Crownlands, Duskendale – 122 AC
Being seven name days old and having a lot more memories than any seven-year-old should, I suppose it was only natural that Duskendale rubbed me the wrong way. To everyone else, it was just another stop on our royal progression, another dull town with its stuffy lords and ladies trying to impress us with feasts and flattery. But to me? Duskendale was the place where it all began to spiral into madness, where the first domino in the long, bloody line of chaos that was my old life as Joanna Snow began to fall.
The town itself was nothing special. Gray stone buildings that huddled together like they were trying to keep warm, narrow streets that twisted and turned in ways that made no sense, and a harbor that smelled like dead fish and old rot. The castle, the infamous Dun Fort, loomed above it all like a grumpy old man with a chip on his shoulder. I didn't want to be here, but here I was, all dressed up in Velaryon teal with my hair twisted into some complicated braid that pulled uncomfortably at my scalp.
The adults were doing their usual thing, all stiff and formal, with those fake smiles that never quite reached their eyes. My mother Rhaenyra was leading the way, her Targaryen fire burning quietly behind a mask of regal grace, while Jacaerys stuck close to her side, his eyes taking in everything with that unnerving intensity of his. My brother was only eight name days old, but he already acted like he was thrice that, like he'd seen too much of this world already. Maybe he had. After all, this was Westeros, and no one got out of here unscathed.
I tried to focus on anything other than the fact that we were in Duskendale, but it was impossible. Every stone, every shadow seemed to whisper of the past, of the events that had taken place here, events that had led to a mad king, a burning city, and the fall of a once-great house. The Defiance of Duskendale—where Aerys II Targaryen, the Mad King, had been imprisoned, humiliated, and pushed further into the madness that would eventually consume him. And it all started here, in this dreary little town, with a lord who thought he could defy a king and get away with it.
Joanna Snow, the girl I used to be, knew all too well how that story ended. How it began the chain of events that led to Robert's Rebellion, to the fall of House Targaryen, and to the bloody, miserable mess that was the War of the Five Kings. Joanna had been a Stark by blood, but now I always feel the weight of Targaryen madness hanging over her head like a sword, ready to drop at any moment. And now, here I was, Lucerys Velaryon, standing in the very place where it all started to go wrong.
"You look like you've swallowed something sour," Jacaerys observed as we made our way through the town, his voice quiet but sharp as ever. He always seemed to know when something was bothering me, no matter how hard I tried to hide it.
I glanced up at him, forcing a small smile. "Just… not a fan of Duskendale," I said, trying to keep my tone light, but it came out flat, even to my ears.
He raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. "And why is that?"
"Do I need a reason?" I shot back, a little more sharply than I intended. "Look at this place. It's gloomy and smells like rotten fish."
Jacaerys's lips twitched, but he didn't smile. "True. But I think it's more than that." He didn't press further, though, which I was grateful for. Jacaerys had a way of knowing when to push and when to let things go, a skill I was still trying to master.
As we approached the Dun Fort, my unease grew. The castle looked every bit as imposing as the stories. Its walls were thick and high, the stone darkened with age and the blood of past conflicts. I could almost see the ghosts of the future-past here—Aerys being dragged through these gates, his beard pulled by some arrogant squire, the once-great king reduced to a caged animal. It was here that the seeds of madness were planted, where the realm's fate was sealed by the arrogance of one man and the paranoia of another.
And now, here I was, walking in the footsteps of those long dead, knowing far too much for a child of seven. It was enough to make anyone a little mad.
Inside the Dun Fort, the atmosphere was just as stifling. The great hall was dimly lit, the flickering torches casting long shadows that danced across the walls. We were seated at the high table, where I was sandwiched between my mother and brother, while the Lord of Duskendale droned on about something or other. I wasn't listening. I was too busy trying to ignore the whispers in my mind, the memories of Joanna Snow that insisted on resurfacing. I picked at the food on my plate, barely tasting it, my thoughts a tangled mess of past and present.
"Is everything to your liking, Princess?" Lord Darklyn asked, his voice pulling me back to the present. He was trying to be polite, but there was an edge to his tone, as if he was bracing himself for a scolding.
I looked up at him, forcing another smile. "It's fine," I said, my voice cool and distant. "Thank you."
He seemed to relax a little, nodding before turning his attention back to my grandmother, who was engaged in conversation with Lady Darklyn. I tuned them out, my gaze wandering around the hall, taking in the faces of the people who had gathered to see us. They were mostly older, with a few children scattered here and there, all of them looking up at us with a mix of curiosity and fear. They knew what happened here, and they knew what it had cost them.
Jacaerys leaned in slightly, his voice low as he spoke. "You really don't like it here, do you?"
I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak. How could I explain it to him? How could I tell him that this place, more than any other, felt like the epicenter of all the horrors that had come to pass? That it was here, in this grim, forgotten town, that the timeline had started to unravel, leading to war, madness, and death on a scale that no one could have imagined?
"Duskendale," I finally muttered, my voice barely audible. "It's where it all began."
Jacaerys frowned, clearly puzzled by my words, but before he could press further, the music started up, signaling the beginning of the evening's entertainment. I was grateful for the distraction, though it did little to ease the knot of tension in my chest.
After what felt like an eternity, the evening finally came to an end, and we were escorted to our chambers. The night air was cool and damp, a welcome relief from the stuffy heat of the great hall. I kept my head down as we walked, not wanting to meet the eyes of the servants who hurried to and from, their faces half-hidden in the shadows.
When we reached our chambers, Tyla, Alla, and Kate were already there, waiting for me with their usual smiles and gentle hands. They set to work preparing a warm bath, their chatter a soothing background noise as I finally let myself relax.
"You looked like you were miles away at dinner, my lady," Tyla remarked as she helped me out of my gown. "Is something bothering you?"
"Just tired," I lied, sinking into the tub with a sigh. The hot water was a welcome comfort, the lavender scent calming my frayed nerves.
Alla began washing my hair, her fingers working through the knots with practiced ease. "You've been doing a lot of traveling. It's no wonder you're exhausted."
"I suppose," I murmured, closing my eyes as the warmth of the bath seeped into my bones.
Kate, ever the observant one, spoke up next. "Duskendale's a strange place, isn't it? Not as grand as the other towns we've visited."
"Strange is one way to put it," I muttered, more to myself than to them.
The bath helped, though, easing some of the tension that had been building inside me all day. By the time I was dressed in my nightclothes and tucked into bed, I felt a little more like myself, the weight of the past fading into the background.
Muña came in not long after, her expression softening as she saw me nestled under the covers. She sat on the edge of the bed, brushing a stray lock of hair away from my face with a tenderness that always made me feel safe, no matter where we were.
"How are you enjoying your time traveling?" she asked, her voice gentle.
I thought about it for a moment before answering. "It was… fine. The banquet was fun."
Rhaenyra leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to my forehead, her lips warm and comforting against my skin. "Sleep well, my dear. Tomorrow is a new day, and who knows what adventures it will bring?"
"Goodnight, muña," I whispered, my eyes already growing heavy.
She rose gracefully, her footsteps silent as she left the room, leaving me alone with my thoughts. The fire in the hearth crackled softly, casting a warm glow over the room, and the distant sound of waves crashing against the shore lulled me toward sleep.
The night wrapped around me like a heavy cloak, and despite the warmth of the blankets and the comforting crackle of the fire, I couldn't shake the unease that had settled in my chest. Sleep had come, but it was the restless kind that left you feeling more tired than before. My dreams were plagued by images, vivid and cruel, as if the ghosts of Duskendale had decided to pay me a visit.
In my dream, I was no longer Lucerys Velaryon, nor was I Joanna Snow. I was something else entirely—a specter, a silent witness to the horrors that had played out in the very place where I now lay my head.
I saw Lord Denys Darklyn standing tall and defiant in the shadowy halls of the Dun Fort, his face set in a grim expression that bordered on madness. He was a man convinced of his own righteousness, believing that he could force the realm to bow to his will by holding the king hostage. I could almost feel his desperation, the way his hands trembled behind his back even as he barked orders to his men. He had crossed a line, and he knew it, but there was no turning back now.
The king—Aerys II, before he was truly mad—was a different story. I saw him as clearly as if I were standing right beside him. He was thin, gaunt even, his eyes wild with fear and anger. They had stripped him of his royal raiment, leaving him in tattered clothes that reeked of filth. His once-proud beard was matted and dirty, and his hands, the hands that had once held the fate of the realm, were now bound and trembling.
He wasn't a king at that moment. He was just a man—a terrified, broken man who had been dragged from the heights of power and thrown into the depths of despair. I could hear his ragged breathing, see the madness flickering in his eyes like a flame that hadn't yet caught hold but was dangerously close to doing so.
Lord Denys was pacing in front of him, muttering to himself, trying to convince both Aerys and him that this would all end in his favor. That Tywin Lannister, with his cold, calculating eyes, would be forced to negotiate, to offer better terms. But even in my dream, I knew that was a fool's hope. Tywin Lannister was not a man who negotiated with weakness.
And then I saw the siege, felt the weight of it pressing down on the town like a suffocating blanket. The Lannister host had surrounded Duskendale, cutting off supplies, starving the people inside. The streets were empty, save for the occasional desperate soul scurrying to find scraps of food. The once-proud banners of House Darklyn hung limp and dirty from the battlements, a pitiful sight against the grim backdrop of the besieged town.
Lord Denys remained defiant, convinced that Tywin would blink first, that the Hand of the King would offer him terms he could accept. But Tywin's demands were simple and unwavering: Surrender the king or everyone inside Duskendale would die.
It was only a matter of time, and everyone knew it, even Denys, though he refused to admit it. The days dragged on, each one bleaker than the last. The people of Duskendale, who had once looked to their lord with pride, now cursed his name under their breath, their hatred growing with each passing day. They were hungry, scared, and losing hope. I could feel their despair like a physical weight, dragging down the entire town into a pit of hopelessness.
Then came the night when the balance tipped. Ser Barristan Selmy—a name that rang out in history like a clarion call—arrived at the siege camp. I saw him standing before Tywin, his expression calm and resolute as he offered to rescue the king. Alone. No army, no backup, just one man against the walls of the Dun Fort. Tywin, ever the pragmatist, gave him a day before he would order the town stormed and every soul within it put to the sword.
In the dark of night, I followed Barristan as he moved like a shadow through the camp and toward the walls of Duskendale. He was dressed in rags, a hood pulled low over his face, and he moved with the confidence of a man who had faced death before and walked away. I could see the tension on his shoulders, the way his eyes scanned every shadow, every movement. He was a man on a mission, and nothing would stand in his way.
Barristan scaled the walls with a quiet, deadly precision, slipping into the Dun Fort unnoticed. I followed him, my ghostly form passing through walls and doors as if they were nothing. I watched as he made his way through the dark corridors, the weight of history pressing down on him like a physical force. He was alone, but he moved with the certainty of someone who knew that failure was not an option.
The air inside the Dun Fort was thick with fear and tension, the walls echoing with the distant sounds of Lord Denys's men preparing for the worst. They knew the end was near, but they clung to their lord's madness as if it were the only thing keeping them alive. And maybe it was, for as long as they had the king, they had leverage. They had hope.
But Barristan was a force of nature. I watched as he crept through the halls, silent as a wraith, until he reached the dungeons. The guards were no match for him—he dispatched them with a deadly efficiency, his blade flashing in the dim light before they even had a chance to cry out. The door to the king's cell creaked open, and there he was—Aerys, huddled in the corner like a beaten dog, his eyes wide with terror.
I felt a pang of something—pity, maybe, or revulsion—at the sight of him. This was the man who had once ruled the Seven Kingdoms, who had held the fate of the realm in his hands, now reduced to a sniveling wreck. But Barristan didn't hesitate. He grabbed the king by the arm, pulling him to his feet with a strength that belied his age.
"We need to move," Barristan said, his voice low and urgent.
Aerys blinked up at him, his mind clearly struggling to process what was happening. But Barristan had no time for hesitation. He half-dragged, half-carried the king through the corridors, taking out anyone who crossed their path with a ruthless efficiency that left no room for mercy.
And then they reached the courtyard. The dawn was just beginning to break, the first rays of light casting long shadows across the cobblestones. Barristan had almost made it—almost—but then I saw it, the flicker of movement from the corner of my eye. Ser Symon Hollard, Denys's master-at-arms, stepped out from the shadows, his sword drawn, and there was murder in his eyes.
Barristan didn't falter. He shoved the king behind him, raising his blade to meet Symon's. The two men clashed, their swords ringing out in the still morning air, the sound sharp and metallic, like the tolling of a death knell. I watched, powerless, as the two warriors fought, each blow bringing them closer to the edge of oblivion.
It was Barristan who emerged victorious, of course. His blade found its mark, piercing Symon's chest with a sickening crunch. The master-at-arms staggered, his eyes wide with shock, before he crumpled to the ground, his blood pooling around him like a dark, spreading stain. Barristan didn't even spare him a second glance. He turned back to the king, pulling him toward the stables, where a horse waited, already saddled and ready to go.
They barely made it out. Arrows whizzed through the air, one of them finding its mark in Barristan's chest, but the knight didn't stop. He threw Aerys onto the horse's back, mounting behind him with a grunt of pain, and then they were off, galloping through the open gates before they could be closed.
As they rode away, the town of Duskendale finally surrendered. Without their hostage, Denys had nothing left to bargain with. Tywin's soldiers stormed the Dun Fort, dragging the lord and his family out into the courtyard, where they met a swift and bloody end. The Defiance was over, and with it, the final threads of sanity that had held Aerys together.
I watched it all unfold, powerless to intervene, my ghostly form drifting through the chaos like a forgotten memory. I saw the madness in Aerys's eyes as they rode away, the seed that had been planted in the dungeons of the Dun Fort now taking root, spreading its poisonous tendrils through his mind. I saw the terror and despair in the eyes of the people of Duskendale, who had placed their trust in a lord who had led them to ruin.
And then, suddenly, I was awake. My heart was pounding, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps as I sat up in bed, the remnants of the dream clinging to me like cobwebs. The fire in the hearth had burned low, casting long shadows across the room, and the only sound was the distant roar of the waves against the cliffs.
It took me a moment to remember where I was—to remind myself that I wasn't a ghost, that I wasn't trapped in the past. I was Lucerys Velaryon, not Joanna Snow, and I was alive, here in Duskendale, with my family. But the dream… it had felt so real, so vivid, as if I had been there, witnessing it all firsthand.
I shivered, pulling the blankets tighter around me as I tried to shake off the lingering sense of dread. But it was no use. The images from the dream were burned into my mind, the echoes of the past refusing to fade.
I lay back down, staring up at the dark ceiling, my thoughts churning. What did it mean, this dream? Was it just a reflection of the history I knew too well, or was it something more? A warning, perhaps, that the past was never truly dead, that it could come back to haunt us when we least expected it?
I didn't have the answers, and I wasn't sure I wanted them. All I knew was that the ghosts of Duskendale were still very much alive, and they weren't ready to rest just yet.
With a heavy sigh, I closed my eyes, trying to will myself back to sleep. But the shadows of the past lingered, whispering in the dark, reminding me that in Westeros, the past was never really gone. It was always there, lurking just beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to reach out and drag you back into its cold, unforgiving embrace.
The nightmares didn't stop. If anything, they grew worse, more vivid, as if Duskendale itself was determined to drag me deeper into the shadows of its past. Each night, as soon as I closed my eyes, I was pulled back into the darkness of the Dun Fort, forced to witness the horrors that unfolded after Ser Barristan Selmy's daring rescue of King Aerys II.
The first night had been about the Defiance itself—the capture, the siege, the rescue. But now, my dreams were filled with the aftermath, with the twisted vengeance that Aerys unleashed on those who had dared to defy him. And it was terrible.
In my dreams, I saw Lord Denys Darklyn brought before the king, his once-proud face now pale and drawn, his eyes wide with terror. He begged for mercy, his voice shaking as he pleaded for his life, for the lives of his family. But there was no mercy left in Aerys. The king who had once been a man, however flawed, was now something else entirely—something cruel and unfeeling, consumed by a desire for blood and retribution.
Aerys sat on a makeshift throne, his eyes burning with a madness that sent chills down my spine even in the dream. His hair, once so carefully groomed, was now wild and unkempt, falling in tangled strands around his gaunt face. His fingernails had grown long and jagged, claw-like, and he drummed them against the arm of the chair in a rhythm that was both erratic and unnerving.
"Mercy?" Aerys repeated, his voice a harsh rasp that echoed through the cold, stone chamber. He laughed then, a high-pitched, almost hysterical sound that made my skin crawl. "There will be no mercy for traitors."
Lord Denys fell to his knees, his voice breaking as he continued to plead, but it was no use. Aerys had already made up his mind. He demanded the deaths of Denys and his entire family—his wife, his children, his uncles, aunts, cousins, anyone with even a drop of Darklyn blood. House Hollard, the king's goodkin, were to be wiped out as well, their lands burned, their name erased from the annals of history.
I watched in horror as the executions began, each one more brutal than the last. Ser Jon Hollard, married to Denys's sister, was the first to fall, his throat slit before the gathered court. His wife followed, her screams echoing through the hall as the blade descended. Their young son, no more than a toddler, was next, his tiny body thrown onto the pyre like so much kindling.
And then there was Robin Hollard—the boy who had dared to pull the king's beard when Aerys was first seized. I could hear his cries of agony as they stretched him on the rack, his limbs pulled to the breaking point, his screams filling the air until they were suddenly cut off. His lifeless body was left hanging there, a twisted reminder of what happens to those who defy the king.
But the worst, the most sickening of all, was Lady Serala, Denys's foreign wife, the so-called "Pale Lady" of Duskendale. Aerys's cruelty knew no bounds when it came to her. I watched, helpless, as they dragged her from her chambers, her face a mask of horror as she realized what was about to happen. The king's men tore at her clothes, ripped her apart in ways too horrible to even think about, and then, as if that wasn't enough, they cut out her tongue and her "womanly parts," leaving her a bloody, broken mess.
Aerys ordered her burned alive. I could hear her screams, see the flames licking at her body as she was consumed by fire, her eyes wide with pain and terror until they melted away, leaving nothing but charred remains. The stench of burning flesh filled the air, and I gagged, the bile rising in my throat as I tried to look away, but I couldn't. The dream wouldn't let me. It forced me to watch, to bear witness to every horrific detail.
And when it was over, when the fires had died down and the bodies were nothing but ashes, Aerys turned his madness on the town itself. Duskendale was stripped of its wealth, its lands given to House Rykker, its people left to suffer the consequences of their lord's folly. The once-proud town was reduced to a shell of its former self, its villages burned, its castle torn down stone by stone.
But even as the town was destroyed, the people of Duskendale still clung to their love for Lord Denys. They blamed his wife, Serala, for his downfall, whispering that it was her foreign blood, her exotic ways, that had led him astray. Some even said that the punishment Aerys had given her was too kind by half, that she deserved far worse for what she had done.
The dream shifted then, taking me back to the Red Keep, where Aerys had returned, a changed man—if he could still be called a man. His madness had grown like a cancer, spreading through his mind until there was nothing left of the king he had once been. I saw him in his chambers, alone, surrounded by shadows. His hair had grown even longer, a tangled, filthy mass that hung down to his waist. His fingernails, never cut, had curled into grotesque claws, and his eyes—those eyes that had once held so much fire—were now dull, lifeless, except when they burned with a terrifying, unpredictable rage.
He would allow no one near him, no blades except for the swords of his Kingsguard, and his judgments became more severe, more cruel with each passing day. I watched as he ordered the deaths of anyone who displeased him, for any reason or none at all, his paranoia driving him to see enemies in every shadow, every whisper.
And then there was Ser Barristan, the man who had saved him, standing silently by the king's side, his face a mask of stoic resignation. Barristan had done his duty, saved the king's life, but even he could see what Aerys had become—what he had always been, according to some. The madness had always been there, lurking beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to break free. And Duskendale had been the catalyst, the event that had shattered whatever fragile sanity Aerys had left.
The years passed in a blur in the dream, each one darker than the last, until we reached the tourney at Harrenhal in 281 AC. By then, Aerys had fully descended into his madness, refusing to leave the Red Keep, refusing to trust anyone, not even his own son. His once-golden rule had turned to iron and blood, and Westeros trembled under his cruel reign.
I saw him, sitting on the Iron Throne, his body hunched, his eyes flickering with madness as he surveyed his court. He was surrounded by sycophants, men who told him what he wanted to hear, who fed his paranoia and stoked the flames of his hatred. And I knew, in that moment, that there was no saving him. The king was lost, and with him, the realm.
The dream ended with Aerys's face, twisted in a grotesque smile as he gave the order that would seal his fate—the order to burn them all. And then I was awake, my heart racing, my body drenched in sweat as I gasped for breath. The fire in the hearth had long since died, leaving the room cold and dark, and the only sound was the faint echo of my own ragged breathing.
I lay there for a long time, staring up at the ceiling, trying to calm the frantic beating of my heart. But the images from the dream wouldn't fade. They clung to me, like the stench of burning flesh that had filled the air in the Dun Fort. I could still see Aerys's eyes, wide and unblinking, could still hear the screams of the innocent as they were dragged to their deaths.
This place was cursed. Duskendale had been the beginning of the end for so many, and now it was trying to drag me down with it, to pull me into the same madness that had claimed Aerys. I could feel it, like a dark cloud hanging over me, pressing down on my chest, making it hard to breathe.
I couldn't stay here. I had to get out of Duskendale, had to escape this cursed place before it swallowed me whole. But I was trapped—trapped by duty, by my family, by the very blood that ran through my veins. I couldn't just leave, couldn't run away from the shadows that haunted me. I had to face them, had to find a way to make peace with the past, or I would never be free.
But how could I? How could I ever find peace in a world like this, a world where the past was never truly gone, where the sins of our ancestors hung over us like a sword, waiting to drop? I didn't have the answers, and I wasn't sure I ever would.
All I knew was that Duskendale had left its mark on me, just as it had on Aerys. And as I lay there, staring into the darkness, I couldn't help but wonder if I would ever be able to escape it, or if, like Aerys, I was doomed to be consumed by the madness that had taken root in this cursed place.
By the time the first rays of dawn crept through the narrow windows of the Dun Fort, I was already wide awake. Or rather, I hadn't really slept at all. How could I, after those dreams? They weren't just dreams—they were something more, something darker and more insidious. They were memories, but not mine. I had seen Aerys II's madness up close, felt his terror and rage, his humiliation at the hands of the Darklyns. I had felt the heat of the flames as he exacted his twisted vengeance on the people of Duskendale.
And I had seen what came after: the way his mind shattered like glass, the shards cutting into everything and everyone around him. The thought that this same madness could be lurking within me, within all of us with Targaryen blood, terrified me in a way I couldn't put into words.
The others in my family had always spoken of Targaryen madness like it was some distant thing, a cautionary tale whispered among maesters and septas, something that happened to those who were weak or unlucky. It wasn't something that would ever touch us—not our Rhaenyra, not our Aegon. They were too strong, too determined, too full of life. But now, I wasn't so sure. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that everyone had their breaking point.
I knew the stories, the legends of our house. When I was Joanna Snow, I'd read about Rhaenyra Targaryen, the "Realm's Delight" who had turned into "Maegor with Tits" after the Dance of the Dragons took everything from her—her children, her crown, her very soul. People said that when she lost her sons, she lost her mind too, that the Targaryen madness took hold of her, twisting her into something unrecognizable.
And then there was Aegon II, her half-brother, who had started as a proud and ruthless king, but after the horror of watching his son Jaehaerys be murdered by Blood and Cheese, he too broke. His cruelty, his paranoia, the way he lashed out at everyone around him—it was as if the madness had been lying in wait, biding its time until something snapped.
I had read those stories with a sort of detached fascination, as one does with tales of ancient tragedies. But now that I was Lucerys, now that I knew these people as more than just names in a book, it was different. I couldn't reconcile the loving, strong-willed mother I knew with the monster Rhaenyra became in the history books. And Aegon, with his sharp wit and good humor—how could he ever become that broken, vengeful man?
But then, how could Aerys have gone from a king, flawed though he was, to the mad tyrant who burned his enemies alive and planned to reduce King's Landing to ashes? What if it wasn't something that happened to them? What if it was something that was already there, lying dormant, waiting for the right—or wrong—moment to emerge?
The thought made my skin crawl. If the Targaryen madness was in our blood, if it was our destiny, then what hope was there for any of us? And if that were true, why would the Old Valyrian Gods, the ones I had started to believe had sent me here, put me in this family? Surely, it wasn't just to watch us all go mad and destroy ourselves. There had to be a reason, a purpose, something more than just an inevitable descent into madness and cruelty.
When I finally dragged myself out of bed to break my fast, the three maids who had become my constant companions—Tyla, Alla, and Kate—were already waiting for me. They had been with me for years now, ever since I became Lucerys, and they knew me well. Too well, it seemed.
Tyla was the first to speak, her brow furrowed with concern as she took in the sight of me. "My lady, are you feeling alright? You look… tired."
I caught a glimpse of myself in the small mirror on the dressing table and winced at the reflection that stared back. Dark circles ringed my eyes, and my skin was pale, almost sickly. I looked as haunted as I felt. "I'm fine," I said, though even I could hear how unconvincing the words sounded.
Alla exchanged a worried look with Kate as she set out for a simple breakfast of bread, cheese, and honeyed milk. "You haven't been yourself since we arrived in Duskendale," Alla said gently, her voice full of the kind of worry that only came from someone who genuinely cared. "Is there something troubling you?"
Troubling me? Where would I even start? How could I explain to them the nightmares that plagued me, the fear that gnawed on my insides, the dread that maybe, just maybe, I was destined to lose my mind just like the others? I couldn't. It wasn't something I could just say out loud, as if speaking the words would make them real, would bring the madness closer.
"It's nothing," I muttered, forcing a small smile as I picked up a piece of bread. The taste was like ash in my mouth, but I forced myself to chew and swallow, hoping to stave off more questions. "Just bad dreams."
Kate hesitated before speaking up. "Sometimes dreams can tell us things… things we don't want to admit to ourselves."
I glanced at her sharply, surprised by the insight in her words. "And what do you think my dreams are telling me, Kate?"
She blushed under my gaze, but didn't back down. "I think… I think you're afraid, my lady. Of what might happen. Of what you might become."
I stared at her for a moment, the truth of her words sinking in like a stone in my gut. She was right, of course. I was terrified. Not just of the dreams, but of what they might mean, of the possibility that the madness was already inside me, waiting to break free.
But I couldn't let them see that. I couldn't let anyone see that. I was Lucerys Velaryon, the princess of Driftmark, the daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen. I had a role to play, a part to live up to. I couldn't afford to show weakness, to let my fears control me. If there was one thing I had learned from my mother, it was that strength was the only thing that mattered in this world. And I would need every ounce of it to survive.
"I'll be fine," I said again, this time with more conviction, even if it was mostly for their benefit. "It's just Duskendale. This place… it gets under your skin."
The maids didn't look entirely convinced, but they didn't press the issue, for which I was grateful. Instead, they busied themselves with their tasks, helping me dress for the day, brushing out my hair, all the while casting worried glances in my direction. I could feel their concern like a physical presence in the room, hovering just out of reach, and it made me want to scream.
I wanted to be left alone, to retreat into myself, to sort through the tangled mess of thoughts and fears that churned inside me. But that wasn't an option. Not here, not now. I had to keep moving forward, keep pretending that everything was fine, even if it felt like I was teetering on the edge of a cliff.
As I went through the motions of preparing for the day, my mind kept circling back to the same question: Was this my destiny? Was madness the fate of all Targaryens, no matter how strong or determined they were? Was I just fooling myself by thinking I could escape it, that I could somehow be different?
But then another thought crept in, one that I clung to like a lifeline. If that were true, if madness was inevitable, then why had I been brought here? Why had the Gods—or whatever force had decided to meddle in the affairs of mortals—sent me to this time, to this family? It couldn't just be to watch everything fall apart again. There had to be more to it, some greater purpose that I just hadn't figured out yet.
And as long as there was even a sliver of hope, I had to believe that I could make a difference, that I could change the course of history, not just for myself, but for my family. I had to believe that the Targaryen madness wasn't an unbreakable curse, that there was a way to fight it, to overcome it.
But how?
That was the question that haunted me, even as I tried to push it aside, trying to focus on the mundane tasks of the day. I couldn't afford to let it consume me, not yet. There was too much at stake, too much to lose.
For now, I would have to keep pretending, keep playing the role of the dutiful princess, even as the doubts gnawed at the edges of my mind. But I knew that I couldn't ignore it forever. Sooner or later, I would have to face the truth, whatever it might be.
And when that time came, I could only hope that I would be strong enough to face it, and that the ghosts of Duskendale wouldn't drag me down into the darkness with them.
I was still pushing a piece of bread around my plate, not really eating, when the door to my chambers creaked open. I didn't need to look up to know who it was—Laenor, my kepa, with his ever-present shadow, Ser Qarl Correy, at his side. Their familiar presence filled the room, a mix of comfort and concern radiating off them in waves. It was like they knew something was wrong without me having to say a word, and that only made the knot in my stomach tighten.
"My pearl," Laenor's voice was soft, a little nickname that only he used. He said it with a warmth that only a father could have, and when I finally looked up, I saw the worry etched across his face. "How are you feeling, sweetling?"
Ser Qarl stood back, his hand resting casually on the pommel of his sword, but his eyes were sharp, scanning the room as if looking for some unseen threat. It was a habit he had, always vigilant, always ready to protect us, even when the danger wasn't something you could fight with steel.
I forced a smile, but it felt like a mask, brittle and ready to crack. "I'm fine, kepa," I lied, knowing full well that he wouldn't buy it. Laenor had always been able to see through me, like he could read every thought that crossed my mind.
He frowned, not fooled for a second. "Tyla, Alla, Kate—you're dismissed for now," he said, his tone gentle but firm. The maids hesitated for a moment, exchanging glances before curtsying and slipping out of the room. Laenor waited until the door closed behind them before he spoke again, his voice laced with concern. "Lucerys, what's really going on?"
There was no point in trying to dodge the question. Laenor wasn't the type to let things go, especially when it came to me. He'd keep asking until he got the truth, and honestly, I was too tired to keep up the pretense.
I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself, then finally met his gaze. "I've been having strange dreams… ever since we arrived in Duskendale. They're not like normal dreams, though. They're… they're about tragedies, horrible things… things that haven't happened yet."
My voice wavered as I spoke, the words spilling out before I could stop them. I didn't dare go into details—I couldn't, not without giving away too much. No one knew about Joanna Snow, about my past life, and no one would. Not even my kepa.
Laenor's frown deepened, his eyes searching mine as if trying to understand. "Tragedies from the future?" he echoed, his tone careful. He wasn't brushing me off, wasn't treating me like a child with an overactive imagination. He was taking me seriously, which was worse in a way. It made it all feel more real, more terrifying.
I nodded slowly, feeling the weight of it all pressing down on me. "It's like… like I'm seeing what's to come, or maybe what could come. And it's not just that. I'm… I'm scared, kepa. Scared that it means something—that all Targaryens are just waiting to fall into madness, like Maegor the Cruel did."
The moment the words left my mouth, I saw Laenor stiffen, his eyes widening in shock. For a long moment, he just stared at me, like he didn't know what to say. I could see the worry in his eyes, the fear that maybe, just maybe, I was right. But then he shook his head, as if trying to dispel the very idea.
"My pearl," he began, his voice softer now, almost pleading, "you are not going to go mad. You're not like Maegor. You're different. You have the blood of House Velaryon in you—the sea-blood. That balances the fire-blood of the Targaryens. The sea is calm, steady, and it keeps the fire from consuming everything. You're not just Targaryen; you're Velaryon too."
His words were meant to comfort me, to reassure me that I wasn't doomed to the same fate as those who came before. But all I could think of was how similar it sounded to what I had thought about the Starks, about how the ice-blood had balanced out the fire-blood in Joanna Snow. But that didn't stop the tragedies that followed, did it? It didn't stop the madness that swept through my family, that turned them into monsters and killers.
But I couldn't say that. I couldn't tell him how hollow his reassurances felt, how deep my fears ran. Instead, I just nodded, forcing another smile that didn't quite reach my eyes. "I hope you're right," I said quietly, my voice barely above a whisper.
"I am right," Laenor insisted, his tone firm as he placed a hand on my shoulder. "You're strong, my sweet pearl. Stronger than you know. And you have your family here with you, to keep you grounded. We won't let anything happen to you."
Before I could respond, he straightened up and gestured to the door. "Come on, let's get you out of this room. We're spending our morning in the garden today, just the family. The fresh air will do you good."
I nodded, grateful for the chance to leave the stifling confines of my chamber, if only for a little while. As we made our way through the halls, Ser Qarl following a few paces behind, I could feel Laenor's eyes on me, his concern palpable. He didn't say anything more, though, and I was thankful for that. I didn't want to have to keep lying to him, but I couldn't tell him the truth either. Not about Joanna, not about the memories that haunted me every night.
As we stepped out into the garden, the morning sun was just beginning to chase away the last remnants of the night's chill. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of blooming flowers and freshly turned earth. It should have been soothing, a welcome distraction from the darkness in my mind, but instead, it only made me feel more out of place, like I didn't belong in this peaceful scene.
My mother was already there, seated at a small table beneath a flowering tree. Jacaerys, my older brother, was beside her, munching on a piece of fruit while trying to coax Joffrey, our youngest brother, into eating something other than the honeycakes he was currently fixated on. When Rhaenyra saw us approach, her face lit up with a warm smile, but that smile faltered when she got a good look at me.
"Lucerys," she murmured, her brow creasing in concern as I sat down beside her. "You look exhausted, my love. Didn't you sleep well?"
I bit my lip, hesitating for a moment before giving a noncommittal shrug. "I'm fine, mother. Just… had some trouble sleeping."
Rhaenyra didn't look convinced. She reached out, gently running her fingers through my hair, a gesture that was both comforting and deeply familiar. "You've been having bad dreams, haven't you?" she asked softly, her voice full of the same worry that I'd seen in Laenor's eyes. "Is it because of this place?"
Before I could answer, I heard Laenor's voice, low and quiet, as he leaned in close to Rhaenyra, his words meant only for her. "We need to cut our stay here short," he whispered. "It's not doing her any good."
He must have thought I couldn't hear him, but I could. I was right there, after all, and the guilt washed over me in waves. They were worried about me, enough to consider changing our plans, disrupting everything, just because I couldn't handle a few bad dreams. I should have felt relieved—part of me was—but mostly, I just felt like a burden, like I was dragging everyone down with me.
Rhaenyra nodded slowly, her lips pressing into a thin line as she looked back at me. "We'll leave tomorrow," she said, her voice firm, but tinged with an edge of concern. "There's no need for us to stay longer than necessary."
I wanted to protest, to tell them that I was fine, that they didn't need to change everything for my sake. But the words died in my throat. I was tired of pretending, tired of lying to everyone around me, and part of me was desperate to get out of Duskendale, to escape the ghosts that haunted this place. So instead, I just leaned into Rhaenyra's touch, resting my head against her shoulder as she continued to stroke my hair.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, the guilt heavy in my voice.
"There's nothing to be sorry for, darling," Laenor said, his tone gentle but firm. "We just want you to be happy, to be safe."
Happy. Safe. Two things that felt so distant, so out of reach, especially in this place. But as I sat there, cuddled up against my mother, with my father and brothers close by. It wasn't enough to chase away the darkness completely, but it was something, and right now, I'd take whatever I could get.
We snacked in relative silence, the weight of the decision hanging over us like a cloud. Jacaerys and Joffrey were blissfully unaware, too focused on their own little world of food and play, and I envied them that. I wished I could be that carefree, that I could forget about the nightmares and the fears that gnawed at me. But I couldn't. Not when the shadow of madness loomed so large, threatening to swallow us all.
As the morning wore on, I tried to push those thoughts aside, to focus on the simple pleasures of the moment—the warmth of the sun on my skin, the sound of my brothers' laughter, the comfort of my family's presence. But even as I did, I couldn't shake the feeling that this was only a temporary reprieve, that the darkness was still out there, waiting for me. And no matter how far we ran, how fast we tried to escape, it would catch up to us eventually.
