Chapter 51: Trial of Seven

The armor felt heavy on him, weighing him down. Jaehaerys had lost weight being bedridden after his injury - at least far more than he would've even with the cut rations. It made it hard to stand or to move without feeling faint, but he would not allow his men to see him weak.

He was a Prince and commander of the Dragonpalace's garrison. He had to be strong. "Are the battlements clear?"

Ser Marden nodded. "Aye, we drove them off once Balerion arrived over the city. The memories of the Black Dread still burn hotly in the minds of our foes."

A snort drew attention to Brandon Snow, nursing a bruise upon his head. Old wolf insisted on being an archer on the frontlines. "Would've gotten into the keep had it not been for the Bronze Fury here. Sounded the alarm."

To this Jae smiled, petting the dragon's head as he perched himself on Jae's shoulder. "Is that what they're calling you now? The Bronze Fury?"

"The men think he'll be as strong as Vhagar when he grows."

"Good boy, good Vermithor," Jae cooed, cuddling the beast. Vermithor chirped, a scene so uncharacteristic of dragons but completely wholesome. "Ser Marden, ensure that any Poor Fellow that gets within range of our bows is killed. They are not to get close again, understood?"

Marden nodded. "Yes, your Grace." Above, the black shape of Balerion began to descend. He roared, joined by a shriek from Vermithor, the little hatchling calling out to the larger dragon. "Perhaps we should accept the King, your Grace."

He steeled himself. "Make it happen."

The outer courtyard of the Dragonpalace was large enough to accommodate the bulk of the Black Dread. Several large wingbeats caused him to hover and slow, only to plop upon the ground. Jae nearly fell, but steadied himself. Watching as a figure began to scramble off the great dragon's back.

Jaehaerys' breath hitched as he laid eyes on his uncle. The man hadn't changed much - a few more lines on his face only partially hidden by his close-cropped beard, but he still put off an imposing figure. Certainly Jae had changed much more, the patch over his eye belying his failure. "Your Grace," he spoke, trying to be firm. To remain composed. "The Dragonpalace is yours."

Maegor nodded. "Thank you, Prince Jaehaerys." He took a step forward, expression sad. Jae kept his composure. "Nephew."

His composure didn't stand a chance at the single word. "Uncle…" Eyes scrunched shut, Jae launched himself into his uncle's arms. Maegor gladly opening them and embracing him tightly. "I'm sorry, uncle," he murmured, fighting tears in his remaining eye.

The King pressed a kiss to the crown of his head. "I'm sorry as well, Jae," he replied.

But Jaehaerys shook his head. Trembling. "No, I failed you, uncle."

"Failed me?" Jae watched his uncle peer down at him. "By the gods, look at what you did. You held this castle at a tender age. I'm proud of you."

"Proud?" Jaehaerys was confused, and without thinking he cupped his eyepatch. The shame burning deeply everytime he noticed his vision was crippled - and that was every waking moment of his life.

Two powerful hands clasped his shoulders. "For a warrior, nephew, a scar is just a sign that we did something worth doing. A sign of your prowess, a mark of courage." The embrace resumed, Maegor squeezing him. "You're a warrior now, nephew. Our banner remains over this keep, and that is your doing."

Jae bit his lip. "But…"

"We'll have more time to discuss this later." That was the voice of the King, not his uncle, and the Prince nodded no matter his emotional torment. "Time to break this siege."

"We tried, your Grace," said Ser Marden. "A sortie managed to bend them, but they held."

"The city population is still loyal to us, isn't it?" It was because of them that Balerion immolating the Stars and Swords would be untenable. Rhaena would never condone the massacre of their loyal smallfolk.

Brandon Snow scowled. "The people are, but they are cowed by the Warrior's Sons and Poor Fellows. They only have about eight thousand but they are well-motivated, think themselves as fighting for the Seven themselves." They would fight to the death, then. Jaehaerys was not optimistic.

However the lines deepened on his face, his uncle was of a different attitude. "Then we must break their morale. Leave them thinking the Seven have abandoned them completely."

"And how do we do that, your Grace?"

Jaehaerys watched his uncle's lips curl into a tiny smirk, eyes flashing with a fiery determination so common among their house. Grandmother Visenya had it, Rhaena had it, Aegon had it, aunt Rhaenys had it, and Maegor had it. "Ser Marden, give me a horse and a small bodyguard… and indicate to Ser Damon that I wish to meet him under a flag of truce."

"You're going to negotiate?!" Jaehaerys asked incredulously.

Maegor chuckled. "No, nephew. I'm going to fight him."

He did not trust the white banner fluttering beside him. Maegor felt the eyes boring in on him from across the city as he rode to the hill named for his muna. Roads lined with the armies of the Faith, Poor Fellows to a man but also volunteers, their eyes blazing with hate and disgust - undoubtedly viewing him as the spawn of brother and sister. He was that, but Maegor chose to embrace it.

Their stares didn't bother him. Balerion flying above gave a much greater sense of protection than the white banner.

"We're pilgrims in an unholy land," he murmured to Lord Commander Gawen Corbray, the man that had trained him on Dragonstone. Only fitting that he accompany the King.

Wrinkled brow rising, Gawen shook his head. "No, they are."

Maegor was confused, until his eyes left the hatred of the Faith's troops and focused on the buildings beyond. Hidden were the citizens of the capital, the real citizens, not the mob that cheered the murder of his brother. Their gazes were wary but filled with hope.

Hope in their King, and by extension their rightful Queen.

It brought Maegor confidence, thoughts emerging from their brooding as they made the final ride towards Visenya's Hill.

As expected, the Faith had possessed it first. A dozen banners of the seven-pointed star decorated it as compared to Maegor's one three-headed dragon. Warrior's Sons and Poor Fellows in full armor surrounded the hill in full parade order. Intimidating, but not nearly so as Balerion the Black Dread. Instead Maegor scrutinized the officials sent to receive him. Grand Captain Damon Morrigen was there, as were a few local Lords - the ones that betrayed Aenys? Maegor didn't know for sure. But there was one he certainly did recognize.

"Murmison." The former Hand of the King was in his septon's robes. Rather fancy ones too, the crystal coronet of the Most Devout upon his head. "I see that you were rewarded for your treachery."

"I… I serve the Seven," he replied.

"You served a King, and you killed him, Kingslayer." Maegor spat. "I should have Ser Gawen or Ser Marden kill you."

"Just say the word, your Grace," Marden growled. Gawen simply scowled.

"Archsepton Murmison is a member of the Most Devout and representative of His Holiness Hugor Flowers of the Holy Dominion," Ser Damon retorted. "You show your perfidy and licentiousness with your beastly conduct."

"I believe butchering the King you swore an oath to constitutes beastly conduct, Grand Captain." Maegor said, dismounting his horse. He was not afraid, and made it plain to those that so outnumbered him and his few companions - not to mention the further thousands from across King's Landing drawn to the place like moths to a flame.

Damon laughed, joined by his compatriots. "I think this is a waste of time, but I shall restate His Holiness' terms." He cleared his throat. "You may have Dragonstone, though no dragons shall be allowed upon it. The North may keep its independence…"

"How generous." Marden Karstark rolled his eyes.

"...and proclaim whatever ruler it wishes." Apparently Rhaena and Maegor being Queen and King in the North didn't bother Hugor - mayhaps he had sense among the rest, knowing the North would never bow to the Faith, though Maegor doubted the others did. "However, Moat Cailin will be handed to the Holy Dominion. No Targaryen can ever step foot inside the Holy Dominion or Dorne in perpetuity."

Already bored, Maegor yawned. "You done?" He placed a hand on Blackfyre. "Here are the terms of Queen Rhaena of House Targaryen, First of her Name."

"Putting oneself beneath a woman," Ser Lyle Bracken laughed mockingly.

"Ever been ridden by a dragon? You'd cut off your leg for the experience," Maegor shot back with a dark smirk, resolving to kill that particular Warrior's Son first. "I'll keep it pithy. You die, all of you. Especially Murmison." The poor Septon paled, while the Warrior's Sons began to redden with rage. Looking back at his men, Maegor made a split-second decision. "I know you won't accept, so allow me to make an alternate deal to spare the city further fighting."

His men were confused. "Your Grace, what are you doing?" Ser Marden asked.

"Maegor…" Gawen's words were spoken low, addressing him as a mentor would a pupil.

Maegor ignored them. "You Andals have a taste for swordsplay, so let it be judged by the gods who is their favored? You and I, Ser Damon, a trial by combat."

"Your Grace, please…"

Morrigen quirked his head. "You defy your own orders, dragonspawn… I am impressed at your boldness. A shame you lay with your niece, for you would make a fine knight, otherwise."

"Daresay I'd rather have her than a knighthood."

Ser Willam - known as 'the Wanderer' since he was a free knight within the Warrior's Sons - scoffed. "Proving your debauchery… Of course you'd seek to fight alone, since no one wishes to stand with you." He thumped his chest. "Let us up the stakes. A Trial of Seven. Seven of the gods' chosen against that of you incestuous traitors."

Was it disobedience of Ser Willam to issue the challenge? Not so, for Ser Damon ratified it. "Aye, a Trial by Seven. My best Warrior's Sons against you and your seven champions." He cracked his knuckles. "Choose."

"I stand with his Grace," proclaimed Ser Marden, stepping forward as the Master-at-Arms of the Dragonpalace.

Ser Gawen shook his head, a wary look thrown Maegor's way. "You fool," he murmured. "As do I!" Maegor smirked - before Brandon had honed his skills, Gawen had been the one to make him the powerful warrior he was today. Their loyalty to each other was unquestioned.

The Warrior's Sons were not impressed. "Two then." Ser Willam looked around. "You have two knights backing you. Not impressive for a King."

A third voice spoke up. "I'll fight for his Grace!" Young Caspar Mormont, racing from where he had been left to tend the horses. "My sword for the King and the old gods."

Maegor tried to push the boy back. "You aren't even a knight, get back." He wouldn't let Brandon's grandson risk his life. "You will go back to your father and grandfather, you fool."

"Once brought forth, his name stands even if no knight." Ser Willam left no room for argument. Maegor swore internally, but the young lad was committed to fight at the ripe age of eight and ten. "That's three to fight alongside you, your Grace." The last was quite sarcastic. "Anyone else?"

Silence reigned. Thousands watched, among the populace undoubtedly scores of knights, but no one made a sound. Maegor wouldn't stoop himself so low to beg, but the Warrior's Sons didn't have any compunction against mocking him. "Some King. Cannot even obtain more than three men to fight for him," sneered Ser Lyle. "Such is the man that allows a woman to dominate him."

"I'll fight for his Grace." All eyes fell on none other than Dick Bean, the strapping warrior bounding forward. "I've been a King's man since I was a boy. Served Aegon and Visenya and Aenys and now Rhaena and Maegor. I may die today, but if I do I mean to die a King's man." Maegor said nothing but clasping Bean's hand, squeezing it.

First he saved Rhaena from being raped, and now this. No more loyal soul than Dick Bean.

He was a knight, but none doubted his lowly origins. Bean was mocked for years as an accidental knight, and yet… it served to Maegor's benefit. "This bean shames us all!" shouted Benarr Brune, a knight in the household of Alyn Stokeworth. "Are there no true knights here? No leal men, that we must depend on Bean and Northmen?"

Dozens suddenly volunteered, and through them Maegor picked Ser Benarr and one Ser Guy Lothston. Portly as anything, but one Maegor knew was deadly with a blade. "I have my seven men, Morrigen. Let us fight."

Morrigen grinned wolfishly. "Aye, let's." Of the Warrior's Sons present, their rainbow cloaks fluttering behind their full plate, Morrigen quickly selected six. Ser Willam, humming a song as he polished his sword. Ser Lyle, a leer on his face as he looked over his opponents. Ser Harys Horpe - Death's Head Harry - as far from a chivalrous knight as possible, known for hacking down blasphemers and whores that didn't satisfy him alike with his axe. Ser Aegon Ambrose, his father and sister loyal, himself not. Ser Dickon Flowers, the bastard of Beesbury and one attracted to the call of his bastard High Septon. Lastly, Ser Garibald of the Seven Stars, dressed in armor but decorated with talismans of the Faith itself. Not surprising, since he was a Septon.

"We have our work cut out for us, your Grace," murmured Gawen as both sides gathered in two parallel lines.

"We have Valyrian steel, they don't." Maegor sounded confident, but the seven Warrior's Sons were all battle-hardened fighters. Of his own… there was a much less certain quality.

It was done, however. The wind whipping about, silence across the city, all watched with baited breath as Septon Murmison walked in between them. Horns soon blared, signaling the combat that was about to begin. "May the Father judge the right and Mother protect the fair, may the Crone share her light for wisdom and Warrior grant strength to the just. May the Smith protect the armor and the Maid grant the favor to the righteous. For this day, my lords, my ladies and the good folk of Westeros, we stand under the light of the Seven who is one to judge the legitimacy of Maegor of House Targaryen and Rhaena of House Targaryen to rule over Westeros.

"After this, Murmison, Blackfyre will sate himself on your blood," Maegor hissed, drawing his blade. Murmison hurried off as all other combatants drew theirs.

Death's Head leveled his axe, a sick grin upon his face as he did so. Ser Aegon and Garibald joined Maegor, Ser Marden, and young Caspar Mormont in eschewing a shield, the former due to his massive greatsword and the latter for maneuverability. He eyed Ser Garibald, standing next to Ser Morrigen as he began singing, sword in his right hand as he serenaded the gods. Ser Willam merely spat on the ground.

"Stay swift, lad, and don't do anything stupid," he heard Marden murmur to Caspar. The two northmen were lightly armed with only leather and some mail, but it gave them speed. Ser Guy looked in contrast like an armored turtle, a huge lump of flesh and armor plate decorated with the bat of his house. Dick Bean had a mace instead of a sword, next to Ser Benarr.

"Good luck, your Grace," Maegor heard Gawen murmur, while the King waited for the first to move.

Against Marden's advice, it was Caspar Mormont that charged first. Northern warcry on his lips, he surged at Ser Willam. The latter's blow missed, a punch sending him staggering as Caspar leapt at Ser Damon. Morrigen blocked with a shield and thrust with his sword right through the poor boy's eye.

He didn't stand a chance, Brandon Snow's poor grandson.

Ser Garibald's paean sung even louder at the first blood drawn.

A still moment of silence and shock - a pause in time, everything moving slowly as the King heard his own heart beating, hyperaware of his surroundings - before Maegor bellowed in rage, both lines surging at each other. Steel clashing on steel in the ferocious melee.

Maegor roared and fell upon Ser Aegon with a barrage of blows. The Warrior Son's greatsword was thick, shining with the blood of Ser Benarr whom he had just felled - but it faced Blackfyre itself. A blade forged in Valyria itself, the veteran of centuries of combat and still sharp and shining. Maegor sidestepped the hulking knight, slicing downward at the man's thigh. Ser Aegon bellowed and tried to thrust straight at his chest, only for Maegor to jink and twirl as an expert dancer out of the way. Blackfyre twirled in his hand as the other delivered a punch to the jaw. He almost heard the knight's jaw break.

And yet there was barely a noise when Blackfyre swung down. Sharp steel cutting through all in its path as it embedded deep into the join of Aegon's shoulder and neck. Blood spurted everywhere, the knight falling upon his knees before Maegor redoubled and swung, taking his head.

Two to go…

Maegor found no respite as, paean loud upon his lips, Ser Garibald returned to the fray and slashed with his bastard sword. The King was quick enough to avert it in spite of his own size, darting back and meeting every slash and parry.

More than half were down at that point. Ser Gawen dueled Ser Damon as Ser Dickon fell, head split open by Dick Bean's mace. The axe of Death's Head Harry found yet another notch upon Ser Marden, but the Northman that had just slayed Ser Lyle only erupted forth, surprising even the sadistic Death's Head. Ser Willam dueled fat Guy Lothsten frantically, blood soaking the top of Visenya's Hill.

Muna won't appreciate the sacrifice unless we win!

Ser Garibald still sang his paean, each note as if a grating scrape upon Maegor's ears. He had heard tales of First Men armies wilting as Andal forces charged them with a paean on their lips - he simply felt more enraged at each note. Red tinging his vision, blood thumping within his skull. Garibald swung, Maegor parried. A punch, to which Maegor answered with a knee to the hip. His body bruised and aching, skin of his knee scraping against the plate armor in a stinging pain that seemed to focus him. The knight stumbled and he seized his chance. Blackfyre tasted blood and sung, Garibald falling with a hole through his side.

A quick stab into the neck finished the job.

Until the back of Maegor's head exploded.

Agony fresh as if Balerion had slammed his tail into him, the King fell. His vision blacked out for but a split-second, dirt sucked into his mouth by frantic breaths and leaving him hacking up his own lungs. "Get up, dragonspawn!" hissed Ser Damon. Maegor couldn't move, hot blood soaking his hair. "Get up!" Maegor tried, but merely collapsed into the dirt. "Typical, weak bastard. I'll finish you off later."

Coughing, Maegor tried to push himself up but his arms close to failed, vision hazy as his mind threatened to chase the bliss of fatigue. Blackfyre rested close to him, by a miracle of the gods the twin dragon hilt hadn't been kicked away by the now sloppy Morrigen. Was he himself succumbing to his wounds, or perhaps just arrogance?

It didn't matter, for the blade was there. So close that the King could just reach out and take it if he so wished. If he had the will to do so…

"Fucking traitor!" Metal crunched on metal as Maegor turned his head. Peering, managing to see the image of Morrigen kick Ser Gawen in the chest. The great knight had been felled, blood seeping from a wound in his shoulder where a knife-blade embedded deep - the corpse of Ser Dickon Flowers lay still beside him, Gawen having given more than he had. That didn't help him against Morrigen though. "I'll let the false King watch you die before I take his head, Gawen."

There were no others. Ser Guy was dead, gut cut open with an undigested pie half-spilled out. Ser Marden was dead, his eyes staring up as his blade was still in his hands, embedded within the equally dead Death's Head Harry. Dick Bean gasped as he clenched his gut, trying to stem the flow of blood from a wound there. Morrigen could easily kill him once he dispatched the fallen Ser Gawen.

It was just him left.

An image of Rhaena filled his mind. Maegor seeing his smiling wife and beautiful son. Ceryse, her smile just as bright, eyes pleading with him to rise. Surprisingly, Tyanna too, face insistent. "Get up! Get up, you cunt!" she screamed at him.

Grunting, agony exploding through his body, Maegor nevertheless rose with Blackfyre unsteadily in hand. One push could've felled him permanently, but Morrigen's attention was elsewhere - not on the haggard last charge of the Targaryen King…

Maegor fell upon the Grand Captain of the Warrior's Sons. Morrigen shouting in surprise as the two collapsed in a heap on the ground. Maegor was on top. He slammed his armored elbow into Morrigen, hearing teeth break and crack. Another blow, and then another and another. "Die!" screamed Maegor, though he barely heard it as blackness encroached on his vision. "Die!" Hearing Balerion roar in the distance, Maegor gripped Blackfyre by the blade itself - feeling the Valyrian steel slicing through his chainmail fist and then his palm - and stabbed it into Morrigen's neck with enough force to crush his spine. Not once did he stop screaming the entire time.

Morrigen's head collapsed limply to the ground, followed by Maegor himself. He toppled to the side, on his back. Unable to hear the shouts around him, not even Balerion. He spat blood out of his mouth, vision disappearing into a veil of blackness that called sweetly to him.

Just like that, the pain was no more…

Grabbing the saddle, Rhaena mounted the horse. A sharp gust of cold wind blew across the highland plains, leaving her hair a mess of threads and curls. It was an overcast day, with much fog settled in what valleys and chasms carved through the hills and peaks surrounding the Bloody Gate. Normally she'd be warmed by the scales of Dreamfyre, but unfortunately that wasn't the case today.

"Are you sure about this, your Grace?" asked Jonquil Darke, herself mounted and holding her spear in hand as if a lance.

"There's no better plan," Jorelle Mormont replied, mace hanging from her saddle. "Lest Jonos the traitor be able to pull back through the gate."

Jorelle spoke the truth. It had been a miracle that Jonos' impatience and the vast numerical superiority of the forces called upon by the septons of the Vale drew him out of what was essentially the best defensive fortification in Westeros - both natural and man-made. Rhaena would not risk losing the chance to annihilate them.

Jonquil, ever cautious with her Queen's personage, didn't seem mollified even if she understood. "At least let Lord Royce handle this, or Jorelle?"

"It must be me," Rhaena remarked, drawing a cowl over her riding cloak. It hid Dark Sister, fastened to her belt round her waist.

Jonos Arryn hadn't given them much resistance out of Gulltown. Keeps were stocked for sieges, but Rhaena ignored them. Small forces were left to pin their garrisons, slowly sapping her strength but not the speed of her army until it had reached the Bloody Gate. Above loomed the great fortress of the Eyrie. Her grandmother had taken it before and with Dreamfyre perhaps she could to.

But the army of the Vale still existed, and in the mountains they could've remained indefinitely. No, she had to crush them, and with her own levies outnumbered, out did Jonos Arryn march - twenty-thousand to her eleven-thousand, and Dreamfyre.

Galloping, the wind even colder against her, Rhaena had to squint as she looked to her left. At the lines of infantry and cavalry anchored by the hills of the Bloody Gate. "Are they moving?" she asked Jonquil.

"Not an inch, your Grace." The two shared a grin. With Dreamfyre and the banners of House Royce remaining with the main line, her fifteen-hundred horse weren't even noticed. Jonos likely paying attention only to the dragon and her senior commander. As if they think a woman could general a battle only upon a dragon. She would make them pay for their incompetence.

Faced with a force they outnumbered two to one, drawn up in a thin single line to cover the breadth of the battlefield, that was exactly the thought of Jonos Arryn. His horsemen surged forward, followed by his infantry upon the gently sloping highland plain. A classic double envelopment, hoping to crush her wings while pinning the center. Archers, of which he had many, unleashed swarms of projectiles against her shield wall, the Royces and mostly First Men houses backing the Targaryen cause resisting stoutly.

Dreamfyre roared and took to the air at her mental command, drawing all attention. Just enough to allow her horsemen to crest a hill behind the Vale lines. "Now!"

Horns blared and drums clattered, the fifteen-hundred Valemen lining up and surging forward. A ferocious charge, Rhaena at the van in her thick armor and with Dark Sister gleaming in what sunlight made it through the clouds and fog. "The day is ours!" she shouted, raising the spirits of her men. "The day is ours, my fellow soldiers! Fire and blood awaits the traitors!"

"Fire and blood!" they shouted. Horses thundering over the field, ahead the enemy horse began to slow, noticing them.

Rhaena could see the panic. "Hit the horses' legs and thighs!" she commanded. "The only areas unarmored!" A difference between a Vale knight and one of the Stormlands or Reach, something Maegor taught her. In one sheen their lances were leveled, Rhaena's violet eyes glowing as her line made contact with the still panicking rear of the enemy knights...

The lumbering knights were caught completely by surprise. Blood soaked the grass as the terrifying shrieks of horses and men echoed for all to hear. Rhaena swung her sword, decapitating a knight before swinging it, engaging another in a duel. This one managed to parry before a lance knocked him from the saddle. Grinning, she spurred her mount, finding another target as sweat began to soak her.

In their attempts to break free from their attackers, the knights of Jonos Arryn fled to the west. Careening frantically into the ranks of their own men. The infantry buckled, attention shifting just as Dreamfyre roared and dove out of the clouds. Her flames weren't nearly that of Balerion, Vhagar, and Meraxes at the field of fire, but hundreds were incinerated as the lines collapsed before they had even made contact with Rhaena's line.

Lord Royce led the infantry and remaining horse into a charge, bellowing at the now fleeing men of Jonos Arryn. What resulted was a frightful slaughter. Only five hundred managed to make it through the Bloody Gate, Jonos Arryn included.

The rest were dead on the field, or captured. A decisive victory which Rhaena savored.

"Your Grace." Dismounting, a herald approached Jonquil with a ravenscroll. It bore the seal of… was that Tyanna's seal? A grim expression formed on Jonquil's face, to which Rhaena turned pale at.

"Jonquil, hand it over."

"I caution you…"

"I said do it!" Rhaena hissed, to which she got the scroll. Reading it quickly and finding her blood turn cold.

My love,

The siege of the Red Keep was broken. Maegor did so in a Trial by Seven. All the Faith's champions died including Ser Damon Morrigen. Three of ours survived.

Ser Gawen is wounded but conscious.

Dick Bean was wounded in the gut.

Maegor was knocked out and is in a coma. We don't know if he will wake.

Please come.

Tyanna.

She wouldn't cry, no matter how horrified she was. Not in front of her men. "He still lives," she murmured. It was all that kept Rhaena from collapsing. "Jonquil, Jorelle…"

"Yes, your Grace."

She began walking towards Dreamfyre. "Girl, we ride to King's Landing!" Turning to her guards, she dropped back to the Common Tongue. "Ensure siege lines are drawn. I want nothing getting in or out of the Eyrie until I return."

"You're leaving?!" Jorelle was incredulous. "What could the letter have said…?"

"It said plenty." Jonquil seemed to agree with her reaction. "Lord Royce can handle a siege."

Nodding, Rhaena mounted Dreamfyre, mind only on one thing even as a decisive victory was notched to her belt. Hers alone, something her grandmother or aunt couldn't yet claim. He'll wake, muna.

"I hope, my sweet. Sovegon!" High in the skies, only there could Rhaena safely weep.