Uprising

by litwater44

A blue rose, surrounded by fire and ash. Rhaegar Targaryen's triumph at the Trident was bittersweet, shrouded in the mystery of Lyanna Stark's death and her stillborn child. Years later, the bastard of Winterfell returns to Westeros astride a fierce black dragon whose flames will reignite the whispers of war.

36. He who must not be named

Arthur: Did you know in the books Jon died the same age as Lyanna?

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Aegon

The dream began in sunlight, warm and golden, spilling over the gardens of the Red Keep. Laughter echoed through the air, bright and carefree. Aegon, no more than eight, darted between hedges and trees, his chest heaving with exhilaration. Behind him, Jon chased with single-minded determination, his dark hair flying wildly.

"You'll never catch me!" Aegon called over his shoulder, grinning.

Jon's breathless laugh followed. "I'll catch you, and then you'll be sorry Egg!"

Their game of tag carried them through flowerbeds and beneath the sprawling shade of a weirwood tree, its red leaves dancing in the breeze. The world was simple, innocent, and filled with nothing but the joy of their shared childhood.

Aegon's foot caught on a root, and he stumbled to a stop, panting and laughing as Jon closed the distance, tagging him with a triumphant shout. They wove between the garden paths, their laughter ringing out, innocent and free. But as they rounded a corner near the weirwood tree, they skidded to a halt.

Standing in their path was Queen Elia, her expression cold, her presence like a shadow falling over the sun. At her side was Oberyn Martell, his piercing eyes scanning Jon with thinly veiled contempt.

Aegon froze, his laughter dying instantly. Jon stood still, his chest rising and falling, his gaze flickering nervously between them.

"I told you not to play with him, Aegon," Queen Elia said, her voice soft but firm, each word carrying the weight of judgment.

Aegon lowered his head, his hands clenching into fists. "We were just—"

"Enough," she interrupted. She gave a subtle nod, and a Targaryen guard stepped forward, his hand gently resting on Aegon's shoulder.

"Come, my prince," the guard said, steering him away.

Aegon didn't resist. As he was led off, he glanced back. What he saw made his stomach twist—not in guilt, but in unease. The guards who seized Jon were far less gentle, their grips harsh as they dragged him away. Jon didn't cry out, but his eyes met Aegon's, wide with fear.

The dream shifted.

Aegon wandered the dim corridors of the Red Keep, the echoes of his footsteps the only sound. The light was faint, the torches sputtering, casting flickering shadows on the walls. He turned a corner and froze.

Jon was there, huddled on the cold stone floor, his body shaking. His head was bowed, his face hidden, but his voice echoed softly through the empty hall.

"They all hate me," Jon whispered, the words broken and raw. "They all hate me… but especially you."

Aegon's fists clenched. His unease turned to irritation, and he stepped forward. "Stop being so pathetic."

Jon's head snapped up, and Aegon stopped short. The boy was gone. In his place stood the man Jon had become—pale, veins of icy blue poison webbing his skin, his eyes glowing with unnatural red light.

"You hate me," Jon said, his voice a low rumble that reverberated through the corridor. "You always hated me."

"Hated you?" Aegon sneered, his irritation bubbling into fury. "You were always there even when you weren't, Jon. Always in my father's thoughts instead of me. Do you have any idea what it was like? Living in your shadow when you weren't even supposed to exist?"

Jon's expression darkened, and he stepped closer, his presence suffocating. "You think I wanted your life? Your throne? Your pity? I didn't care about any of it, Aegon. I just wanted—"

"Don't lie to me!" Aegon interrupted, his voice rising, his face twisting in anger. "You wanted everything. You would've taken it all, wouldn't you? My father, my legacy, my place. You were never meant to be here. Every time I looked at you, I saw a threat to everything that was mine. Why shouldn't I have hated you?"

As Aegon shouted, the torches on the walls flared brighter, casting monstrous shadows that loomed over Jon. The veins on Jon's face pulsed with an eerie blue light, and his voice echoed as if coming from the depths of the crypts beneath the Red Keep.

Jon's glowing red eyes burned into Aegon's, unflinching. His lips curled into a bitter snarl. "You tell yourself that, don't you? That I was the threat. That I was the one who wanted to take from you."

Aegon glared at him, his fists trembling. "You were the threat! Looking to take everything away from me!"

The shadows seemed to deepen as Jon's voice dropped, filled with a cold, cutting sorrow. "I never wanted your throne, Aegon. I never wanted your place. I just wanted a brother. But you—you took even that from me. You killed me."

Rhaenys

Rhaenys stirred as sunlight spilled across her face, its warmth pulling her from a deep, dreamless slumber. She stretched, her hand instinctively reaching for the figure that should have been beside her. Her fingers met only cool sheets.

Frowning, she sat up, letting her eyes adjust to the brightness flooding the room. The grand chambers, adorned with tapestries and gold-framed mirrors, felt strangely empty. She wrapped a silken robe around her shoulders and padded barefoot across the plush rug, glancing toward the door.

"Jon?" she called softly, her voice breaking the stillness. There was no response.

The faint rustle of leaves drew her toward the open windows. The gardens. Of course. A sigh escaped her lips, half-annoyed, half-fond, as she made her way through the chambers and into the corridor.

The gardens were lush, dense with flowering trees and sprawling bushes that swayed gently in the breeze. The air smelled of jasmine and roses, a heady sweetness that always reminded her of her mother. Rhaenys's steps slowed as she saw him.

Jon stood motionless amidst the greenery, his broad back to her, shoulders straight as ever. His dark hair caught the sunlight, streaks of silver glinting faintly among the black. On the bench beside him, his crown—a simple yet commanding circlet of Valyrian steel—lay abandoned.

She huffed, crossing her arms as her irritation grew. "Jon Snow," she said sharply, "why are you out of bed without my leave?"

He didn't respond.

Rhaenys frowned, stepping closer. "You can't ignore your queen, you know."

Before she could say more, the bushes beside him rustled. A small figure burst out, giggling uncontrollably, and launched itself at Jon with reckless abandon.

Jon turned, swift as a shadow that made him a legend in Essos, and caught the figure mid-air. His laugh, rare and deep, echoed across the garden, filling the space with a warmth that softened Rhaenys's frown.

"My little girl," he said, holding the child close.

The girl—a perfect blend of them both with her father's pale skin and her mother's black hair—threw her arms around his neck, squealing with delight. "Papa! I got you!"

Jon grinned, the tension in his face dissolving into boyish joy. He tossed her into the air, catching her easily, her laughter ringing out like music.

"Momma, look!" the girl called, her small hands clutching at Jon's shoulders.

Rhaenys stepped closer, her stern expression melting into a tender smile. "How can a dragon possibly be captured?" she teased, raising an elegant brow.

The girl tilted her head, considering the question with serious intensity. Then she wriggled, her small form twisting as she tried to escape Jon's hold.

Jon chuckled, his violet eyes shining. "Oh, but how can this hatchling escape when she can't even breathe flame yet?"

The girl opened her mouth, pretending to breathe fire. "Fwoosh!"

Jon gasped in mock horror. "Dracarys!" he cried, smothering her small face with kisses as she squealed and thrashed.

"Papa, no!" she giggled. "That's gross!"

Rhaenys reached them, her laughter joining theirs as she leaned in to press an exaggerated kiss to the other side of the girl's face. "There," she said with mock gravity. "Now you're thoroughly captured, my little dragon."

The girl squealed louder, wiggling free from both of them. "You're both gross!" she declared, running off into the garden. Ghost emerged from the bushes, his massive white form bounding after her, his tail wagging as she squealed again in delight.

Jon and Rhaenys stood together, watching their daughter's laughter light up the garden.

Jon turned to her, his grin softening into something more intimate. "No kiss for me, Rhaenys?"

She raised an eyebrow. "If you were in bed when I woke, perhaps you would've had one."

Jon chuckled, stepping closer. "Forgive me?"

Rhaenys crossed her arms, her lips twitching. "If I keep forgiving you, Jon Snow, who's the greater fool—me or you?"

"Whoever keeps forgiving," Jon replied, his voice filled with warmth. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer.

"Damn you, Jon Snow," Rhaenys muttered, leaning into his chest despite herself.

"I love you too, princess."

"I've been queen for years, you know," she teased.

Jon's grin was sly. "Your hair could turn gray, your skin wrinkle, and your crown gather dust. You'll still be my princess."

Rhaenys laughed, tilting her head back to look at him. "What if my back bends and my knees creak?"

"Then I'll bend with you."

They contended themselves with watching their daughter in blissful silence.

"That's our child," Jon said softly, awe in his voice. "Our little girl. We made her, you and I. Long after I'm gone, you'll still be my princess."

Rhaenys turned in his arms, cradling his face. "If you're gone, I'll follow. I can't bear to live without my dragon wolf."

Jon's eyes darkened. "Do you mean that?"

"Always," she said, pressing her lips to his.

But the moment their lips touched, the dream shifted.

The warmth in Jon's lips turned cold. Blood welled where their mouths met, and when she pulled away, his eyes were no longer warm and violet but a ruby red, weeping crimson blood. His pale skin turned ashen, blue veins crawling like vines beneath the surface.

Rhaenys stumbled back. "No," she whispered, shaking her head.

The laughter of their daughter was gone, replaced by an eerie silence. She turned toward the garden, but the child was nowhere to be found. Ghost lay motionless in the grass, arrows piercing his side, blood pooling beneath him.

"Jon," she choked, turning back to him. His body was stiff now, lifeless, his eyes empty yet accusing.

"How can you love me," he rasped, his voice hollow and distant, "when you killed me?"

"No," Rhaenys whimpered, tears streaming down her face. "No, no, no—"

The vision of Jon crumbled before her, his figure dissolving into ash that scattered in the wind.

Rhaenys woke with a gasp, her chest heaving as tears streamed down her face. The sunlight from the window now felt oppressive, the bed beside her cold and empty.

And she was alone.

Sansa

They say Harrenhal has become the heart of Westeros, though I suspect the words are laced with bitter irony. This castle has never been a beacon of greatness—only a monument to tragedy and ruin.

Princess Rhaenys disappeared in the night.

Sansa stood at the edge of the great hall, her gaze fixed on the scene unfolding before her. The flickering torchlight cast long shadows on the stone walls, but it was the heavy silence that hung in the air that held her captive. The murmurs of the lords had ceased when Aegon entered, and now they all stood, awaiting his words. She could feel the weight of his presence as though it pressed down on her chest.

Princess Rhaenys was gone. It had happened so suddenly—no one knew where she had gone, or who had taken her. The rumors were wild, yet each one more chilling than the last. Some whispered that she had been abducted by the Silent Flames, the shadowy faction that had risen from the darkness, and that Arthur Dayne and Ashara Dayne, both imprisoned in the depths of Harrenhal, had escaped in the night. Had Arthur allied with the Silent Flames? It was said that he had, that he and Ashara had orchestrated the disappearance. And then, there were the rumors of Maegor's vengeance—the ravens pecking out the eyes of the living, wolves tearing out throats. It was all too much, too dark to believe fully, but it lingered in the air like an ominous storm.

Aegon spoke with the authority of a king, his voice steady as he outlined his plans to march against the Silent Flames, Tywin Lannister, and Viserys Targaryen, with Harrenhal as his base of operation.

Sansa's hatred for him simmered beneath her composed exterior. He had taken everything from her—her family, her home, her hope. He had called her brother a monster, slain him, and now forced her to live under his thumb.

The lords listened in silence, but unease rippled through them like an unspoken prayer. The destruction of King's Landing was too fresh, its horror etched into the memories of all who had heard the tales.

King's Landing had not fallen to an invading army or foreign power but to Cannibal, Jon's dragon, the black beast with fire like wildfire. It had descended upon the capital like an avatar of wrath, its flames devouring the city in a single night. The Red Keep was gone, the Iron Throne reduced to molten slag, and tens of thousands of souls had been burned to ash.

All because Aegon had killed Jon, Robb, mother, Arya, Rickon, Bran, and Jeyne...

They had named him Maegor the Cruel reborn, a villain to justify their betrayal, but Sansa knew the truth. Jon had been her brother, her blood, and his only crime had been existing as a threat to Aegon's fragile ego. Aegon had slain Jon not for justice, but for power, and Cannibal's vengeance had been swift and terrible.

Now the lords murmured in anxious whispers, their fear palpable.

"The Crownlands are in ruins," one said.

"Viserys Targaryen and the Golden Company marches unchallenged," another added.

"And King's Landing..."

The words hung heavy in the air, unspoken but understood. The realm was broken, shattered by Aegon's ambition and the fire of Jon's dragon. And still, Aegon dared to stand before them, declaring himself the savior of Westeros.

Yet the destruction of King's Landing was not the only horror that plagued their minds. Just last night, Willas Tyrell had been found dead in the infirmary. The maesters, who had been optimistic about his recovery, were at a loss. There were no signs of poison, no visible wounds. His heart had simply stopped in his sleep, they claimed, but their confusion was plain.

Margaery's weeping could still be heard, faint and haunting, from somewhere in the castle. Olenna Tyrell's sharp voice had been the only interruption to the quiet of the morning, cutting through the halls as she interrogated the maesters. "What good are you lot if you cannot keep a single man alive?" she had snapped, her words venomous with grief.

Despite the lack of evidence, whispers had begun to circulate, and the blame was quickly pinned on Jaime Lannister. The Kingslayer had already been named a traitor for his role in Jon's initial victory, and it was convenient to cast him as the villain again. Unease spread through the Reach lords like a sickness, for Garlan Tyrell was currently leading the manhunt for Jaime and Myrcella.

Sansa could feel the tension in the air, and when she glanced at the Reach lords gathered in the hall, she saw their contemplative gazes, their veiled expressions. She wondered if any of them were truly good or if every one of them harbored ambitions and secrets as dark as the shadows that now plagued the realm.

But it wasn't just Aegon's words that had the lords on edge. It was the growing realization that this war, this chaos, was no longer confined to the edges of the realm. Aegon sent Domeric Bolton back north to raise a force. With Tywin Lannister mustering an army at the Golden Tooth, and Lord Tyrell raising his forces in Highgarden, the lords could feel the storm gathering on the horizon. Renly Baratheon has called his banners once again, his intent unknown. Lysa Arryn, Sansa's aunt, was very silent in the Vale. Doran Martell, too, had called his banners in Dorne for Aegon, and soon, all of Westeros would be embroiled in a conflict that no one could control.

"I have vanquished the darkness that was Maegor Targaryen," Aegon's voice boomed, and Sansa felt a bitter laugh rise in her throat. He spoke of Maegor's death as though it were a victory for the realm. But Maegor was Jon, and Jon had never been the enemy. Jon had been a pawn, a tool in Aegon's game—a game that had cost her everything.

"I have brought fire and blood to those who defy me," Aegon continued, and Sansa's hands clenched into fists at her sides. "And I will do so again. The Silent Flames, Tywin Lannister, the usurper Viserys Targaryen—all will burn."

Her eyes narrowed as she looked at him. He had no remorse. No conscience. Aegon wasn't a king—he was a tyrant, a destroyer. He had wiped out her family with cold precision, and now he was parading himself as the hero, the one who would save the realm from chaos. He had taken the lives of her loved ones and burned her past to the ground, and yet, here he was, standing tall, smiling with the false confidence of someone who believed they were in control. He wasn't the conqueror he believed himself to be; he was the murderer of her dreams, of everything that had been good about her family.

Sansa could see the fire in his eyes, the anger, the desperation. His words were as much a promise as they were a threat. And yet, beneath the fire, she saw something else: a king who was not merely seeking revenge, but something darker. Something more personal. She could feel it in the air as the lords exchanged uncertain glances. This wasn't just about the Iron Throne anymore—it was about Aegon's fury, about his need to prove his strength in the face of the destruction of his family's legacy.

As Aegon's speech continued, Sansa felt his gaze fall on her. She stiffened, her heart pounding as his violet eyes met hers. A twisted smile curled his lips, sending a shiver of dread down her spine.

"You will come with me, Sansa Stark," he announced suddenly, his voice cutting through the murmurs.

Sansa's breath caught. "Pardon, Your Grace?"

"You will accompany me to the God's Eye," Aegon said, his tone sharp, leaving no room for argument. "You will bear witness as I bring fire and blood to the Silent Flames—the last echoes of Maegor's treachery."

The lords turned to her, their eyes heavy with pity and curiosity. She felt exposed, a pawn on Aegon's board, and her hatred for him deepened. He wanted her there not as a companion but as a trophy of his triumph, a way to twist the knife further into her heart.

Her heart burned with hatred, but she nodded stiffly. The crowd parted as Aegon turned to leave, his Kingsguard falling into formation behind him. Ser Barristan Selmy, Ser Gerold Hightower, Ser Daemon Sand, Ser Osmund Kettleblack, Ser Aron Santagar, Ser Mervyn Flowers, Ser Borros Blount—all of them moved with practiced precision, their armor clinking in unison as they followed the king.

The procession to the courtyard was a blur. Outside, the soldiers stood in perfect formation, their polished armor gleaming in the sunlight. Sansa stood apart from the crowd, her stomach twisting as Mystic descended from the sky. The dragon was smaller than Cannibal, its wings beating steadily as it landed, but it was still a fearsome sight.

"Is he large enough to bear the king?" a lord whispered.

Aegon strode forward, his dark armor catching the light. He mounted Mystic with ease, turning to face the crowd as the dragon let out a sharp, piercing roar. The lords cheered, their voices rising in unison, but Sansa felt only a cold, hollow dread.

This was not a moment of triumph. It was the beginning of another nightmare.

As Mystic rose into the sky, the soldiers began to march, their footsteps echoing through the courtyard. Sansa followed, her steps heavy with despair and hatred. She would be forced to watch as Aegon unleashed his wrath upon the Silent Flames, as he erased Jon's memory from the world.

But she would remember. She would never forget the brother who had been stolen from her or the man who had orchestrated his death. One day, she swore to herself, Aegon would pay for all he had done.

Myrcella

The sky was a dark, brooding gray, heavy with the promise of rain, as Myrcella's horse thundered across the uneven terrain. The wind whipped her golden hair into her face, strands catching in her mouth and stinging her eyes. Her legs burned from gripping the saddle too tightly, and her hands ached from clutching the reins. She blinked through the tears that refused to stop falling, her vision blurring with the mix of dirt and sorrow.

The roar of pursuit was deafening behind her: hooves pounding like a storm, shouts carrying across the hills. She could hear Garlan Tyrell's voice above the din, his orders clear and confident, the words slicing through her panic.

"Close the gap! Do not let them escape!"

Myrcella's breath hitched, and she forced herself to look ahead, trying to focus on the path rather than the screaming thoughts in her head. Jon's cold body haunted her. She could still feel the chill of his pale skin when she'd touched his cheek. And Cannibal… where had that monstrous beast taken him?

"Stay with the group, damn it!" Jaime's voice cut through her reverie, sharp and commanding.

She glanced over her shoulder, seeing her uncle struggling to maintain control of his horse. His severed hand made gripping the reins an awkward, clumsy effort, and frustration darkened his face. His eyes were wild, darting between her and the chaos of their fleeing force.

"Myrcella, keep moving forward!" he barked, the strain evident in his voice.

A sharp whistle split the air. Myrcella barely had time to turn before Willem Lannister, riding just a few paces ahead, jerked backward. His helmet flew off as an arrow pierced his skull with a sickening thunk. His body slumped over the saddle, lifeless, before toppling to the ground in a limp heap.

"Willem!" Martyn's voice broke, high-pitched and panicked.

His horse stumbled on a loose stone, and Martyn tumbled headfirst. The sound of his skull cracking against the ground echoed in Myrcella's ears, sharp and final. She gasped, her throat tightening as bile rose.

"Move! Move!" Jaime screamed, his voice raw, trying to keep the group from splintering.

An arrow thudded into Lancel's arm. He let out a strangled cry, his grip faltering as blood poured from the wound. His horse reared, panic setting in, and bolted off the path into the dense thicket.

"Lancel!" Kevan yelled, spurring his horse after his son. "Stay with me, boy! Hold on!"

Tyrek veered off, determination flashing across his face as he raced after them.

"Get back here!" Jaime roared, his voice breaking with desperation.

Myrcella hesitated, her heart-wrenching as she watched them disappear into the trees.

"Stay on the path!" Jaime snarled, his tone harsh and cutting through the chaos.

But her horse had already turned.

"Myrcella!" Jaime's voice rang out again, this time with a mix of fury and despair.

The trees thickened, and her horse skidded to a halt as Tyrell riders emerged from the shadows. Myrcella turned back, kicking her mount hard to rejoin the others, but the path led her into a clearing where the remnants of their force had regrouped.

The Tyrell men were closing in, their banners snapping in the wind. Adam Marbrand, astride his dark destrier, barked orders to the remaining Lannister men. The Mountain loomed like an unrelenting force, cleaving through Tyrell soldiers as if they were made of paper.

Blood sprayed in wide arcs as he swung his massive blade. One man tried to dodge, but the Mountain caught him in the chest, cleaving through armor, bone, and flesh in one horrifying motion. Another soldier lunged at him from the side, only to be backhanded by the brute's gauntlet, his head snapping back at an unnatural angle.

Jaime galloped to her side, his face pale but determined. "Stay close to me!" he ordered. His sword was drawn, but his left-handed swings were awkward and slow.

The Tyrell forces encircled them like wolves around a wounded stag. At their head, Garlan Tyrell dismounted, his green-and-gold cloak billowing behind him. He strode forward, his sword already wet with blood, his movements calm and precise.

Three Lannister men charged him, shouting oaths.

The first swung wildly, his blade aimed for Garlan's chest. Garlan sidestepped smoothly, his own sword flashing upward to catch the man's throat. Blood poured as the soldier collapsed.

The second came at him from behind, hoping to catch him off guard. Garlan twisted, his blade sweeping low and cutting deep into the man's stomach. He fell with a strangled cry, clutching at his spilling entrails.

The third hesitated, but Garlan's strike was unrelenting—a clean thrust through the heart that ended the fight in moments.

He turned to Jaime and Myrcella, his gaze steady but unyielding.

"Yield," he said, his voice calm but firm. "This does not have to end with more death."

Jaime stepped in front of Myrcella, raising his sword in a feeble defense. His thrust was awkward, unbalanced, and Garlan Tyrell parried it effortlessly. With a sharp, calculated strike to Jaime's shoulder, Garlan sent the Kingslayer sprawling to the ground. Jaime gasped, clutching at the grass as he struggled to rise, hindered by the absence of his sword hand.

"It's a pity," Garlan said, his voice calm but tinged with something like regret. "With both hands, you were a legend, Kingslayer."

He turned his attention to Myrcella, who took a cautious step back. Her heart pounded, her chest tight with fear and fury. Hidden behind her back, her trembling fingers gripped a dagger.

"Princess," Garlan said, his tone softening as he lowered his sword slightly. "There's no need for more bloodshed. Please, come with me. Let this end."

Myrcella's grief broke through her fear. "You killed Jon," she hissed, her voice raw and shaking. "You and your false king. It's too late to end anything."

Garlan flinched as though struck, and a shadow of sorrow crossed his face. "What was done to Maegor and the Starks was… shameful," he admitted quietly. "I take no pride in it. I am truly sorry."

"Sorry?" Myrcella spat, her voice rising with anger. "Sorry won't bring him back. Sorry won't undo the betrayal. All that's left is vengeance."

Garlan's expression hardened with concern. "You don't want vengeance," he said, almost pleading. "You want peace. Let me take you to His Grace. No harm will come to you, I swear it. On my honor as a knight."

Honor.

The word twisted like a blade in Myrcella's chest, bitter and mocking.

Jon had tried to be honorable, and they had killed him for it.

His face flashed before her—those guarded yet kind violet eyes. Her breath caught, and a sob escaped before she could swallow it down.

Garlan took a tentative step forward, extending a hand, his movements slow and deliberate. "It's alright, princess," he said soothingly. "Everything will be alright. You have my word."

But the unseen dagger in her hand moved before her mind could stop it.

The blade found his throat, sliding through flesh as Myrcella's trembling hand drove it in. She could almost hear Jon's voice in her head, steady and calm.Stick them with the pointy end.

Blood erupted, hot and vivid, as Garlan staggered back. His hand flew to his throat, his eyes wide with disbelief. He tried to speak, but only a gurgle escaped as his knees buckled beneath him.

"Only one person called me princess and meant it," Myrcella said, her voice shaking with fury. "And your family stole him from me."

Garlan crumpled to the ground, his blood pooling beneath him, soaking into the grass. His lifeless eyes stared up at her, blank and unseeing.

Myrcella stood over his body, trembling, her breaths ragged. Around her, the battle surged and roared, but it was distant now—muted. All she could see was Garlan's slack face. And then Jon's, pale and still, filling her thoughts like a ghost she could not escape.

She tightened her grip on the dagger, her hands slick with blood. Myrcella's fingers tightened around the hilt of her dagger as she stood over the fallen Garlan, her breath coming in ragged bursts. Her gaze fell on Jon's face in the flames, a ghost of a smile still on his lips, his eyes betraying a peace she could never grasp. He'd chosen her. Rhaenys. That choice, that stupid decision, had cost them everything.

She'd warned him. She had told him, again and again, that underestimating Aegon and the queen would be the death of him. That Rhaenys would be his downfall, that Aegon would not let them have the power they sought. But he didn't listen. Instead, he had picked her, choosing a woman who couldn't see the bigger picture, who couldn't help him, not like Myrcella could.

Now, he was gone.

And where was she left? With nothing but a crushed heart and a war that could have been theirs to win, together. If only he'd stayed by her side . They could have torn down Aegon and Elia, ruled with an iron fist, and changed everything .But no. He'd thrown it all away, choosing the princess who was already tied to Aegon, a pawn who couldn't save him.

The bitterness twisted in her chest. She felt the sickly feeling of loss flare up again, hotter than before. Jon had not just abandoned her—he'd abandoned them, and now his death was a reminder of how easily those you care about can slip from between your fingers.

The carriage rattled over the uneven path, its weight a somber reminder of the lives it carried. Inside, Willem and Martyn's lifeless bodies lay shrouded, their stillness contrasting the uneasy movement of the company around them. Keven rode close beside the carriage, his shoulders slumped under grief, while Lancel and Janei followed, their faces pale and drawn.

Myrcella rode near the front, her gaze fixed on the horizon, though she couldn't ignore the others around her. Joy and Tyrek kept pace alongside her, their expressions hard and unyielding. Tyrek bore a fresh scar across his face, the angry red line a testament to the battles they had narrowly survived.

Jaime was ahead of them, his posture stiff, his face a mixture of conflict and bitterness. Myrcella knew the loss of his sword hand still gnawed at him, reducing the once-proud Kingslayer to a shadow of his former self. Every clumsy movement with his left hand seemed to carve deeper into his pride, and Myrcella almost pitied him. Almost.

As they passed through holdfasts and villages, signs of destruction were everywhere—burnt fields, blackened trees, and hollow-eyed survivors. Word spread like wildfire, carried by the fearful whispers of those they encountered.

Cannibal. The name alone was enough to send shivers down Myrcella's spine. The dragon's path of devastation was clear, stretching eastward like a scar across the land. Kingslanding, they said, was no more—burnt to the ground by Cannibal's flames. The capital, the heart of the realm, was reduced to ash.

She thought of the people who had lived there—the smallfolk, the innocents who had nothing to do with the machinations of rival princes. A pang of sadness struck her, fleeting but sharp, quickly replaced by anger. This was Aegon's doing, she thought bitterly. His arrogance, his cruelty, had led to this.

But there was another whisper carried on the wind—news of Viserys Targaryen, her father. He had returned, it seemed, with the Golden Company at his back, claiming the Crownlands as his own and naming himself king. Myrcella felt her stomach twist. Viserys, the man she had been told was her father for all her life. Could it be true? That she was a bastard born of incest between her mother and uncle? Had he truly killed her mother and Tommen? Or was that another lie, like so many others in the tangled web of her family's history?

She glanced at Jaime, her eyes narrowing. He rode ahead, oblivious to her gaze. Could Jaime really be her father, as Rhaenys had always insisted? The thought turned her stomach. It was easier to believe the whispers about Viserys, even if they came with their own weight of uncertainty and pain.

The days passed in heavy silence as they pushed west, the shadow of Casterly Rock growing ever closer. The only sounds were the creak of the carriage wheels, the soft murmur of the horses, and the occasional whispered conversations behind her back. Myrcella could feel the glances, the unspoken thoughts hanging in the air. With Viserys declaring himself king, many were wondering what that made her. An heir, perhaps to whatever Throne remains. The notion gnawed at her, both alluring and repulsive.

Her mind drifted often to Jon. The thought of him brought a sharp ache to her chest, a mixture of anger and sorrow. She had warned him, hadn't she? Warned him about Rhaenys, about her lies and ambitions. But she hadn't done enough. She could have been clearer, louder, more insistent. Maybe then…

She shook her head, guilt tightening its grip. It didn't matter now. Jon was gone, betrayed by the very woman she had tried to protect him from. And she was left behind to pick up the pieces, haunted by the echoes of what could have been.

As the days dragged on, Myrcella's resolve hardened. She would carry the weight of what she had done—and what she had failed to do—but she would not break under it. If the realm thought she was Viserys's heir, so be it. Let them think what they would. All that mattered now was revenge, and fire and blood.

The golden gates of Casterly Rock loomed high above them as the procession wound its way through Lannisport. Myrcella sat stiff-backed on her horse, her gaze fixed on the horizon, though her mind wandered to the army camped outside the city walls. Tents stretched as far as the eye could see, banners fluttering in the sea breeze. Soldiers moved in disciplined lines, their armor glinting in the sunlight, the hum of preparation a constant backdrop.

A scout force had joined them as they neared the Rock, escorting the grieving and battered Lannister party into the castle's safety. Myrcella's eyes drifted over the ranks of the assembled forces, taking in their hardened faces and resolute stances. She felt numb. How many of these men would die in the coming days? How many families would mourn their losses while banners waved victoriously overhead?

Her fingers tightened on the reins as she forced herself to look away. The gates closed behind them with a heavy finality.

The candlelight flickered softly against the stone walls of Myrcella's chambers. The air felt thick, suffocating in its stillness. Myrcella stood near the window, her gaze fixed on the distant horizon, though her mind was far from the view. Her thoughts were a swirling storm of anger, regret, and sorrow.

Joy stood with her arms crossed, standing at the door as she surveyed the room with a knowing look.

"I told you so," Joy's voice was soft, almost a whisper, but it cut through the tension in the air like a blade.

Myrcella's back stiffened. She knew that tone. It was the kind of tone that grated against her like nails on stone. She turned slowly, her expression darkening.

"What do you mean?" Myrcella's voice was low, dangerous.

Joy's face was unreadable, her blue eyes cold and hard. "I told you believing in Jon was a bad idea, Myrcella. All it did was get me strangled. All it did was get Martyn and Willem killed." The words came out with an icy finality.

Myrcella's blood surged with anger, but she clenched her fists to keep herself from lashing out. "Stop," she bit out, trying to remain composed, though her breath hitched with rising emotion. She stepped toward Joy, her voice strained but firm. "You don't know what you're talking about."

Joy's gaze never wavered, and she took a step forward, her voice becoming sharper, more accusing. "If Jon couldn't even save my father, why did you think he could get justice for your mother and Tommen?" Her words hung in the air like a weight, suffocating and merciless.

Myrcella's chest tightened, her heart pounding in her ears. The mention of Jon, her mother, and Tommen made her chest constrict with fury. It was the rawest wound, the one that had never healed. Her face twisted with emotion, and she couldn't hold back any longer.

"Get out!" Myrcella screamed, her voice cracking with fury. "Leave. Now. Before I reconsider our friendship, cousin."

Joy didn't flinch. She stood still for a moment, her eyes locked on Myrcella's. Then, without a word, she turned on her heel and walked out, her steps heavy with the finality of the moment.

The door slammed shut behind her, leaving Myrcella alone in the dimly lit room. For a long moment, she stood there, breathing heavily, her chest rising and falling with the intensity of her anger. Her hands trembled, and she staggered back to the couch, collapsing into it.

She buried her face in her hands, taking deep breaths, trying to steady herself. The emotions that had been building up inside her for so long were threatening to overwhelm her, but she fought to maintain control. No one will have the satisfaction of seeing her break. Not now. Not after everything.

She let out a long, shaky breath, her fingers pressing against her temples. Her mind flashed back to Jon—the betrayal, his promises, and the bitter realization that nothing had turned out the way she had hoped. She had clung to him, trusted him, believed in him, and now they were all gone. Her family. Her hope. Her revenge for her mother. Him.

But she would not break. Not in front of anyone. And certainly not in front of her grandfather.

Myrcella wiped the tears away from her eyes, trying to steady her breathing as she leaned back into the couch. There was still much to do. Still so much blood to get justice for.

And she would make sure Jon's mistakes weren't the last ones that counted.

Later, Myrcella stood in Tywin's chambers, the grandeur of the room lost on her. Tywin stood by the window, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, his silhouette stark against the setting sun. He didn't turn when she entered, nor did he speak immediately. The silence was thick, almost suffocating.

Finally, his voice broke the stillness. "Rhaegar is dead. And Jon Snow is dead with him."

The words hit her like a blow, but she refused to flinch. Instead, she steeled herself, her voice steady as she replied, "So are Martyn and Willem."

"They are gone," Tywin said smoothly, without pause or emotion. "And nothing worthwhile will come from lamenting them. Keven knows this too. He will grieve, as he should, and then focus on the larger picture."

Myrcella stared at him, her nails digging into her palms. "Jon is dead," she forced out, testing the words aloud.

"Are you troubled by this?" Tywin asked idly, his tone almost mocking. "Why? He cut off your uncle's hand."

She caught the tension in Tywin's broad shoulders, the slight stiffening that betrayed his veneer of control. A bitter laugh escaped her. "Uncle Jaime deserved it for strangling little boys. And it wasn't for the righteous reasons you might think. Jon did it to sway the other lords. He accepted my proposal of securing Harrenhal with our help, but once Jaime was of no more use to him, he held him accountable to win the favor of those who despised Jaime. It was smart. You would've approved of that move, Grandfather."

"I approve of nothing," Tywin said quickly, but Myrcella saw through the denial.

"They cheated, Grandfather," she said, her voice bitter.

"Rhaenys is as much a snake as you always claimed. She was supposed to marry him instead of me, and she poisoned him so he'd lose the trial by combat against Aegon. Jon lost, and they killed his whole family."

"There is no cheating in the game of thrones," Tywin said coldly. "You win or you die. There are no second chances. Your cousin was blinded by the whore's promises and suffered for it. Like father, like son."

He chose Rhaenys over me,Myrcella thought bitterly.Why, Jon? You died for it.

Tywin continued, his tone sharp. "Your cousin blundered badly. He died and let Aegon and the filthy Martells reign supreme. His dragon caused untold destruction, burning the capital of Westeros to ash. But this destruction can be used to our advantage." Finally, Tywin turned to her, his green-gold eyes glinting in the fading sunlight. "Your father has returned with a formidable army at his back, crowning himself king. The people will look at the destruction Aegon and your late cousin caused and will see Viserys as their savior... and you as his heir."

"Everyone thinks I am Jaime's bastard," Myrcella said lowly.

"Tell me who is saying this, and I will have their tongue," Tywin snapped, a vein pulsing in his temple.

"Aegon. Rhaenys. Elia. All those out of your reach," she replied with a bitter laugh. "And probably Viserys too. Did you not hear it was him who likely killed my mother and Tommen? What if my father sees me as incestuous filth?"

The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating. Tywin walked to his desk, his steps measured. "You are my granddaughter," he said finally, his voice as sharp as steel.

"The trueborn daughter of Viserys Targaryen and Cersei Lannister. Whoever says otherwise will meet the noose—even Viserys, if need be."

He reached into a drawer, pulling something out with deliberate care. "Whatever outcome there may be," he said, stepping toward her, "however long we keep appearances, you will be queen."

He held up a crown, its golden surface catching the dying light. Myrcella stared at it, her reflection warped in the polished metal, a queen-to-be shaped by ambition and blood.

Rhaenys

The Riverlands had been reduced to a wasteland.

The land she had once known, teeming with life, laughter, and prosperity, now lay barren and scarred. Smoke curled into the air, drifting across the remnants of villages and keepholds that had been ravaged by fire and death. The scent of charred wood and decaying flesh lingered, making her stomach churn despite the emptiness she had become accustomed to.

Her horse's hooves clattered against the broken road as she rode alongside Arthur Dayne, Ashara Dayne, and a handful of loyal Dayne guards. They moved cautiously, like ghosts in this new, brutal world. Ashara, her face a mask of sorrow, whispered softly to Arthur, their conversations laced with an undercurrent of tension that Rhaenys couldn't quite ignore. She could feel their glances on her, her stomach heavy beneath the folds of her cloak. The child. The child she had chosen to carry, even though it meant sacrificing so much more.

The sight before them was unrecognizable. The once-proud keeps of House Tully were now nothing more than piles of rubble, the fires that had destroyed them still smoldering in the distance. As they rode, Rhaenys saw the stakes—tall, blackened wood thrust into the ground—each holding a lifeless figure, their bodies burned beyond recognition. The Silent Flames had been busy, the horrors of their actions evident in the twisted remains of those who had crossed them.

One particular stake caught her attention. A man, his arms bound to the post, his body charred and unrecognizable, his mouth gaping in a silent scream. Her heart clenched, and she instinctively pulled her horse to a stop. Her breath hitched in her throat as a cold chill ran through her.Daenerys—her aunt, the one who had once been so full of life, so full of hope—was doing this. She had become the instrument of destruction. Rhaenys' betrayal of Jon had paved the way for this madness. The images of him, his guarded eyes, that dark humor, the smile that had once lit up his entire face—they flooded her mind unbidden, threatening to undo her.

"Rhaenys..." Ashara's voice broke through the fog of her thoughts, and Rhaenys forced herself to look away from the flames. The woman's gaze was soft, but there was a sharpness behind her eyes that Rhaenys couldn't ignore.

"They've destroyed everything," Ashara whispered, glancing around at the desolate landscape. "The war… it's worse than I ever imagined."

Arthur, ever the pragmatist, shook his head. "It's not just the war. Aegon's bloodlust is fueling this. He's intent on flushing out the Silent Flames, but in the process, he's tearing the country apart."

The words hit Rhaenys like a blow to the chest, but she didn't respond. What could she say? She had betrayed Jon. She had betrayed them all. And now she was trapped in this mess, a pawn in a game she had no control over.

The journey continued. Each day passed in a blur as they moved from one ruined village to another, from one smoldering holdfast to the next. The tales of the Silent Flames' cruelty were everywhere. The smallfolk whispered in hushed tones about the horrors they had witnessed—Aegon's allies, the Freys, the Darys, the Reachmen, even the Dornish, all torn apart by the brutal hands of the Silent Flames. It was said that the leader of these Flames was a monster, a figure so twisted and dark that even the bravest men trembled in fear.

One evening, as they passed a particularly burned-out village, an old woman pulled them aside. Her face was lined with terror, her hands trembling. "You need to be careful," she warned, her voice shaking. "The leader... he makes regular sacrifices to his dark god. He takes their tongues first, then burns them in the flames so he can control the minds of ravens and beasts."

Rhaenys froze, her heart racing. "The leader," she whispered, "Is it Daenerys?"

The woman shook her head violently, her eyes wide with fear. "No, no, it's worse... it's worse than that!"

Arthur, who had been listening intently, leaned forward. "The red woman?" he asked, his tone skeptical.

The woman shook her head again, her mouth trembling. "No... No, he is worse."

Rhaenys swallowed hard, her throat dry as dust. "Worse?" she repeated, her voice barely a whisper. Could there truly be someone worse than Daenerys? Her aunt, the woman she had once looked up to, was now the harbinger of death. But the thought that there could be someone even darker sent a wave of dread crashing over her.

The journey continued, each passing day another step toward an uncertain future. And then, as if the fates had decided to throw one final twist into their path, they were trapped.

The Freys had found them.

The sound of hooves behind them drew Rhaenys' attention, and she turned to see a dozen Frey soldiers blocking the path. Their eyes gleamed with malice, and they looked at her with a twisted sense of triumph.

"Ah, the princess herself," one of them sneered. "Aegon will be pleased to have his sister back."

Rhaenys' blood ran cold at the mention of Aegon, but before she could react, there was a sudden movement in the trees, followed by the sharp, guttural sounds of fighting.

Shapes—silhouettes of wolves—tore out of the shadows, faster than any human eye could follow. The Freys screamed in terror as the wolves pounced, their fangs sinking into flesh. The sounds of snapping jaws and bone breaking filled the air, echoing through the forest.

Rhaenys could only watch as the Freys, the men who had so smugly believed they had control over her fate, were slaughtered in mere moments. Their once arrogant expressions twisted into masks of fear and agony as the wolves ripped them apart.

The last of the Freys were dealt with in a flurry of blood and teeth. As the scene fell quiet, Rhaenys' heart still raced, her eyes wide in disbelief. This was not just a rescue—it was a message.

And then, from the shadows, they emerged.

"Well, well, well," came the voice. "If it isn't the Sword of the Morning." The figure emerged from the trees, his face covered in the shadow of his hood.

"Beric Dondarrion," Arthur muttered under his breath, his hand instinctively going to his sword.

And then, from behind him, came another voice. "And the princess herself," said Thoros of Myr, stepping out with his usual swagger.

Rhaenys felt her heart skip a beat, but it was the next voice that truly froze her in place.

"We meet again," said Daenerys, stepping forward from the trees. She looked every bit as beautiful as she always had, but Rhaenys noticed the way her gaze dropped to her stomach, lingering there with a look that was both calculating and cold. By reflex, Rhaenys covered her stomach with her hand.

"Daenerys," Rhaenys said, her voice cracking with a mix of relief and dread.

"Niece," Daenerys said stiffly, her own hand covering her stomach.

"Aegon's sister." Behind Daenerys, Arya Stark emerged, her grey eyes burning with hatred. In her hands, she held a Valyrian sword, its gleaming edge catching the dying light of the day. Her wolf's eyes glowed behind her. Theon Greyjoy was right beside them, no longer smiling, clutching his bow tightly.

Edric Dayne appeared next, Dawn held firmly in his grip, but his expression was one of conflict as he looked at his uncle and aunt.

More figures emerged from the shadows, all of them familiar faces. Jon's allies.

From the edge of the clearing, a shadow shifted, barely perceptible against the darkness of the surrounding woods. Rhaenys' sharp eyes caught it first, her breath hitching. Something moved, deliberate and slow, as if it had always been there, watching, waiting for the right moment.

Arthur took a half-step forward, his grip tightening on the hilt of Dawn. "Stay close," he murmured, his voice edged with unease.

Then it emerged.

Pale as winter, the massive wolf stepped into the light, his fur a spectral white that seemed to drink in the glow of the fire. The sheer size of him made the breath catch in Rhaenys's throat, her hand instinctively clutching her sword, though she did not draw it. His crimson eyes burned like coals, twin beacons of quiet fury and resolve.

Ghost.

The name whispered through Rhaenys' mind like an old, half-forgotten prayer. He moved with a predator's grace, his massive paws silent against the soft earth. His presence alone was enough to silence the group, the tension so thick it pressed on her chest.

There was no growl, no bark, no warning. Just the cold, oppressive weight of his gaze. Ghost's eyes swept over the clearing like a judgment passed, lingering on each person in turn before landing on Rhaenys.

She froze. The last she'd heard, Jon's loyal direwolf had vanished into the flames of war, his fate sealed in the chaos. But now, here he stood, larger and more fearsome than she remembered, a creature of shadow and fire returned to the living.

The others felt it too. Arthur was a knight of legend, a man who had faced countless dangers without flinching, but even he hesitated under the weight of Ghost's stare. Ashara's breath caught audibly, her composure slipping as she gripped the folds of her dress.

The wolf's body bore the scars of countless battles. His fur was matted with old blood, the wounds healed but not forgotten. He looked like something out of a nightmare—or a legend.

A woman's voice cut through the stillness, sweet yet unsettling—a sound that chilled Rhaenys to her core.

From the shadows emerged the Red Woman, her presence dark and foreboding. She held Bran Stark in her arms, the boy limp and lifeless, his body eerily still as if all traces of vitality had been drained away.

The air thickened, heavy with tension that clawed at Rhaenys' senses. Even Arya, ever defiant and unshaken, stiffened beside the others, her hand inching toward her Valyrian blade.

Melisandre's gaze fell to Rhaenys' stomach, her crimson lips curling into a sinister smile. Her eyes glinted with something cold and calculating, devoid of warmth. "Well, well," she purred, her voice like silk laced with venom. "The family comes together at last."

She paused, letting the weight of her words linger before her grin widened, as though she were savoring some private amusement. "Although…" Her head tilted, an almost mocking gesture. "We seem to be missing one very important piece. Will you help us… retrieve him?"

Then Brandon Stark twitched.

A sudden cacophony shattered the oppressive silence. From the trees, a swarm of ravens erupted, their wings beating in perfect, unnerving unison. Their cries filled the air, a chilling symphony that echoed as though summoned by some unseen force.

Benjen

The cold wrapped around Benjen like an iron vice, a suffocating weight that pressed in from all sides. The fortress was more prison than sanctuary, its walls of ice pulsating with a life of their own, as if the very stone shared in the torment of the world beyond. Every step he took through the halls echoed with the weight of a thousand silent whispers, voices of those who had perished long ago, trapped in this eternal frost.

Eira was always by his side, a specter that seemed to glide through the ice-carved halls like a shadow made flesh. Her pale eyes—cold as glaciers, vacant and unfeeling—followed his every movement, but there was no warmth in them, no recognition. To her, he was nothing more than a tool, a thing to be used and discarded. His Stark blood was no more than a stain in this forsaken place.

Her presence was oppressive, as if the air itself turned heavier whenever she was near. She spoke only when necessary, her voice an echo of the cold that permeated the world. The language she used was a guttural rasp, each word a shard of ice scraping against bone. The words felt foreign, ancient—like something from a time before the world had known warmth.

In the beginning, Benjen had tried to ask her questions, desperate for understanding. He wanted to know who the White Walkers were, what they wanted, what they had become. But every question he asked was met with disdain. Her icy gaze would linger on him, calculating, before she would turn away, leaving his inquiries unanswered. She didn't see him as a man, as a brother of the North. To her, he was a lesser thing, beneath her contempt.

Yet, despite the coldness, there were moments—small, fleeting moments—when Benjen glimpsed something more in her eyes. A flicker of something he couldn't understand. It was in the way she moved, so deliberate and controlled, a grace that made him feel painfully human, painfully weak.

Eira's silence was not just a barrier; it was a challenge. There was power in it, a kind of cold authority that bent the air around them, making him feel as if he were always on the edge of breaking.

She led him through the fortress, showing him its strange, alien architecture. The halls were filled with jagged spires of ice, each one sharper than the last. The walls were etched with runes and symbols that seemed to pulse with a dark, unearthly energy, their meaning lost to Benjen. They passed through markets where wights bartered in twisted bones and ancient artifacts, their conversations little more than harsh murmurs that faded into the endless cold.

There was no joy here. No laughter, no warmth, no life. Only the cold, relentless silence of a people who are ignorant on how to be human.

And yet, despite all that, Benjen couldn't help but feel that Eira was waiting for something—a question, an admission. The silence between them had become a sort of unspoken tension, and he was the one who was supposed to break it.

One night, beneath the swirling auroras that danced above them in hues of green and purple, Benjen finally dared to ask the question that had been gnawing at him for days.

"Eira," he ventured, his voice low, "you said the fire took something from you. How much did it take?"

For a moment, she was still, her eyes locked onto his with a cold, calculating gaze. Benjen felt a shiver run down his spine, a sense that he had crossed some invisible line, that the question had somehow opened a door he might not want to walk through.

When she spoke, it was not with anger or scorn, but with something else—a quiet, sorrowful weight that seemed to echo through the ice.

"I had a mother," she said, her voice distant, as though the very act of speaking about it pained her. "And siblings. The fire took them all. My brother, my mother... they were stolen from us. And my father..." Her voice trailed off, and she seemed lost in the memory. "My father was defeated. His body bears the scars, his mind fractured. He has seizures now. That is the only reason why the horn has not been blown."

Benjen's heart tightened at the mention of the horn. He had heard rumors of its power, of the ancient force it could summon. But he had not understood its true significance until now.

"Then what is the horn for?" Benjen pressed, his voice shaky but determined.

Eira's gaze hardened, her lips curling into something like a smile, but it was not a smile of warmth. It was the smile of something cold and ancient, something that had long since forgotten what it meant to feel.

"It calls to Sylvara, my younger sister who was sealed away by 'He who must not be named', " she said. "She is the key. The city looks to her, not to me. She is the next leader, the one who my father believes will end the fire."

Benjen's mind reeled at her words. "Your weapon is a woman?"

Eira's eyes flared with an icy fire. "You have never seen her," she said, her voice low and dangerous. "Sylvara is a prodigy, a warrior unlike any other. She is what the city desires, not me. And my father shamed himself in the first war fighting against 'He who must not be named'. A creature of ice and destruction severed their bond, and now it serves Sylvara. The Wall is not strong enough to stop them."

"Who is 'he who must not be named'? You speak of him often."

Eira's face hardened again, the vulnerability vanishing behind a mask of icy indifference. "All this death and pain began with him," she said softly, her voice distant. "And it will end with him. My father believes he will return, and he is willing to destroy everything—himself, his people, the city—to get his revenge. But not everyone believes he will return. Some of us are tired of chasing ghosts, tired of living in the past. Despite our people's recent actions against yours, our council will not dare bypass the wall until they have seen a sign that 'He who must not be named' has returned."

And what is that sign?

"I love my sister," Eira said, her voice softer now, almost wistful. "But it is better for my people if she is never awakened. I don't want to see humans again. I don't want to see the fire ever again."

Benjen's voice was firm, a challenge, as if he were testing her resolve. "Are you willing to stop it?"

Eira's expression became hard again, her eyes narrowing with a coldness that seemed to freeze the air around them. "My father already has the crucial pieces. The horn. You are a part of it, Benjen Stark. That is the only reason you are within these walls and not outside with the rest of the wights."

Benjen's blood ran cold at her words. He had been a pawn in their game all along—his Stark blood had led him here, but now he realized just how deeply he was entangled in their fate. "You said the Starks are traitors and yet of your blood,"

Benjen pressed, his voice edged with disbelief.

"Both are true," Eira replied, her tone as cold as the ice surrounding them. "You are our descendants, yet you betrayed us. You drove the betrayal of our hearts with your 'Ice,' and took my mother from me." Her voice was devoid of emotion, but the weight of her words hung in the air like a chilling curse.

Ned

The journey to retrieve the Horn of Winter began with a fragile alliance—a necessary union of Northern lords and Wildlings, bound by the ever-present threat of the White Walkers. The need to confront the coming darkness outweighed the deep mistrust and centuries of hatred between the two factions. But as they traveled further north into the lands of Always Winter, the alliance became increasingly strained.

Ned Stark stood at the head of the expedition, leading the way, his every step a reminder of his duty to protect the North. His mind, however, was plagued by a growing unease. The cold gnawed at his bones, the bitter wind constantly stinging his skin, but it was not the physical discomfort that bothered him. It was the uneasiness of the alliance, and the strange bond that had formed between him and the direwolf with the piercing blue eyes.

The journey began at the Wall, where the northern lords and the Wildlings had met under the banner of necessity. Mance Rayder, the King-Beyond-the-Wall, led his people with a quiet authority that made it clear he did not trust the Northmen, nor did he believe they could be trusted. But there was no choice. The Horn of Winter, an ancient artifact said to possess unimaginable power, could hold the key to destroying the wall and letting the darkness sweep into the seven kingdoms. And so, the two groups moved together into the frozen wilderness, knowing that if they did not succeed, all of humanity would fall to the wights.

The cold was biting, a constant companion that made every breath feel like it was being pulled from deep within the soul. The ground beneath them was hard and unforgiving, the snow piled high in jagged heaps as they moved through the mountainous terrain. The northern lords, stiff and proud, followed in silence, their faces drawn tight against the wind. The Wildlings, on the other hand, moved with ease, as if they were at home in the harshest of environments. But even they could not hide the wariness that had crept into their eyes. The presence of the northern lords, with their rigid customs and distrust, weighed heavily on their spirits.

Ned's thoughts, however, were consumed by something else—the direwolf. It had first appeared the day they set foot in the lands beyond the Wall, a creature with fur as white as snow and eyes that gleamed an unnatural shade of blue. At first, it had seemed like an ordinary wolf, though its size was unsettling. It had appeared on the edges of their camp, watching them silently from a distance, before disappearing back into the snow. But as the days wore on, the wolf's appearances became more frequent, and Ned began to notice that it was not merely watching them. It was guiding them.

Whenever they reached a fork in the road or a dead end in the snow, the wolf would appear, as if waiting for them to follow. It led them to hidden caches of dragon glass, the obsidian that was their greatest weapon against the wights. The first time it happened, they had been deep in the mountains, their progress slowed by an especially harsh blizzard. It was Mance who had noticed it first, his sharp eyes catching the gleam of the dragon glass buried in the snow just as the wolf appeared beside it. It had led them to several more caches, each one more vital than the last.

The wolf never spoke, but Ned could feel it watching him, its icy blue gaze locked on him whenever it appeared. It was a connection he did not understand, but it was there, undeniable and growing stronger by the day.

One night, as the group camped near a frozen lake, Ned found himself alone, sitting by the edge of the ice. The stars above twinkled coldly, their light reflected in the icy surface, and the silence of the night seemed to weigh heavily on him. It was then that the wolf appeared again, padding silently through the snow. It stopped before him, its blue eyes staring into his with a strange intensity.

The connection between them flared, an odd warmth blooming within his chest despite the freezing cold. It was not a warmth of flesh, but something deeper, something ancient. For a moment, Ned felt as if the wolf's thoughts were touching his own, as if it was speaking to him in some way that defied explanation. The wolf sat down beside him, its head resting on his knee.

Ned's hand, without conscious thought, reached out to stroke its fur. As his fingers brushed against the wolf's pelt, a jolt of energy shot through him, and he gasped, his hand withdrawing instinctively. But the wolf did not move, its eyes still locked on him, unblinking.

For a long while, they sat in silence, the wolf's presence filling the space between them. It was then that Varamyr, the Wildling skinchanger, approached from behind, his eyes gleaming in the darkness.

"The Stark is a warg," Varamyr said, his voice low and eerie, the grin on his face unsettling. "Bound to the wolf, like the others."

The words sent a chill through Ned's spine, though he tried to hide it. Varamyr's grin widened as he stepped closer, the flickering light of the campfire casting strange shadows on his face. Some of the northern lords had gathered nearby, watching the exchange with wary eyes. They, too, had noticed the bond between Ned and the direwolf, and they did not like it. They did not trust it.

"You've bonded with it," Varamyr continued, his grin turning into something more sinister. "It's in your blood now, Stark. You're tied to it, just like the others."

Ned's hand instinctively went to the hilt of his sword, but he did not draw it. He did not understand what Varamyr meant, but he knew that there was something deeply wrong with the way the skinchanger spoke. It was as if he knew something Ned did not, something dangerous.

"I'm no warg," Ned said firmly, trying to mask the unease that had settled deep in his gut. "I'm the Lord of Winterfell. And this wolf is my companion, nothing more."

But Varamyr's disturbing grin did not fade. "You think it's just a companion?" he asked, his voice a mocking whisper. "You think you control it? No, Stark. You're bound to it now. You're one with it."

The words hung in the air, and Ned felt the weight of them press down on him. But there was more to the connection between him and the wolf than Varamyr's twisted grin could reveal. Even as his mind churned with confusion and unease, there was a part of him that sensed the bond was not entirely negative.

The next night, after the Wildlings had gathered in their tents to sleep, Ned lay awake, his mind racing. The bond with the direwolf seemed to grow stronger with each passing day, and in his dreams, he began to experience strange visions. He could feel the wolf's presence beside him, even though it was not physically there. He could sense its thoughts, its instincts, its need to protect him. The dreams were vivid and terrifying, showing him wights—creatures with pale, dead eyes and twisted, frozen bodies that rose from the snow like phantoms. The wolf's blue eyes burned through the dreams, guiding him, showing him how to avoid the wights and their patrols.

It wasn't long before Ned realized that the wolf was not simply a guide to the dragon glass. It was something far more important. It was showing him the way to defeat the wights. The wolf had knowledge that no man could possess, knowledge that only creatures born of the ancient cold could understand.

But as they traveled deeper into the lands of Always Winter, the dangers grew greater. The cold became unbearable, seeping into their bones like ice, while the landscape became more desolate and empty. There were no animals, no birds, no signs of life—just snow and ice as far as the eye could see. Every step felt like a march into oblivion.

The Wildlings, accustomed to the harsh cold, began to show signs of fatigue. Mance Rayder, usually a calm and collected leader, grew more grim with each passing day. His face was drawn, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. The northern lords were no better, their teeth chattering in the cold, their bodies stiff with exhaustion.

The ice spiders began to emerge from the trees, their enormous bodies cloaked in snow, their eyes gleaming with hunger. The northern lords had never seen creatures like these before, and their fear was palpable. They whispered amongst themselves, their voices low and anxious, but Mance Rayder moved with purpose, his sword drawn, his eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of danger.

The wildlings were used to such threats, but even they knew that these creatures were unlike anything they had faced before.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the snow, they came across their first village—a village long abandoned. The houses were skeletal remains, the streets empty save for frozen corpses. The wind howled through the empty buildings, carrying with it the stench of death. The Wildlings and the northern lords exchanged nervous glances, knowing that the village had been deserted for a reason. The wights had passed through here.

As they moved through the village, they came upon more signs of the dead—more corpses, more signs of destruction. The wind whipped through the streets, carrying the echoes of the past with it. The ground beneath their feet creaked, and the air seemed to grow heavier with each passing moment. The wights were near.

The direwolf appeared once again, Its eyes glowing blue in the fading light. It stood at the edge of the village, its gaze fixed on something in the distance. Ned felt a chill run through him as the wolf's presence filled his mind. It was warning him, telling him that the wights were near.

The Wildlings and the northern lords gathered together, their weapons drawn, ready for battle. The wolf stood at Ned's side, its body tense and alert. And then, just as they had prepared for the worst, the wights appeared—emerging from the snow, their pale, twisted forms rising from the ground like nightmares made flesh.

The battle that followed was brutal. The Wildlings fought with the ferocity of animals, their swords and axes flashing in the dim light. The northern lords, though weary and cold, fought with the pride of their homes and their families. But it was the wolf's guidance, its ability to sense the wights before they arrived, that allowed them to fight back. It was the wolf that showed them where to strike, where the wights were weakest, and how to defend against their unnatural strength.

As the last of the wights fell, Ned stood in the snow, his breath heavy in his chest. Ice was coated in the icy blood of the dead, and his mind was filled with the weight of what lay ahead. The journey was far from over, and the dangers were only growing. But with the wolf at his side, Ned felt a strange sense of confidence. He did not know where this bond would lead, but he knew one thing for certain: the wolf was his guide, his protector, and in this land of death, it was the only thing he could trust.

And so, they pressed on—further north, deeper into the darkness, toward the Horn of Winter, and the secrets that lay hidden in the frozen heart of the world.

Bran

"We should kill them all," Arya said, her voice as sharp and unyielding as Valyrian steel.

"What?" Bran's protest was a mix of disbelief and outrage. "That's Ser Arthur Dayne!"

Arya's scowl deepened, her fury coiling like a viper poised to strike. "And he's with Rhaenys Targaryen—Aegon's sister. The bastard who destroyed our family. Or have you forgotten?"

Bran's jaw tightened, the weight of her accusation striking like a lash. "I haven't forgotten! But you heard what Melisandre and Daenerys said—"

"Fuck the Red Woman, and fuck Daenerys!" Arya's voice exploded with rage, her words slicing through the air. "Maybe we should feed Daenerys to Nymeria while we're at it! She's Aegon's aunt, Bran! Or have you forgotten that, too?"

Nymeria and Summer began pacing nearby, their movements restless, their teeth bared.

"I haven't forgotten anything!" Bran shot back, his voice trembling with fury. He wished more than anything he could rise to his feet and storm away, but his helplessness only fanned the flames of his anger. "Did you forget that she's Jon's aunt, too?"

"They killed Jon, Bran! He's dead, and he's never coming back!" Arya's scream echoed with raw grief, her tears threatening to spill over.

"That's not true." The calm yet firm voice of Beric Dondarrion cut through the tension like a knife. He stepped forward, his eyes flickering with an eerie conviction. "The flames will be reborn. Jon Snow will return."

The air grew thick with silence. All eyes darted between Bran and Arya, the camp now hushed save for the faint rustling of leaves.

"The Red Woman's words are nothing but lies," a new voice declared from the shadows.

Theon Greyjoy emerged, his cloak streaked with dirt, his face no longer smiling. His eyes, hardened and weary, swept over the gathering like a storm.

"No fire, no magic, no prophecy will bring Jon Snow back," Theon said, his voice hollow yet sharp as a dagger. "He's dead. Robb's dead. They're all dead. And no amount of wishing or dreaming will change that."

Bran's hands trembled, but before he could speak, Theon pressed on. "The only way to honor them now is vengeance. I've got a fleet of ships waiting back at home. We can strike their strongholds, burn their cities, and show them what it means to take from us."

Beric's voice was measured, but firm. "We've discussed this, Greyjoy. The ships are for—"

"For your doomed charge into that cursed city to resurrect your 'prince that was promised,'" Theon sneered, cutting him off. "What a fucking joke."

"Melisandre saw his return in the flames," Edric Dayne interjected, his voice quiet but steady.

Theon's expression twisted in disdain. "And she also thought burning people alive would bring him back. How'd that work out?" His gaze lingered on Edric, cutting deep. "And don't think for a second she doesn't have plans for your precious uncle and that Targaryen princess."

Edric flinched, but his glare didn't waver.

Bran's voice broke through the simmering tension, soft yet resolute. "I saw Jon return. Not in flames, but in my dreams."

The clearing went still. Theon's sneer faltered, his eyes narrowing. The power of Bran's visions—his command of ravens and wolves—was no small thing.

"You're wrong," Theon said, though the steel in his voice had dulled. "Jon is gone, Bran. Whatever you saw, it wasn't him."

Bran's gaze held steady, burning with quiet determination. "I saw a dragon rise from the ashes, vengeful...and sad. Who else could it be, if not Jon?"

The silence that followed was suffocating, heavy with unspoken questions and lingering doubts.

Arya, perched on a nearby rock, stared down at her Valyrian steel blade. Her voice was low, almost a whisper. "He was always more wolf than dragon."

Bran's gaze swept over the camp, lingering on the faces illuminated by the faint, flickering light of the fires. The camp was a patchwork of emotions—grim determination, wearied resolve, and the simmering tension that came from too much blood spilled and too many secrets shared. These people, all bound together by revenge, loss, and desperation, were the remnants of a shattered world.

He leaned back against a tree, his body feeling heavy with the weight of his thoughts. Bran had not always been like this, not so aware of the threads that tied everything together. But that dream—the one of the great raven with three terrifying eyes—had changed everything.Fly or die,it had croaked at him, its voice echoing through his soul like a prophecy carved in stone.

So, Bran had flown.

When he woke from his slumber, the world had gone so very wrong.

The memory of that day clawed at the edges of his mind. He remembered the acrid stench of smoke and the screams of the dying. He had been so weak, his body broken, and Theon Greyjoy had carried him on his shoulders. Bran could still hear Theon's muttering, a desperate chant that blurred the line between grief and madness:Robb...not Robb...those bastards...Theon's tears had streaked his blood-smeared face, and Bran hadn't understood why. Not then.

Fires had roared, painting the skies in violent shades of orange and red. Men had stumbled through the smoke, swords raised and screams of vengeance on their lips. They had come for Bran too, but Summer had been there, ferocious and unyielding, tearing into them with savage fury. The chaos had been absolute.

The cries of betrayal still haunted Bran's ears.Death for Maegor! For King Aegon!The words were jagged fragments in his memory, pieces of a puzzle that refused to fit together. He hadn't understood what they meant until Arya and the Blackfish had found him. Arya's face had been streaked with tears and blood, and her rage had burned brighter than the fires that had consumed Harrenhal.

Jon had gone to battle against his brother Aegon. For the crown. For revenge. For Bran.

Bran's heart clenched at the thought of Jon. He had always been so sure, so steady, the brother who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.

He went to war for me...

But the trial by combat had taken Jon from them, and with him, their last hope of justice. Aegon had been victorious. Robb, their mother, Rickon—gone, betrayed and slaughtered by Domeric Bolton and his savage allies. Sansa, stolen away, her fate unknown.

Bran had cried for days, seeking solace only in the skins of Summer, of ravens, deer, even bears. It was easier to lose himself in the wild, to push the pain aside and let his warging instincts punish Aegon's allies. Arya had been the same, though her vengeance was rawer, more personal. She had taken Nymeria's skin, haunting the nights and slaughtering Freys without mercy.

The camp around him was a gathering of the broken and the desperate. Edric Dayne, who carried the weight of Arthur Dayne's imprisonment and the swordDawn.Melisandre, with her fiery promises and dark whispers. Daenerys, fierce and relentless, her grief for Jon twisting her into something unrecognizable. Beric, Thoros, Sam, Grenn, Pyp, Edd, Satin, and the rest—all clinging to the hope that Jon could somehow return.

But hope was a fragile thing.

Daenerys' decision to burn the Frey had fractured the Silent Flames, creating cracks in their already fragile alliance. Whispers of the Mad Queen lingered in the air, heavy and accusatory. Bran's uncle, the Blackfish, had grown increasingly uneasy, though he stayed, bound by necessity. Aegon declared them all traitors.

Arya, too, struggled with the morality of it all, though Bran saw the conflict in her eyes. She wanted vengeance as much as any of them, but she couldn't ignore the shadow Daenerys cast over their cause.

"Father wouldn't like to see people burned alive,"Arya had said, her voice quiet. She had turned her face away then, but Bran knew her well enough to sense her doubt.

Revenge against Aegon drove them all, but Bran saw more than they did. His dreams were vivid and haunting, filled with darkness that writhed like a living thing. Melisandre's fires promised salvation, but Bran saw something deeper, more dangerous in their flickering depths. Beyond the Wall, the true enemy stirred, the cold darkness waiting to consume them all.

And Jon—Jon was the key. The only one who could command Cannibal, the most fearsome dragon of them all. Without Jon, defeat seemed much more likely.

Bran's gaze shifted to Arya, her face set in a grim mask as she sharpened her blade. To Theon, brooding by the fire. To all the others, each carrying their burdens in silence. Did they see it? Did they understand how close they were to losing everything?

Fly or die, the raven's voice whispered in his mind. Bran shivered, his eyes drawn to the campfire as if seeking answers in its wavering flames.

The flames offered none. Only shadows danced within.

Daenerys

The memory of that walk outside the walls of Harrenhal lingered in Daenerys's mind like a half-forgotten melody. It had been their first time alone, a quiet moment stolen amidst the tension and chaos that seemed to follow them both. The sun had dipped low on the horizon, bathing the godswood in hues of gold and amber, while the cool air carried the scent of pine and damp earth.

Ghost had padded silently behind them, his red eyes gleaming like embers in the fading light. Daenerys had felt the weight of Jon's guarded demeanor as if it were an invisible shield he carried everywhere. He was a mystery she couldn't ignore—this nephew of hers, this Stark-Targaryen hybrid who spoke little but seemed to see everything. Even his dragon, Cannibal, felt like a shadow lurking just beyond the edge of understanding.

She broke the silence first, curiosity getting the better of her. "How old are you?"

"Eighteen," Jon said, his tone betraying nothing. He kept his eyes on the horizon, as if the trees might judge him for speaking too much.

"Eighteen," she repeated, her voice soft with wonder. "And already you've commanded armies, bonded with a dragon fiercer than any I've read about, and tamed a wolf the size of a small horse." She cast a glance at Ghost, who sniffed the ground a few paces behind them. "How do you manage it all?"

Jon's lips twitched, but the expression didn't quite reach his eyes. "I don't manage them. I just… understand them."

"That's a very Stark answer," Daenerys teased. "Vague, practical, and entirely unhelpful." She smiled brightly, but his expression remained impassive, though she thought she saw a flicker of amusement.

She tried another tack. "What about Winterfell? Was it as cold as the stories say?"

"It was home," he replied, his voice tinged with something warmer, softer.

"And did you have as many secrets there as you seem to carry now?"

At that, he stopped walking. The sudden stillness in him was palpable. He turned to face her fully, his purple eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made her catch her breath. "Why are you asking me all this?"

"Because I want to know you," Daenerys admitted, folding her hands in front of her. "You're family now. And I'd like us to be more than strangers forced together by fate."

Jon's expression softened, but only slightly. "You have me on edge," he said after a moment.

"Me? Why?"

"If you haven't noticed," he said dryly, "my presence here hasn't exactly been celebrated."

She frowned, thinking of the way Rhaenys had slapped him and the icy glares from Aegon's supporters. "That wasn't fair," she said quietly. "Surely, Aegon has been more welcoming?"

Jon's face darkened, his jaw tightening. "You've been more welcoming, actually," he said, though his tone was dry, almost dismissive.

Daenerys tilted her head, a playful glint in her violet eyes. "Really? You could have fooled me. You've been watching me like I'm about to poison you."

To her surprise, Jon chuckled—a low, unexpected sound that softened the lines of his face. "You wouldn't be the first woman to act loving while plotting to poison me."

Daenerys laughed, shaking her head. "Is that what you think I'm doing? Putting on an act?"

"I don't think anything yet," he said, his lips curving into the faintest smile. "I'm still watching you."

"Well," she said, adopting a breezy tone, "it just sounds like your heart wouldn't be able to shoulder all the love you'll have for me, nephew."

Jon raised an eyebrow. "You seem awfully confident about something that hasn't happened yet."

"Oh, it will," she said airily, clasping her hands behind her back as she walked ahead. "You'll adore me, just like everyone else does—more so, actually."

"Is that so?" Jon's voice was laced with dry amusement as he followed.

"Absolutely," she said, glancing over her shoulder with a mischievous grin. "You'll probably build me a statue in Winterfell. 'To the best aunt a man could ever have,' it'll say."

Jon shook his head, his smile growing warmer. "Winterfell doesn't need any more statues. The weirwood already scares half the people who visit."

"Then maybe a song," Daenerys suggested. "Something the bards will sing for centuries."

"'The Auntie Who Never Was."

She gasped in mock outrage, spinning to face him. "You wouldn't dare!"

His eyes glinted with humor. "You're right. That would be too kind."

For the first time, Daenerys saw the boy beneath the weight he carried. His laughter was soft but genuine, and the walls around him seemed to lower just a little. She found herself smiling back, warmth blooming in her chest.

Now, residing in a camp in a war-torn country, the memory felt like a dagger in her heart. The boy she had teased and laughed with was gone. The storm he had carried within him had finally claimed him.

The crackling of distant campfires pulled her back to the present, but the memory clung to her like the scent of ash and pine—familiar, haunting, and impossible to ignore.

She fought back the grief threatening to overwhelm her, clutching the memory like a talisman. She would not let it break her. Not yet. For Jon's sake, she would endure.

Ghost twitched in the corner of her tent and glared at the other inhabitant with them.

Daenerys raised her eyes to meet the darker ones of Rhaenys.

The tent was dim, lit only by the flickering glow of a brazier filled with strange, smoldering herbs. Shadows danced on the canvas walls, twisting like ghosts in the firelight. Daenerys stood at the center, her posture rigid, hands clasped loosely before her. She watched as Rhaenys entered, her steps never hesitant, and her chin held high.

For a long moment, neither spoke.

"You've changed," Rhaenys said at last, her voice edged with something between curiosity and disdain. Her gaze swept over Daenerys, lingering on the crimson and black robes embroidered with symbols of the Silent Flames. "I didn't think you'd join a cult."

Daenerys smiled grimly, suppressing the urge to lash out. "A lot has changed." Her voice was soft, measured, but the words bristled with unspoken accusation.Because of you and Aegon,she thought.

"You look… good, considering everything," Rhaenys continued, though there was no warmth in her tone. "Despite the burden of aligning yourself with these foreign zealots." The jab landed as intended, and Daenerys felt a flicker of heat rise in her chest.

"You will not be the one to judge me," Daenerys thought, but aloud she said, "It is stressful, yes. But I do what I must to correct the wrongs of others."

She watched with satisfaction as Rhaenys stiffened, the words cutting closer to the bone than she had intended to let show. For a moment, her niece seemed at a loss for a retort, but then her lips tightened.

"And you think you're doing a good job of that?" Rhaenys asked, her tone biting.

"It's better to be the person who tries," Daenerys said sharply, her control slipping, "than the one who caused this."

The corner of Rhaenys's mouth twitched—a telltale sign of

guilt. Daenerys saw it and knew she had struck true. The reaction of the guilty.

"Oh, really?" Rhaenys shot back, her voice rising. "Burning people, dear aunt? That's your idea of justice?"

Daenerys's breath hitched, disbelief coursing through her.I'm in the position of strength, and she still thinks she can talk with impunity?

"Whatever I did, they deserved it," Daenerys said stiffly, her voice cold as the wind outside the tent. "Our House words are fire and blood."

"That's what your father liked to say," Rhaenys retorted, her words laced with venom.

It was the wrong thing to say. Daenerys's composure snapped like a taut thread. "I am not mad!" she hissed, her voice trembling with fury. "I am only trying to bring Jon back—the man you betrayed."

Rhaenys's face paled, her mask of defiance faltering. For once, she was speechless.

"Yes," Daenerys pressed, her hands trembling as she took a step forward. "I know what you did. How could you?" Her voice cracked, raw with anger and grief. "How could you do that to Jon?"

Rhaenys stared at her, her lips parting as if to speak, but no words came.

Finally, she said, her voice strained, "He wanted to kill Aegon."

Daenerys let out a bitter laugh. "And the best solution you could think of was to give him a poisoned kiss?" Her voice dripped with scorn. "You claimed to love him—were obsessed with him—and yet you killed him anyway, like he was nothing."

"That's not true!" Rhaenys snapped, anger flaring in her eyes. "He didn't leave me with much of a choice! He meant everything to me!"

"Did you know he died in pain, Rhaenys?" Daenerys said, her voice shaking as she took a step forward. "That Jon died screaming? When I saw his body, his face—his face was crawling with the effects of the poison. He died in agony, Rhaenys."

Rhaenys staggered back as if struck. "No," she whispered, shaking her head. "No, he told me it would be painless..."

"Clearly, Jon meant more to me," Daenerys snapped, her voice cutting like steel. "I would have never betrayed him like that."

Rhaenys's lips curled into a bitter smile, though her eyes shone with unshed tears. "And yet I carry the memory of him," she said, her words as sharp as any blade.

Daenerys froze, her expression unreadable.

She doesn't know...

She let the silence stretch, let the weight of her control settle like frost on the air. "I know," she said at last, her voice calm but laced with something dangerous. "That's why we searched for you."

Rhaenys's eyes narrowed, her stance shifting defensively. "What do you mean?"

Daenerys raised a hand, resting it lightly over her stomach "I will do anything to bring Jon back. And it's either going to take you...or me.

---

Arthur: Everything will end in tragedy i fear...

Can you feel it?