was known as Dragon's Outlook, and when ships passed, they would often see the colossal forms of two dragons watching them warily. Sensing their rider-kin arriving, both Drogon and Rhaegal lifted their heads. Rhaegal chittered and lowered his face to his beloved Rhaena, sensing the light within her diminishing. Feeling his hot breath and the brush of his face against her as he carefully laid his head down, Rhaena pressed her hands to his face and stroked at his scales and horns until he rumbled like a purr. Drogon crooned softly, lifting his wings as if to block the winds from rattling against the ancient Targaryen as she basked in their presence. The fire began to flicker. "My son…" Hearing her call to him, Daenon immediately moved closer and took up her hand.

"Yes mother?" Although hardly able to see, Rhaena could still envision every shape, line and contour of her beloved son's face. As she pressed a hand to his face, she smiled to him lovingly.

"My beloved child…you are my pride and joy." Brushing at his hair, Rhaena coiled one of the loose curls around her finger, likening him to his father as she continued to croak and whisper, her voice long since having lost its smooth and rich quality. "You are a dragon of House Targaryen…and you are better than your ancestors. Your mind is clear. It shall not bend to madness as mine has. As my sister's. As our father's…you are our new beginning, and I am so proud, so proud…this mad mother of yours loves you more than all the world, dearest son." As she listened, Rhaena heard her son beginning to break with swelling emotion, feeling a hot tear roll down his face and upon her withered hand. Once upon a time, her hands had been so strong. No longer. They, like the rest of her, were now weak and feeble. "Weep for me, if you must, but do not grieve long. Love your wife and your children, and their children, and their children after them. Watch them grow and branch, for all the wealth and power in the world means nothing without family to love and cherish." Nodding his head whilst weeping, Daenon promised he would do as she asked. "My sweet boy…it is my time. I am not long for this world, but I shall leave it as I have lived. On my own terms." Trembling, Daenon reached forwards in order to kiss his mother's cheek, leaving a damp mark upon her skin from his tears.

Then, with a nod to Rhaegal and Drogon, Daenon forced himself to stride away to a safe distance, choking back his desire to sob as he then turned and looked back to his mother, small and frail, hunched in her rolling chair. Her hands were stretched outwards, petting Rhaegal and Drogon in turn as they made the low rumbling sound from deep within their chests they made whenever they sought to comfort their kin. Rhaena breathed deeply and closed her eyes. The fire within her was growing cold, her body now began to ache all over from age and weariness. She thought back, reflecting upon her life. All her sorrows and hardships, her joys and achievements…they were part of her, and in some way, she was grateful for Cersei and Robert shaping her into the woman she had become. Without their cruelty, she would never have learned how to survive, and protect others in survival either. They had forged her into what she became, a dragon of fire and blood. A dragon does not fear death. Rather, they welcomed it with a roar. Another breath. Rhaena thought of the multitude of loved ones who were now gone. She thought of Eddard and Catelyn Stark, of Ser Barristan, of her sister Daenerys, of Jon and Robb, Sansa and Arya, Bran and Rickon, Bronn and Sam, Jaime and Tyrion…Tyrion…she hoped there was a life after death, a hall of the gods where she might see them all again. If any of them for any reason had been sent to Seven Hells…then she would storm the gates and demand their return, or plunge it into an even deeper hell than where it already existed. She smiled to herself. The last flame flickered. It was time. Releasing her final breath, Rhaena sensed Rhaegal and Drogon as they unfurled their wings and prepared for what they knew was coming. Utterly at peace, Rhaena gave the word.

"Dracrys."

…