Dragonstone was a lot like Driftmark, just more... Targaryen. The black stone castle loomed against the gray sky, all jagged towers and smoking cliffs, as if the place had crawled out of some dark nightmare. Dragons circled lazily above, their roars echoing across the sea. And here I was, sitting on a low stone wall, bored out of my mind.

It wasn't that I hated Dragonstone. I could appreciate the place for what it was—a relic of Valyria, full of history and the unmistakable stench of power. But being here wasn't my choice. Corlys had insisted, practically ordered me to "get closer" to Lucerys. To bond with him, because apparently, being only two years older than him made me the perfect companion. He wasn't wrong about the age thing, but everything else? Corlys seemed to forget one crucial fact: Lucerys wasn't my problem. The kid was Rhaenyra's son, not mine. His fate was tied to hers and to the war she was about to ignite.

Lucerys… He wasn't a bad kid, really. He had that innocent look in his eyes, the kind of look that said he still believed the world was made of right and wrong, black and white. And that was what bothered me most. Because no matter what, I knew where his story ended. Aemond. Vhagar. A storm in the sky over Shipbreaker Bay. He was doomed, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

And yet… I couldn't help but feel something, seeing him scurrying about the castle, trying his hardest to act like a proper Velaryon heir. The truth that clung to him like a shadow was that he wasn't a true Velaryon at all. Harwin Strong's blood ran in his veins, not Laenor's, and anyone with eyes could see it. Yet here we were, pretending, for the sake of appearances.

Dragonstone was a fortress of secrets, lies, and dragons. But Westeros? Westeros was far worse.

"Monterys!" Lucerys's voice pulled me from my thoughts. He came barreling around the corner, almost tripping over his own feet. When he spotted me, he skidded to a halt, eyes wide with excitement. "I've been looking for you! There's something I want to show you."

I groaned inwardly but forced a small smile. "What is it, Lucerys?"

He grinned, the kind of grin that made me feel even worse about what was coming for him. "Come on! It's a surprise."

I sighed, pushing myself off the wall. "Lead the way."

scene*

He took me to a recluse part of the island, where his dragon, Arrax, lay curled in a circle of black scales and smoke. The sight of the beast—still small compared to the monsters flying above—made Lucerys beam with pride. He reached out to stroke Arrax's snout, the dragon rumbling in approval.

"Isn't he amazing?" Lucerys said, eyes gleaming. "He's not as big as the others yet, but he'll grow. One day, he'll be the size of Vhagar, or bigger."

In your dreams maybe I thought. Vhagar and you're homicidal uncle will literally chomp those in pieces.

I watched Lucerys interact with the dragon, his enthusiasm infectious, though I didn't share it. Dragons were impressive, sure. But in the grand scheme of things, what was a dragon compared to gravity? What was a creature that could burn cities at best, compared to a force that could crush entire kingdoms without lifting a finger?

"You really like him, don't you?" I said, more for the sake of conversation than anything else.

Lucerys nodded vigorously. "Of course! He's my dragon, my bond. We'll fly into battle together one day, like my mother and her dragon. Arrax will help defend the realm."

Syrax defending the realm? I had seen the dragon and she was honestly a fat spoiled fuck. She was more likely to eat cake than doing anything worthwhile. In canon, she literally died because of Smallfolks, literally was the reason of the death of one of the son of her rider.

Useless ass shit dragon.

I couldn't help the bitterness that crept into my thoughts. Defend the realm? No, Lucerys would fly into battle, all right, but not for long. His fate was already written. His uncle Aemond would make sure of that.

I stayed quiet, watching Lucerys talk to Arrax like they were old friends. The boy had no idea, did he? No idea what awaited him. And no matter how much I didn't care about this world, watching him reminded me of just how young he was. Too young to be caught in this web of politics and dragons. Too young to die.

Rhaenyra even if she had handled the situation poorly wasn't really at fault. It's more than her errors were used as justifications by her enemies but even if her children were true born, her possible ascension to the throne would have been complicated. Laenor had been… complicated. A good man, sure, but the whole realm knew his preferences lay elsewhere. Rhaenyra had made her choice with Harwin Strong, a man whose blood had nothing to do with Valyria or the sea. And that, right there, was the problem. If she had picked someone who looked like Laenor, someone with silver hair and purple eyes, none of this would have mattered. The realm wouldn't have cared. But Harwin? He was as strong as they came, First Men through and through, and that blood showed in the faces of her sons.

"Monterys?"

Lucerys's voice broke through my thoughts again. He was staring at me, concern flickering in his brown eyes. Harwin's eyes.

"What is it?"

I shook my head. "Nothing. Just thinking."

"About what?"

I shrugged. "About how much trouble you'll probably get yourself into."

Lucerys frowned. "What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean," I said, my tone sharper than I intended. I gestured at Arrax. "This. All of it. You're being thrown into a fight you're not ready for."

He bristled at that, standing a little taller, even though he couldn't have been more than five and a half feet. "I'll be ready when the time comes. I have to be."

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "That's the problem, Lucerys. You shouldn't have to be." Children no matter if they were bastards or not, highborn or lowborn should lose their lives in war. Children should be allowed to be children. I didn't bother to say it because I knew he would not understand.

The boy blinked, taken aback. He clearly didn't expect that answer. His world was one of expectations—Rhaenyra's ambitions, the Velaryon legacy, and the looming threat of war. All of it weighed on him, but he carried it because he thought he had no choice. And in a way, he didn't. This was Westeros. If you weren't strong enough to carry the weight, it crushed you.

I turned away, my gaze drifting to the sky, where dragons flew freely, oblivious to the schemes below. "You're too young for this, Lucerys. Too young to deal with what's coming. You're going to be expected to fight, to kill, and maybe to die. And that's not fair."

"I know that!" he snapped, his voice breaking slightly. "But what can I do? I have to protect my family. My mother's counting on me."

I sighed, shaking my head. "Your mother shouldn't have put you in this position. She shouldn't be in this position," I added. The

Last thing I needed was for Rhaenyra and her allies to think I was an enemy while I was in their stronghold. It would be a headache and half.

Lucerys opened his mouth to argue, but whatever words he had died in his throat. He looked down at the ground, his shoulders slumping as the weight of it all sank in. "We, I don't have a choice," he whispered.

I felt a pang of something—pity, maybe. It was the same thing I had felt watching him interact with Arrax, the same sense of helplessness. He didn't deserve this. None of Rhaenyra's sons did. They were pawns in a game far bigger than them, and no matter how hard they tried, they would never escape it.

I placed a hand on his shoulder, though I wasn't sure why. "You do have a choice, Lucerys. But that doesn't mean it's an easy one."

Why did I say that? I let a sigh escape me. In truth, the other choices were so bad that they weren't choices in themselves. More than that, the kid loved and was loyal to his Mom who loved him in return. No matter what you think about Rhaenyra, you can't say that she doesn't love her children.

He looked up at me, confusion in his eyes. "What do you mean?"

I didn't answer. What could I say? That his fate was already sealed? That I knew how he would die and that there was nothing I could do to stop it? Even if I wanted to—*and I didn't*—what would be the point? Westeros was a cesspool of greed and ambition, and Lucerys was just another casualty waiting to happen.

Before I could say more, a voice called from behind us.

"Lucerys! Monterys!"

I turned to see Baela and Rhaena approaching, their steps graceful but hurried. Baela, all fire and steel, led the way, while Rhaena, quieter and more reserved, followed close behind. They were Daemon's daughters through and through, though they carried themselves with the poise of their Targaryen heritage.

Baela reached us first, her dark eyes flicking between Lucerys and me. "You've been hiding, haven't you?"

Lucerys flushed, but Baela just grinned, punching him lightly on the shoulder. "Don't worry, we won't tell. The princess' looking for you, though. She's ready to start the evening feast."

Lucerys glanced at me, then back at Baela. "I wasn't hiding. I was just… showing Monterys Arrax."

Baela rolled her eyes but didn't press the issue. "Well, we need to head back before your mother sends out a search party."

I stood, brushing off my tunic. "You heard her. Let's go."

Lucerys hesitated for a moment, but then nodded, his earlier fire dampened. As we made our way back to the castle, I kept to the back of the group, watching as Lucerys walked ahead with Baela and Rhaena. The two girls teased him lightly, trying to lift his spirits. I could see it in their eyes—they knew something was off with him. But they didn't know what it was. None of them did.

Lucerys wore his worries like a cloak, dragging them with him wherever he went. He was a boy pretending to be a man, forced into a role he didn't ask for. And the worst part? It wasn't even his fault. It was Rhaenyra's. She had thrust him into this life, this mess of politics and warfare, because she needed to secure her claim to the Iron Throne. And that meant putting her bastard son on Driftmark's Driftwood Throne.

The thought grated on me. I understood the game she was playing—hell, I admired her audacity—but Lucerys was just a child, caught in the middle of it all. If things had been different, if Rhaenyra had been more careful, more calculating, maybe this whole mess could have been avoided. Laenor's preferences were no secret, and there were other ways to ensure an heir without involving Harwin Strong. If she had picked someone with Valyrian features, someone the realm could accept, none of this would be an issue. But no, she had chosen Harwin, a man who looked nothing like a Velaryon, and now her sons carried the consequences.

I sighed inwardly. It wasn't Rhaenyra's fault that Laenor was gay, but it didn't take a genius to know that the blood of the First Men wasn't going to blend seamlessly with the sea and sky of Old Valyria. *Decisions, decisions…*

We entered the Great Hall of Dragonstone, where the evening feast was already being prepared. The hall was bathed in the warm glow of firelight, casting flickering shadows across the stone walls. The air was thick with the smell of roasting meat and spiced wine, the sounds of servants bustling about and nobles conversing in hushed tones. It was the kind of feast that would have impressed most people, but to me, it was just another gathering of schemers and liars.

At the head of the table, Rhaenyra sat with Daemon beside her. They looked every bit the royal couple—Rhaenyra, poised and regal, her silver hair cascading over her shoulders, while Daemon exuded an effortless arrogance that could only come from years of fighting and surviving. They were royalty in every sense of the word, and yet, they felt distant to me. Like two figures carved from stone, sitting high above the rest of the world, untouchable.

Rhaenyra's eyes lit up when she saw Lucerys, her expression softening as she gestured for him to come closer. "Lucerys, come, sit by me."

Lucerys obeyed, slipping into the seat beside her, his earlier worries hidden behind a mask of obedience. Rhaena and Baela followed, taking their places as well, leaving an empty chair at the far end of the table for me. I made my way over, taking my seat without a word, content to observe the proceedings.

"Monterys," Rhaenyra's voice called out to me from across the table. "You've been with Lucerys today?"

I nodded, my tone neutral. "Yes, Princess. He was showing me Arrax."

Rhaenyra smiled softly, her eyes full of pride as she looked at her son. "Arrax will serve him well in the days to come. He will be a strong rider, just like his father."

I didn't bother correcting her. She meant Laenor, of course, but we all knew the truth. Harwin Strong's blood ran in Lucerys's veins, not Laenor's. But in this room, in front of everyone, we played along with the lie.

Daemon, who had remained quiet until now, leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing as they flicked between me and Lucerys. "And what do you think of Dragonstone, Monterys? It's different from Driftmark, no?"

There was an edge to his voice, the kind of challenge I had come to expect from Daemon Targaryen. He was testing me, trying to gauge me, looking for something, maybe Loyalty, maybe disloyalty, who knows what goes through the mind of the psycho.

"Dragonstone is… grand," I said simply, knowing full well that Daemon didn't care for flowery compliments.

He smirked, clearly unimpressed by my nonchalant answer. "Grand, indeed. And what of the coming storm? Will you be ready for it, Velaryon?"

I felt the weight of the question, not just in his words, but in the eyes of everyone at the table. Lucerys looked at me, his expression expectant, as if he needed me to say something to make him believe that everything would be okay. But I couldn't give him that reassurance. Not when I knew how this story ended.

"The storm will come whether we're ready or not," I said finally, my voice steady. "It's not something we can stop. I'll just weather it."

Daemon's smirk widened, and I could see the glint of approval in his eyes. He liked that answer. Maybe because it was the truth, and Daemon, for all his faults, respected blunt honesty. Or maybe it was because he liked seeing someone who wasn't afraid to acknowledge the chaos that was coming.

Rhaenyra, on the other hand, didn't seem as pleased. Her smile faltered for a moment, a flicker of something—doubt? fear?—crossing her face before she quickly masked it. "There'll be no storm to weather but if there was one, We will face t together, as a family," she said, her voice firm.

I didn't respond. There was nothing to say. Family. That word again. The thing they all clung to, the thing they used to justify every decision, every lie. But I knew better. Family was just another illusion, another weight pulling people down. And in Westeros, it was the heaviest weight of all.

The feast carried on, with the usual pleasantries exchanged and the wine flowing freely. Lucerys stayed close to Rhaenyra's side, clearly trying to absorb as much of her strength as he could. Baela and Rhaena chatted quietly with each other, their eyes occasionally drifting to me, as if they were trying to figure out where I fit in all of this.

But I didn't fit. Not really. I was just a ghost passing through, watching as the pieces moved on the board, knowing how it would all end but unwilling to change the outcome. Why would I? This world wasn't mine. These people weren't mine. And yet, here I was, stuck in the middle of it all because Corlys had asked me to care. To look after Lucerys. To make sure he didn't fall apart under the weight of everything that was coming.

As the night wore on, I found myself stepping away from the table, moving to the edge of the hall where the shadows were thick and the noise was distant. I needed a moment of quiet, a moment to think. Or maybe I just needed to be away from the sight of Lucerys, sitting there with that eager look in his eyes, like he believed he could take on the world. Like he believed he had a future.

I leaned against the cold stone wall, staring out at the flickering flames of the torches that lined the hall. For all their fire, all their dragons, the Targaryens were just as fragile as anyone else. Their blood might have been Valyrian, but they bled and died like the rest of us. And Lucerys… Lucerys was no different.

"Monterys?"

The voice was soft, hesitant. I turned to see Lucerys standing a few feet away, his brow furrowed with concern. "Are you all right?"

I raised an eyebrow. "Shouldn't I be asking you that?"

He shook his head. "You seem… distant. Like you're not really here."

I almost laughed at that. He didn't know how right he was. "I'm always distant, Lucerys. That's just how I am. Your grandfather would probably tell you that."

He frowned, stepping closer. "But you're not like the others. You don't care about any of this, do you?"

Was I so easy to parse through, to understand? First Rhogar and now Lucerys. I met his gaze, and for a moment, I considered telling him the truth. That I didn't care. That this world wasn't my own, and that I had no stake in any of it. But then I saw the look in his eyes—hope, desperation, fear. He needed something, anything, to hold on to.

I sighed, shaking my head. "It's not that I don't care, Lucerys. It's just… complicated."

He looked at me, clearly unsatisfied with that answer, but he didn't push. Instead, he nodded, accepting it for what it was. "I just… I don't know what's going to happen."

None of them did. But I knew better than most. And the truth of it, the inevitability of it, weighed on me more than I cared to admit. Lucerys was just a boy, playing a game that was too big for him, a game that would end in fire and blood.

And I couldn't save him from that.